He didn't bother to wait for his break but went directly to the locker room and dialed the number.
"Hello?"
"Your friend's visitor was back today."
"Keller?"
"Yes. He signed in around one-thirty, out at three."
"What kind of a day is our Mr. Kendall having?"
"I don't know. I figured you'd want to know right away, so I haven't seen him yet."
The pause was long and somber.
"Want me to go in and talk to him, then call you back?"
"No. I'll come see for myself. I'll be there around eight. You'll watch for me at the side door?"
"You got it."
"Have him in his room before I get there."
"Sure, fine. Okay," the orderly replied, even as the line went dead.
He whistled on his way back to the nurses' station to see what was happening on the floor that day, mentally jingling those car keys as he went.
The visitor was there, at the side door, at eight sharp. It was already dark, and the figure slid into the dim shadows of the dayroom like a wraith. Barely acknowledging the orderly, the visitor followed the short hallway to Kendall's room, nodding to the few sleepy residents who lingered here and there in the corridor, none of whom, by tomorrow morning, would recall that Miles Kendall had had a visitor this night.
"Don't get lost," the visitor told the orderly before closing Kendall's door. "I'll need you to let me out."
"I'll be around," the orderly promised, then went to make himself useful in the room across the hall.
Miles Kendall sat on the edge of his bed gazing out the window at the dark beyond. Somewhere out there, he was thinking, was a river. On warm nights like this, with the window open, he could smell it.
"Hello, Miles." The visitor sat on a nearby chair.
"Hello." Kendall nodded warily. His eyes flickered, narrowing with recognition.
"Do you remember me?"
Kendall stared for a long time but didn't respond.
"I hear you had company today."
"I did."
"What did you talk about?"
"I don't think I remember."
"Think harder."
"Ummm ... I think . .. Washington." His chin went up a notch. "I worked at the White House."
"What did you do there?"
"I worked with the President."
"Yes, you did. He was your friend, once upon a time, wasn't he?" The visitor leaned forward. "And I guess being the President's friend, you know a lot of things, Miles. I'll bet you know a lot of secrets."
Miles continued to sit stiffly.
"Did you tell your company—Mr. Keller—any secrets today, Miles?"
"I don't remember," he answered, a bit too quickly perhaps.
"What did you talk about today with Mr. Keller?"
"He brought me mints. Flat mints with chocolate on them."
"That was very nice of him, Miles. Did you tell him secrets after he gave you your mints?"
"I don't remember."
"Did you tell him about Blythe, Miles?"
"Maybe we talked about Blythe," Kendall acknowledged, then leaned forward to ensure the impact of his words. "Maybe we talked about the baby."
"What baby?" The visitor's head snapped up.
"Blythe's baby." Kendall sat back, watching the effect of his words.
"Blythe's baby .. ." The visitor's eyes were wide, the voice almost a hiss. "Blythe's baby!
Kendall nodded.
"Where? Where was the baby?"
"I don't remember."
"Was it your baby?"
"Of course not." He waited for the question to come, knowing that it would.
"Whose baby, old man? Whose baby?" The hand grasped Miles's arm tightly, but in spite of the pain, he smiled.
"Graham's baby, of course." He spoke the words knowing what their effect would be, wanting, after all these years, to watch, wanting to see the confusion, the disbelief. Wanting to see pain ...
"Graham's baby ..." This hitherto-unknown piece of the puzzle hit like a shot and shattered into a million pieces.
"A girl. A beautiful girl." He might have told how he'd held the child many times and wished with all his heart that the child had been his, how fiercely he'd fought against the envy that had, in the end, consumed him and coaxed him to do something for which he'd never forgiven himself, something he'd spent a lifetime trying to forget.
But tonight Miles Kendall was tired of fighting the past. Tonight was a night for regretting words he never should have spoken, secrets he never should have shared. Tonight the guilt he'd harbored for almost thirty years surfaced with startling energy and shook him to his soul. At the same time, it made him strong. Strong enough to mourn the woman he'd once loved, the friendship he'd betrayed.
Strong enough for vengeance.
"What do you know, old man?" Patience began to draw thin.
"1 know you," he said with certainty.
"Do you now?" A wicked smile. "How unfortunate . . ."
"Yes. I know you."
"Why did you keep this to yourself all these years, old man? Why didn't you tell me about this baby?" Anger rippled along every nerve; rage built with every heartbeat.
"Because I knew what you'd do to her." He leaned forward, his voice sure. "I couldn't let you hurt her. I owed him that much."
A snort of derision. "You have an odd way of repaying your friends, old man. Now tell me, who else knows?"
"I'm not going to tell you." He spoke defiantly.
"Where is she?" The face loomed close, the voice a hiss. "Tell me where she is. I'm not going to ask you again, Miles."
Miles shook his head slowly. "No."
Standing now, the visitor reached into a deep pocket and removed a leather pouch from which a long needle was extracted with anxious hands. The tip was plunged brusquely into the folds of the old man's neck before he could protest. Miles winced at the force, but he did not blink.
For a very long moment, he stared into the blank eyes of his killer.
Waiting for me to die, Miles told himself. He tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't work. Just as well, he thought. He'd waited long enough to atone for his sins. Now was as good a time as any.. ..
When his head fell forward, the visitor pushed a firm finger into the old man's chest to help direct his body backward onto the bed.
Content in the knowledge that the old man would not be telling anyone else about Blythe or her baby, the visitor stepped into the hallway and waited for the orderly.
"All done for tonight?" the orderly asked.
"Oh, yes. I'm quite finished."
"This way, then."
The orderly led the visitor through the quiet hallway to the back door he'd opened earlier. The visitor stepped through it, then turned to hand the orderly an unusually fat envelope.
Without either a word or a backward glance, the visitor stepped through the door and disappeared into the night.
Chapter Twelve
Simon stood on a rise overlooking the cemetery and watched the dignitaries gather near the open grave.
The news that Miles Kendall had died quietly in his sleep just hours after Simon himself had left St. Margaret's had given him a serious jolt. While a check with June at St. Margaret's assured him that Kendall had serious heart disease that could have taken him at any time, still Simon could not help but marvel at the timing. Had he waited even one more day to visit Kendall, he'd never have discovered that Graham had acknowledged that he was in fact the father of Blythe's child. Or how Graham had flirted with the possibility of redirecting his future to be with the woman he loved.
How close had Simon come to not hearing this story at all?
The near miss—the coincidence—had raised goose-flesh on Simon's arms and on the back of his neck. As a reporter, he'd found there were so few true coincidences in life. That nagging little voice inside kept suggesting that this may not be one of them.
It was time for a little chat with
Philip Norton.
Simon started down the grassy slope, staying slightly to the left to better position himself where he could observe without being observed. He couldn't hear much of what the young minister was saying, so far back be-hind the group, but had a pretty good view of the mourners. Simon had expected a smaller crowd and found himself pleased that so many people had remembered the old man. Several older members of Congress and a number of senior diplomats took up the first several rows of chairs. The Haywards, he noted, sat in the very front row with a man who appeared to be in his forties and who was accompanied by a woman of roughly the same age and three children somewhere between the ages of eight and sixteen. Kendall's nephew and his family, Simon assumed.
The graveside service had been succinct, and before Simon knew it the group in the front row had stepped forward to file past the grave, each dropping a single rose onto the coffin. The gesture was repeated by those in the subsequent rows until all had passed the grave and all the roses had been put in place.
The Hayward family—Celeste, Graham and his wife, Sarah and her husband—stopped to chat several times with this one or that while en route to their waiting limousine. Simon had felt no urge to step forward and speak to them or to otherwise make his presence known, though he wasn't exactly sure why, other than the feeling he had of being an outsider on that day. The only person he really wanted to speak with was somewhere in the small mix to his left, and Simon did not want to lose sight of him.
He caught up with Philip Norton just as the former professor neared his car.
"Philip!" Simon called to him.
The man turned at the sound of his name, then smiled when he saw Simon approaching.
"Simon! I wasn't aware that you were here. I didn't know that you knew Miles."
"I had several meetings with him."
"I see." Norton's eyes narrowed slightly. "I've been trying to get in touch with you for the past week. Haven't you been checking your answering machine?"
"I've been busy."
"So I've heard."
"Actually, I'd been to see Miles Kendall on more than one occasion." Simon stuck his hands in his pockets. "And that's what I wanted to talk to you about. If you have a few minutes. It's pretty important."
"Now?" Norton's hand held the car key and poised over the lock, ready to open the car.
"Right now."
"Would you like to go someplace and chat over lunch... ?"
"No, I'd just as soon do it here."
"Oh, certainly. Of course."
They walked back up the hill where a line of tall stone angels kept watch.
"I spent several hours with Miles Kendall on Monday afternoon," Simon told him.
"This past Monday?" Norton's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"Yes. Just hours before he died, I sat with him and we talked for quite some time. He was alert and in good spirits when I arrived, though I have to say that he seemed upset, almost depressed, when I left. And then, just a few short hours later, he was dead." Simon paused, then asked, "Some coincidence, eh?"
"You know how I feel about coincidences."
"Yes. And I agree. Especially after hearing what Kendall had remembered about his White House days."
"Which was ... ?"
"He talked a lot about a woman he had been in love with years ago. A woman named Blythe Pierce." Simon glanced sideways from the corners of his eyes to see if Norton reacted in any way. He did not. "It wasn't the first time he'd mentioned her, by the way."
"And ... ?" Norton gestured for Simon to get to the point.
"And he claims that Graham Hayward was in love with her as well." Simon stopped. He had to ask. The time for assumptions had passed. "Did you know this woman, Philip? Did you know Blythe Pierce?"
Norton's eyes flickered to Simon's face and away again, and Simon knew at that moment that regardless of what Norton might say, he had damned well known Blythe Pierce.
"Well," Norton laughed uneasily, "this is all certainly out of the blue."
"You knew her."
"Yes, I knew her." Norton nodded. "I think it's safe to say that back then everyone who was anyone in D.C. knew Blythe. She was young and lovely, but there were a lot of lovely young women in the capital in those days."
"What set her apart?"
"What set Blythe apart from all the others ... ?" He seemed to consider the question. "It's hard to define. She came from a wealthy background—daughter of a diplomat, heiress to a fortune. She was accustomed to moving among the rich and powerful. The climate in the capital suited her. She was well educated. Best schools, all that. But again, D.C. was filled with such women. Blythe was just a little more than all the others—more intelligent, more poised, more intuitive, more knowledgeable, more fun, more beautiful. People sought her out. That combination of looks, good breeding, intelligence, and her genuine warmth drew people to her."
"Was the President one of those people?"
Norton visibly tensed.
"According to Kendall," Simon continued, not bothering to wait for a response, "not only was Hayward in love with her, he had a child with her and was seriously considering—"
"Miles Kendall was a rambling old man—"
"—seriously considering not running for a second term so that he could divorce his wife and marry Blythe." Simon spoke softly as if fearful that somehow his words would be carried on the wind and overheard, even though he and Norton appeared to be the last of the mourners.
"Someone believed it, Philip. I think someone believed it, and killed her because of it. But you know that, don't you? That the accident that killed Blythe was no accident? That the car that ran over Blythe did so twice?"
"Simon, do you have any idea of what you're ..." Norton had visibly paled.
"Oh, but there's more. I found the child."
Norton turned slowly toward Simon, his eyes cautious. "What?" he asked, quiet disbelief spreading over his face like a shadow.
"I found Blythe Pierce's child."
The statement hung in the air between them.
"You found ..."
"Blythe Pierce's child, yes," Simon repeated meaningfully. "And the interesting thing is, she doesn't know about Hayward. She doesn't even know about Blythe."
"Then for God's sake, Simon, leave it alone." There was desperation in Norton's grasp when his hand closed over Simon's arm.
"I can't leave it alone. Aside from the fact that this is the biggest story that I may ever uncover, think about the implications. Graham Hayward has been held up before the American people—and all subsequent Presidents—as an icon of morality. What hypocrisy—that a man who preached honesty yet had a young mistress and an illegitimate child is still being touted as the standard of morality for his time. And then let's talk about how Blythe died. Let's talk about the fact that the person who ran Blythe down has never been identified. That someone somehow managed to stop the investigation of the accident dead in the water. How do you suppose that happened? Now, let's not forget that this woman was the daughter of an Ambassador, yet even he didn't have the clout to keep that investigation going. So who do you suppose would have been powerful enough to have done that?"
When Norton attempted to step away, Simon grabbed his arm and held it. "That's the real story here, isn't it? That the murder of the President's young mistress—the mother of his illegitimate child—was covered up and that that cover-up came from the highest level of our government. That's the story, Philip."
"Simon, there is so much that you don't understand-----"
"Enlighten me."
"I can't do that."
"Then I have to believe that you had a part in covering up Blythe Pierce's death. And that makes me wonder if the person you were covering for was the President himself. An older man, a beautiful young woman—"
"Dear God, Simon, that's preposterous."
"—an affair, a child he might not have wanted..."
"Whatever else you believe, believe that Graham Hayward loved Blythe Pierce with all
his heart."
"Believe it because you say it's true? Your credibility isn't quite what it used to be, Philip."
"Simon, you have no facts—nothing even to prove that this girl is in fact Hayward's daughter. No proof, even, of the affair. All you have are the ramblings of an old man whose memory came and went from one day to the next. And that man is no longer with us, Simon. So even if you decided to try to print this story of yours, without corroboration it's your word against history."
"Maybe no one would believe me." Simon shrugged. "But since every word that Kendall had to say about the matter is on tape—"
"What?!"
"—you might be able to discredit me, but you won't be able to argue that the story came from anyone other than Miles Kendall. And incidentally, Miles knew who killed Blythe. I'm utterly convinced of it."
Norton ran his fingers through his hair, as if frustrated. "Did he say who it was?"
"No. By the time I began to suspect that he knew, he had slipped away again, and I wasn't able to question him further. But someone knew I was there that day, knew that I'd spoken with Miles, and, I strongly suspect, killed him for what he might have told me. I've gone back to St. Margaret's, I've checked the visitors' log, but no one else signed in to see him on Monday other than me. As I said, some coincidence."
"Simon, destroy the tape, and walk away from the story."
"I can't do that."
"Please. You don't know what you're dealing with."
"I know exactly what I'm dealing with. I'm dealing with the biggest story of my career. A story you did your damnedest to hide."
"Simon, you don't understand. For the sake of the girl, leave it alone." Norton backed away from Simon.
"You tried to manipulate me, Philip. If I hadn't been so flattered that you'd be interested in my own book, I might have given more thought to the reason that you sought out me for this job." Simon kept his voice level, in spite of his bitterness. "You never expected me to do much more than scratch the surface, did you? You figured I'd rush through this book to get to the carrot you were dangling in front of me. Your promise to publish Lethal Deceptions after the Hayward book was finished would have been incentive enough. Were you counting on me to simply use the materials you sent me for background, do a few cursory interviews, put the book together, hand it in, and get on with my own agenda?"
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