The Runaway Pastor's Wife

by Diane Moody

  David stopped pacing and leaned against the closet door. He shook his head, still refusing to believe it.

  His mother continued, her voice soft. “Honey, when did all this start? What happened?”

  “Not now, Mom. I don’t want to talk about that right now. All I want to do is find her.” David felt his mother’s eyes on him but refused to raise his head. Moments passed.

  “Isn’t it just like Annie to be thinking about all the rest of us even at a time when she’s suffering so much?” Caroline added quietly. “To think she’s hidden all this from us. And for her to be thinking about me right now. About the anniversary of Wade’s death . . . she’s quite a girl, David.” Caroline took a deep breath. “Quite a girl.”

  He shuffled back over to the bed and sat back down. They sat together in silence for several moments. Finally, David spoke. “I don’t know what to do. I’m at a total loss here. But I do know we can’t tell the kids. At least not now. They can’t possibly understand this. Who am I kidding? I don’t even understand this! But with so many of their friends going through family break-ups right now—no, we’ll just have to tell them she’s had to leave town for a while. To visit a sick relative or something.”

  “I’ll back you in whatever you decide to do. I prefer not to tell the kids a half-truth, but God willing, maybe Annie will be back home in three or four days. I can stay over in the guest room and help out however you need me. But what will you tell the church? You know how badly the rumors fly around there.”

  David stood up. “I don’t know. Let’s get through tonight and take it one day at a time.”

  “Hey Dad? Gran? You up there?” Jeremy yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “I’m starving! When are we gonna eat?”

  Caroline walked over and hugged her son, her head barely reaching his shoulder. “I’ll take care of the kids. You come down when you’re ready.”

  David nodded, his thoughts still searching for meaning. “Oh Annie. Where are you?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Tulsa, Oklahoma

  Grady Brewster tossed the stack of papers from his desk into his briefcase and snapped it shut. He would most likely never get around to working on them, but it never hurt to go through the motions. It had been an endless day of meetings, and he was exhausted. He walked over to the glass wall and stood, silently gazing at the panoramic view before him. The skyline of Tulsa was etched against the amber and violet streaks of the sunset.

  He stretched his arms and arched his back, then thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his Dockers. From his office on the sixty-first floor of the Williams Center, he watched the massive exodus of cars and buses heading out to the suburbs, too tired to join them just yet. The quiet ringing of his phone interrupted his thoughts. He stepped over to his desk and picked up the slim receiver. “This is Grady.”

  “Grady the Brewmeister? The one and only Brewster Rooster of the College World Series Champions of 1983? One and the same?”

  “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Baseball himself!” Grady grinned as he sat back down. “To what do I owe this high privilege, big guy? I haven’t heard from you since you made Fortune 500.”

  Grady relaxed in the familiar teasing from his old college buddy. It was true. He hadn’t heard from Michael for at least a couple of years. Hard to believe they had once been as close as brothers. In fact, since parting their ways after graduation, their friendship had suffered dismally from lack of attention due to the miles and years between them. Only these intermittent calls had survived through the years.

  He knew Michael suspected jealousy of invading their friendship. After all, they had both played baseball at Oklahoma State. And while Grady was extremely competitive, the same doors had not opened for him as the myriad of offers Michael enjoyed after college. While Michael rode off on the crest of a wave headed for athletic prestige and national stardom, Grady had stayed behind struggling in the precarious world of finance.

  I wonder what he wants after all this time?

  “Forget Fortune 500, man,” Michael teased, interrupted Grady’s thoughts. “It’s been way too long! You still up there hobnobbing with the rich and famous? Ever get the itch to move on up to Wall Street and find some real action?”

  “Nah, I’m happy right here where I am, Michael. I’ll leave Wall Street to the demented crazies who crave that sort of life. I couldn’t be happier anywhere else. Built a new home out south of town, got a beautiful wife who still thinks I’m hot, and two incredible kids who adore their father. What else could I ask for, right?”

  Silence.

  “Michael? You still there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking—how ironic life can be sometimes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Another pause. “When you mentioned your family just now, and how happy you are, I realized I was feeling a little jealous. That’s all. Kinda funny, isn’t it?”

  Grady let that sink in for a moment. “So why don’t you come up sometime and see us? Let me rub your nose in it while I can.”

  “How does tonight sound?”

  Grady leaned forward in his chair. “Are you in town? Where are you?” The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses drifted through the phone line.

  “I’m calling from a hangout here in Houston. But if you’ve got some time available, I can be up there in a few hours. I,uh . . . Grady, I really need to talk to you.”

  “What’s up, Michael? You okay?”

  “Nothing I can get into over the phone. I can catch a flight out of here in about an hour and a half and be there about 8:00. Can you pick me up at the airport?”

  “No problem. What airline?”

  “American. Just meet me curbside, okay? Maybe we can go grab a bite to eat.”

  “Sounds great. You sure you’re all right?”

  Another hesitation on the other end. “Just give me a few hours of your time,” Michael answered, his voice hushed. “That’s all I need. Thanks, buddy.”

  “No problem. See you at eight.”

  Grady hung up the phone and leaned back in his leather chair. He swung around to face the credenza behind him. Among the cluster of framed photographs was a five by seven autographed picture of Michael in uniform at the World Series. He stared blankly at the picture for some time, his memories drifting to another place and time. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, he stood up, reached for his briefcase, and left his office.

  Michael returned the receiver to the wall phone near the restroom. His eyes darted around the crowded bar as his heart beat against his chest. He had sought out a public place to make this call from a pay phone. He knew any of his personal lines or even his cell phone would surely be bugged. He couldn’t risk Elliot knowing about this sudden side trip.

  The concern in Grady’s voice had caught him off guard. Michael visualized the wide grin of his old buddy and was strangely comforted by the warm feelings of camaraderie that swept over him. He wanted to believe it was like old times. And tonight he urgently needed a friend he could trust.

  In the urgency of this hour, Grady Brewster was the only person Michael had even considered calling. There was no one else.

  American Airlines Flight 1021

  The flight from Houston to Tulsa would take only two hours. As soon as Michael took his seat in First Class, he got to work with a keen sense of urgency. He knew it was imperative to record the information that had remained locked in his memory for so many years, and this was his only chance. He still didn’t know how he would approach Grady with this volatile story once they met face to face. Or if he even could.

  But as long as I have it in writing, at least I know the truth will come out. Especially if something should happen to me . . . He buried the thought, despite the chill running down his spine.

  Lowering the tray table in front of him, he slid his laptop onto it. Taking a quick look around, he was grateful for his privacy. While the coach section was bustling with passengers, there were only five others riding with him in First Class, an
d no one in the seat directly beside him.

  Where do I start?

  He stared out the window at the sparkling city lights now tilting into view as the plane arced its path across the night sky, leaving Houston in its wake. With a shrug of his shoulders, his fingers began pecking the keyboard, telling the strange story.

  Grady,

  I’m writing this letter to you in the event that something unfortunate happens to me. I realize I am in a great deal of danger. I also realize it is crucial that the truth be finally exposed. I ask that you personally forward this information to the United States Attorney General immediately. I’m not kidding, Grady. This is serious.

  I guess I need to begin at the beginning, with my marriage to Amelia Thomas, the daughter of U.S. Congressman Elliot Thomas of Texas, in 1991. As you know, a few years later, after a successful career in major league baseball, I retired and pursued my present career as CEO of The Sports Page. A couple of years ago my company made the Fortune 500. While my father-in-law initially helped me get the company started with his financial backing, The Sports Page belongs to me and my shareholders.

  Or so I thought. I’ve recently learned that Elliot has, in fact, manipulated my shareholders from the start. They are his cronies and they answer to him directly. Every single one of them. This deception apparently began from the inception of my company. It is with a deep sense of betrayal that I now know my entire staff, which I have always believed to be totally loyal to me, has instead been loyal to Elliot from the outset.

  I suppose this information would have remained a secret indefinitely had Elliot’s direct “spies” not reported to him of my plans to divorce Amelia. He confronted me with this report and made it clear that he would not allow a divorce. I wasn’t actually surprised by his reaction. Anything that could remotely cause an unfavorable reflection on Elliot Thomas or his family is never tolerated—even something as simple as a divorce. People get divorced. It happens. But to blue-bloods like the Thomases, divorce is apparently not acceptable. It’s not an option. You have to know Elliot Thomas to understand that. Everything, but everything revolves around his political career. And if he deems it bad for his political standing, he won’t stand for it. He’ll do whatever it takes to avoid a controversy, no matter how big or how small. No matter how ridiculous it may seem to anyone else.

  But it was the threat that caused my alarm. It was more than a threat—it was blackmail. Elliot said he would pull The Sports Page out from under me if I divorced Amelia, and he proceeded to tell me just how he could do it.

  At first, I thought it was hopeless. I would certainly lose my company. Then I remembered an incident that happened several years ago. An incident that implicates Congressman Elliot Thomas of conspiracy to commit first degree murder.

  It happened in 1992, about a year after Amelia and I got married. Elliot invited me to join him and his chief of staff, a guy named Duke, on a weekend hunting trip. We went to a place near Natchitoches, Texas, where Elliot always goes on his hunting trips. We stayed at a big cabin out in the woods. He thought it would give us a chance to get to know each other better. It was my off-season so I figured, why not?

  The last night we were there, we built a big fire in the fireplace and pulled up some chairs and a sofa in front of it. We were all drinking and telling stories. The usual kind of stuff. They wanted to hear stories about some of the ball players I knew, and they were telling all kinds of stories about people in Washington. Some unbelievably private stuff about presidents, first ladies, Supreme Court justices. The two of them talked and laughed long into the night.

  Duke and Elliot kept drinking like a couple of sailors on leave. I stopped earlier in the evening because I wasn’t feeling well. I felt awful—my head hurt, I was nauseated, I had chills—the whole flu thing. I finally stretched out on the sofa, right in front of the fireplace and tried to go to sleep. By then they were both drunk. Completely smashed. They were giving me a hard time for not keeping up, but I felt so rotten I didn’t care. I just ignored them, rolled over with my back to them, and finally drifted off to sleep.

  I must have slept a couple of hours or so. Evidently I had a pretty bad fever because even with that fire going, I was freezing. I guess that’s why I began to wake up. I didn’t move or anything, just started to become aware that I wasn’t sleeping anymore. Elliot and Duke were sitting over at the kitchen table by then, still carrying on, talking and laughing. They had no idea I was awake. I’m sure they thought I was out for the night.

  All of a sudden I heard them mention Christopher Jordan, the senator who was killed in a boating explosion several years ago.

  I knew from Amelia that Elliot had hated Christopher Jordan. Actually, ‘hate’ doesn’t even begin to describe it. They despised each other. At the time, Jordan was the Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. Elliot had worked on a project to build a huge new addition to the space center in Houston. NASA had planned to build it at the Cape in Florida, but Elliot wasn’t about to let that happen. He’d promised some major pork to his buddies back home. He had a whole slew of land developers falling all over themselves to get this one. All Elliot had to do was deliver the deal to Texas.

  Obviously, Jordan and Elliot butted heads. Actually, this NASA project was just the last of a long line of bones Elliot had to pick with Jordan. These two had bad blood between them that goes way back. Seems Jordan has been Elliot’s nemesis since the two of them were back in law school at Harvard. I don’t know exactly what started their feud. Probably just a natural contempt for each other that continued to fester over the years. Problem was, Jordan was always at least one or two steps ahead of Elliot. Every committee, every key appointment, every prestigious chairmanship—Jordan seemed to float right in and sail off with the prize. Elliot despised him for that.

  Anyone who knows Elliot knows the kind of ego that drives him. Guys like him won’t put up with playing second fiddle forever. When Jordan was appointed Chairman of the House Ways & Means Committee, Elliot was furious. That, coupled with the humiliation he experienced when Jordan made him grovel over that NASA deal. I think it was more than Elliot could take.

  I realize how ridiculous this may sound. To imply that a United States congressman would try to pull off cold-blooded murder out of pure jealousy must sound crazy. But please hear me out.

  Let me get back to that night at the cabin. As I said, Elliot and Duke were absolutely smashed. I’d never seen either one of them even slightly inebriated, let alone drunk. Elliot kept giggling like a little kid. That’s probably what woke me up in the first place. He isn’t exactly the sort of man who “giggles” if you know what I mean. But Duke had him going with something about the “risks of nautical life.” They were coming up with every possible pun you could imagine. Elliot was actually singing and making up all sorts of dumb songs.

  They were laughing so hard, Duke even fell out of his chair onto the floor. Elliot was practically gasping for air, he was laughing so hard. Then once they started to calm down, Elliot began to mumble a lot. I could still understand him just the same. I remember his exact words. He said, “Ol’ Jordan thought he could threaten me, didn’t he? Said to me, ‘Thomas, you’ll take that pork to Texas over my dead body!’ Well sir, he didn’t have to ask but once now, did he!” And off they went again, howling and laughing as if it was the funniest thing ever said.

  By then, I was wide awake but I didn’t move an inch. I didn’t miss a word, but they had no idea I was listening. They kept talking about some guy named “Bo.” I didn’t have a clue who that was at first. I had never heard Elliot mention anyone by that name. But Duke said, “I told you I never liked that name! I wanted to give him a code name like Popeye—it was the perfect name for him and you knew it! But nooo! You had to go and pick some sissy name like Beauregard. What kind of a stupid name is that?” Then Elliot said, “We name this guy something like Popeye and we might as well take out a full page ad in the Washington Post. Just print a full confession in black and white! A
nybody with half a brain would link us to that bombing. Thank God, one of us has a brain, you moron.”

  They started singing again. They even harmonized on one song over and over—“My Jordan lies over the ocean, my Jordan lies over the sea, my Jordan lies ALL over the ocean, can’t bring back ol’ Jordan to me!”

  They started singing more stupid songs, and the drunken laughter went on all night. With each one I began to piece together what must have happened. If only I’d had a tape recorder.

  Eventually they passed out. Fell sound asleep right there sprawled all over the kitchen table. My mind was racing in a thousand directions. And then I remembered something. The television coverage of Christopher Jordan’s death. The remnants of his yacht. Even though it had been years ago, long before I knew Elliot, I could still see those images in my mind. Scenes filmed at his funeral. His wife and children consumed by their grief. The twenty-one gun salute. Taps.

  And then I remembered seeing the new Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee—none other than Elliot Thomas—the bereaving Congressman, at times too choked up to continue as he eulogized the “beloved statesman and American hero.” And it all started to make sense to me.

  So why didn’t I go to the authorities? Why didn’t I turn them in? After all, this was the murder of a prominent congressman of the United States. Why didn’t I tell someone?

  For several reasons, and all of them selfish, I’m sorry to say. I had only been married to Amelia for a year, but I already knew how much power Elliot Thomas carried. To be perfectly honest, he scared me to death. Still does. And I was primarily concerned with how it would affect me. I wasn’t about to risk having my reputation tainted with this story if Elliot was brought down. I wanted to be known as a Major League baseball player—not forever remembered as the man who blew the whistle on a dirty politician. It’s no secret that athletic accomplishments are quickly forgotten when scandal enters the picture.