A Primary Decision

by Dr. Kevin Leman

  An inexplicable feeling of loss flooded in, and Sean battled it. This man was never in my life. Why open my life and heart to him? And why did he want to meet me now, after all these years?

  Sean glanced back down at the package. He couldn’t open it. At least not yet.

  The day’s revelations had been more than enough to grapple with.

  Near the end of her workday, Sarah received an urgent call from Jon.

  “We need to meet. Tonight at your place? Around nine? Darcy’s coming too.”

  “We’re on. Anything you can tell me now?”

  “No,” he said in an enigmatic tone. “This has to wait for in person.”

  “All right,” she agreed. But she wasn’t happy about it. Wait was one of her least favorite words.

  Several hours later, the three friends gathered at Sarah’s penthouse in Greenwich Village. Jon’s report had stunned them all. Now their standard whiteboard was propped up on the table, ready for more notes.

  Sarah stood by the board, marker in hand. “So Michael said a guy used to come around sometimes when he and Justin were young, then faded away. Does he remember what the guy looked like?”

  “All his memories are shadowy. Except that the guy was tall, walked like a jock, and acted like the king of the castle,” Jon replied. “When I asked him if he knew if Rebecca ever worked anywhere, he said no, she was always home. In fact, he used to go there and hang out with Rebecca and Justin when things got too tough to handle in his own house. Even slept over sometimes. That’s how he knew that someone Justin called his uncle came over sometimes.”

  Darcy tapped her upper lip. “We’ve always wondered how a 17-year-old single mom could manage to buy a house with cash and then still pay taxes even though there’s no record of her working. Especially since her parents were dead and hadn’t left her any money or insurance that we could find. Maybe . . .”

  Sarah took over. “Someone—possibly the guy who used to come around—paid for that house. And maybe all of Rebecca’s and Justin’s expenses. It was an outright purchase, right? No mortgage?”

  “No mortgage. Just a onetime buy in the name of Rebecca Eliot. In cash. No rent checks to track,” Jon verified. “And tax records show she paid the taxes whenever they were due, but had no record of any income.”

  “Well, somebody paid for the expensive medicine Justin was on,” Darcy added. “Rebecca didn’t have any health insurance we can find, and neither did Justin. Seems they paid cash for everything.”

  “The person who paid for the house might have paid for the medical bills too,” Sarah reasoned.

  Jon frowned. “So that person knew Justin could be psychologically fragile.”

  “And perhaps took advantage of that,” Darcy finished.

  “What about your note? Did you find anything about its origin that could help us?” Sarah asked.

  “Nope,” Darcy said. “Whoever did it was really good. No fingerprints, so they must have worn gloves. The paper stock can be found at virtually any office supply store. Ink was general use too. No one saw the delivery boy come and go.”

  “Nothing on the envelope?” Jon asked.

  Darcy shook her head. “Just plain brown paper. No UPS, USPS, or trackable courier service. Looks like whoever they are, they paid somebody nondescript to drop the package where DHS would quickly discover it and bring it to me.”

  Sarah paced. “The note said there was a connection between Stapleton and the bomber. Put that together with what Michael told us, and—”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Jon stared thoughtfully at the whiteboard. “That maybe Stapleton is the shadowy ‘uncle’ Michael remembers?”

  A SECURE LOCATION

  “The package has been planted,” he told the man. “What happens next isn’t up to me.”

  “No, it’s up to him,” the man growled.

  “You knew this moment would come.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I like it. What’s in the package could expose everything.”

  He swallowed hard. The man on the other end of the line was additionally testy. He added in a calming tone, “You said yourself, it’s time to let the chips fall where they may.”

  “Well, saying it and doing it are two completely different matters,” the man barked. “Are you happy now?”

  He paused to allow the man a minute to cool down. Then he said, “That’s not the right question and you know it. The right question is, Are you happy?”

  “That I must destroy the life of one to gain the safety of the other? There is no happiness in that.”

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  “I understand,” the man grumbled. “It must be done. So let’s get it done.”

  11

  NEW YORK CITY

  “If I put Michael with a sketch artist on Monday, do you think he’d be able to resurrect a better image of the uncle?” Darcy asked.

  It was after 11:00. A smattering of leftovers from Sarah’s fridge littered her table. Jon was making a bowl of popcorn.

  “I already asked him that,” Jon called from the kitchen. “He didn’t think he’d be able to give us anything other than the shadowy details.”

  Sarah chewed on the end of the marker. “What if we found pictures of Frank Stapleton from that time period instead? Showed them to Michael?”

  Darcy perked up. “Sure. It’s worth a try.”

  “Stapleton’s been in the news enough. We ought to be able to find something,” Jon said as he carried the popcorn into the room.

  “Justin was 26 when he died. How old was Michael when he spent time at Justin’s house?” Darcy asked.

  “They became friends at St. Mark’s.” Jon peered at their notes on the whiteboard. “When they were 11.”

  “So we look for a 15-year-old photo of Frank Stapleton,” Sarah said.

  “You got it,” Darcy declared.

  Within minutes, the three were snacking on popcorn and simultaneously researching online photos of Frank Stapleton.

  By midnight, they had eight photos—face and body shots—lined up.

  “Want me to forward these to Michael?” Jon asked.

  Darcy frowned. “If this were an official investigation at DHS right now, we should do it by the book. Bring him in to DHS, mix these photos in with other people’s photos for a true facial recognition. Then again, it’s in the archives. Nobody else is digging around.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “You know even if he did ID Stapleton, it would never stick as evidence. The kids were 11, and it was 15 years ago. No court is going to believe Michael could recognize some shadowy figure from back then.”

  “Problem solved then. I send them to Michael, and we see if they’re even in the ballpark,” Jon said. “At least it gives us something else to go on.”

  Sean lay sleepless on the living room couch at his One Madison building apartment. Images of Thomas walking toward him and away from him lingered. Sean recalled the haunting expressions of regret in the older man’s face.

  He wondered what Thomas was doing now. Was he also lying sleepless somewhere, wrestling with the what-might-have-beens?

  Sorrow and relief mingled in Sean. The day he’d wondered about had arrived. Now it was over. He had so many answers to the questions that had plagued him since that morning his mother told him the truth. He’d hated Irish oatmeal then. Now he could never face it again. The aroma and texture of it was mixed in his psyche with the worst day of his life.

  He shook his head. Strange how the not important mixed with the cataclysmic on a day like this.

  Turning his head, he peered at the time. It was past 3:00 a.m.—after midnight Elizabeth’s time in Seattle.

  Too late to call her now.

  He’d needed time to reflect by himself first. But now he longed for her warmth, her clarity.

  His cell rang. It was Elizabeth.

  He smiled.

  By early Saturday morning, Sarah, Darcy, and Jon had their answer.

  “He said he can’
t be 100 percent sure, but he felt that involuntary shiver when he saw the photos, especially the close-up of Stapleton’s eyes. He thinks it’s the same guy,” Jon reported to Sarah via cell. “He used to order the boys around when he was there. Michael remembers once that he told the boys to get out of the house, and when Michael refused because it was cold outside, the guy grabbed his arm and glared at him until they did. That stuck in his memory.”

  “That wouldn’t stand up in court either. Like I said, no real evidence yet.”

  “No,” Jon said, “but we’re going to find some.”

  Sarah’s next call was to Will. “Coffee. Now. My place.”

  Will sounded out of breath. “Now? I’m in the middle of my run.”

  “Yes, now. Get yourself over here.”

  “Well, when you say it so nicely.”

  “Will,” she warned.

  “I’ll be there. But you better have something to go with that coffee. I haven’t had breakfast.”

  12

  Less than an hour later, Will was puzzling over Sarah’s news and oversugared from the two donuts he’d eaten—something Laura would never willingly let him eat at home. Now he knew why. The sugar buzz negated his calming run through Central Park. He felt like his son Davy looked after he’d eaten a bowl of Cap’n Crunch cereal at a friend’s house—all jittery.

  “So let me get this straight. You think Frank Stapleton knew the Polar Bear Bomber when he was a kid? Visited his house sometimes? And later looked him up when Sandstrom needed someone to bomb the AF building? That’s the connection the note is talking about?”

  “Exactly,” Sarah said. She offered him another donut, but he waved off the box.

  “And you have irrefutable proof of this?”

  She slumped. “No. Just a note from an anonymous source that Darcy received at DHS, our conjecture from earlier research, and Michael’s gut that says it’s the same guy as the photos we showed him. Nothing that will stand up in court.”

  “Then you better not go there,” Will warned. “Frank Stapleton isn’t somebody you mess with unless you are absolutely, 100 percent sure you can nail him to the wall.”

  Stapleton had a direct line to the president and just about anybody high up in the GOP. If they were in office, he’d helped put them there.

  She lifted her chin. “Maybe that’s exactly why we need to nail him. And find out what, if anything, the president has to do with this too. After all, he, Stapleton, and Sandstrom were pretty well tied in together. That $25M deal—”

  Will leaned in. “Sarah, I’m only going to say this once. And you’re not going to like it, especially coming from your big brother. But . . . be careful. I know you already took Sandstrom down, so that ended well. But it sounds to me now like maybe he was the sacrificial lamb led to slaughter. If Stapleton is involved in the way you’re guessing he might be, things are going to get very messy, especially for you.”

  “And you too, since you’re connected with AF,” she fired back.

  “I’m not worried about myself. Or AF,” Will said. “I can handle the heat.”

  She bristled. “How? By walking away, like you did from the Senate race?”

  He sat back and breathed deeply before he spoke. “Ouch. You know why I walked away. I had my reasons, and I don’t want to discuss them anymore. If and when I’m ready and able, I’ll decide if I want to tell you more. Now I need a shower and something nonsugared to combat my sugar intake.”

  And with those words, he slipped his running shoes back on and exited her door.

  He wasn’t ready to go into combat mode with his sister until he’d fully thought through every angle. Then he’d discuss it with Drew and get his perspective.

  His gut, though, told him she might be right. But how to prove it?

  “Ahh!” Sarah smacked her fist into her open palm. Her brother could be so maddening.

  Still, she knew she’d done the right thing by looping him in. Stapleton had been Will’s mentor for years as Will got started in the business world, even introducing him to the American Frontier board. He’d understandably be protective of Stapleton. But . . .

  Sarah frowned. That was it. He hadn’t been protective of Stapleton in their conversation, as she’d expected him to be. He was more . . . evaluating—yes, that was the word. As if he wasn’t surprised by anything she told him, yet was puzzling to put together the pieces to a greater mystery.

  She went back over their conversation.

  “You know why I walked away,” he’d told her. “I had my reasons, and I don’t want to discuss them anymore.”

  And there it was. Reasons, he’d said. Not reason, singular.

  So there’s something in addition to the photos with Sean and the Polar Bear Bomber that caused my big brother to abort the campaign, she mused. Something bigger. Perhaps something to do with Frank Stapleton.

  Was Stapleton the one who colluded with Sandstrom and the president to take Will out of the running? To make the odds more favorable so that James Loughlin, their favored New York senator whom they could control, would have a shot at a last run in office—an office that Will might otherwise have won because of his name and reputation?

  She recalled more of Will’s words. “If and when I’m ready and able, I’ll decide if I want to tell you more.”

  It was the word able that caught her attention now. So something was holding Will back from being completely truthful with her.

  Will was protective of their family. So it made sense that someone holding photos over his head of Sean with the bomber could have stopped him cold. Especially when he didn’t know anything yet about Sean’s side of the story.

  What didn’t make sense was Will’s attitude afterward. He didn’t strategize a plan that would again thrust him into the driver’s seat and take out the opposition.

  Decidedly un-Will-like behavior.

  That meant the other reason or reasons were still holding Will back from making moves he wanted to make.

  She straightened her shoulders. Indeed she, Jon, and Darcy were on the right track. Eventually she’d nicely wrangle out of her brother anything he knew. She’d been schooled since babyhood to do just that with her brothers. A little velvet-gloved manipulation worked every time. She simply had to find the right angle.

  13

  Sean hadn’t connected with his sister since he was in Mozambique. Usually, they caught up quickly with straightforward information about what each had been doing, then got to the heart of why they’d called. It was a Worthington trait of communication they’d learned from their father, who said he didn’t have time for blather and nonsense. So why now was his sister dancing around the reason she’d really called? Especially on a Saturday morning?

  “You know, brother, you’re not getting any younger. Isn’t it about time you pop the question to Elizabeth? She’s not going to wait around for years.”

  “Who says I’m ready to pop the question?” he fired back.

  “Because, dear brother, you’re so defensive about it. That shows you’re thinking about it. Or maybe you two already have an understanding, and you just haven’t told us yet.” She laughed. “You can’t fool me. That’s got to be it. She’s too great of a catch for you to let her get away. Otherwise, you’d give me the usual, ‘Nah, she’s not in the running.’ Like you’ve done for years with all those what’s-her-name-of-the-month who’ve showed up on your arm for special occasions.”

  “And this is your business?”

  “There it is again. Defensiveness. But you know I’m right. Elizabeth is good for you. And I know you love her. It shows in your eyes when you talk about her.”

  “Okay, let’s change the subject,” he countered.

  “Let’s. How about you tell me what you know about why Will really walked away from the Senate race.”

  And there it was. The real reason for her call. She knew something. But what exactly?

  He blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs from his lack of sleep. Warning lights flashed i
n his brain. He hedged. “Well, what do you know about it?”

  “No fair. Counter tactics. Just spill the beans.”

  He weighed his options. But there were no options that wouldn’t directly fly in the face of what Bill Worthington had directed: “Under no circumstances is Sarah to know about her mother’s affair. About who your birth father is. It would destroy her.”

  That left Sean only one possibility, and he offered it lamely. “You already know about the photos and that they were a frame-up. So why are you asking? If you want to know anything else, ask Will.”

  There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. The truth sank in.

  “You already have, haven’t you? And he wouldn’t tell you anything else?” Sean chuckled. “And you’re playing the little sister card, trying to play your brothers against each other, huh?”

  She huffed a breath. “Something like that.”

  “Well, we’ve grown up. This time it won’t work. We know your moves. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

  “That’s exactly what he said,” she spouted.

  “Then you have your answer. You’ll have to be content with that.”

  “Oooh.” She hung up.

  Sean shook his head. Then he called Will. “Uh, Houston, we have a problem.”

  After Sean’s warning call, Will’s finger hovered over one of the contacts in his cell phone. Drew had given him the private number years ago and said, “You’ll know when you need to use it.”

  Will had only used it once—right after Sean and Sarah had found out about the photos of Sean chatting with the Polar Bear Bomber at a bar near 20th and Madison. He’d placed a call to an old and powerful friend of his mother and father, trusting that friendship would encourage the man to do the right thing. He had, and all the workings behind the scenes had led to the arrest of Sandstrom for criminal negligence. His sister had no idea that Will had called on that powerful friend for the favor.

  Now Will did the only thing he could. He called Thomas Spencer Rich II, former president of the United States, again.