Before I Say Good-Bye

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Does that make sense to you, Nell?” Bonnie Wilson asked.

  Nell nodded.

  “Adam wants to apologize to you, Nell. I’m getting from him that you two quarreled the last time you were together before he passed over.”

  I didn’t tell anyone that we had quarreled, Nell thought. Not one single soul.

  “Adam is telling me that the quarrel was his fault. I’m getting a sense that there was something you wanted to do, and that he was making it difficult for you.”

  Nell felt burning tears well up in her eyes.

  Bonnie Wilson sat very still. “I’m starting to lose contact. But Adam doesn’t want to leave yet. Nell, I see white roses over your head. They’re a sign of his love for you.”

  Nell did not believe her own words as she spoke: “Tell him I love him too. Tell him I’m so sorry we quarreled.”

  “Now I see him a little more clearly again. He looks so pleased, Nell. But he is saying that he wants you to begin the new chapter in your life. Is there a situation that will take all your energy and time?”

  The campaign, Nell thought.

  Bonnie did not wait for her to reply. “Yes, I understand,” she was murmuring. “He says, ‘Tell Nell to give away all my clothes.’ I see a room, with racks and bins . . .”

  “I always take the clothes we give away to a thrift shop connected to a church in our neighborhood,” Nell said. “It has a room like the one you describe where they sort clothes.”

  “Adam said that you should give them away now. By helping others in his name, you help him to achieve higher spiritual fulfillment. And he says you must pray for him. Remember him in your prayers, he says, but then let him go.”

  Bonnie paused, her eyes staring straight ahead but not seeming to actually see anything. “He is leaving us,” she said softly.

  “Stop him!” Nell cried. “Someone blew up his boat. Ask him if he knows who did that to him.”

  Bonnie waited. “I don’t think he’s going to tell us, Nell. That means he either doesn’t know, or that he has forgiven his assailant and does not want you to be unforgiving.”

  After a moment, Bonnie shook her head and looked directly at Nell. “He’s gone,” she said with a smile. Then suddenly she clutched her chest. “No wait, what he is thinking is coming to me. Does the name ‘Peter’ mean anything to you?”

  Peter Lang, Nell thought. “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “Nell, blood is dripping around him. I can’t be sure if that means this person named Peter was the assailant. I can be sure, though, that Adam is trying to warn you about something involving him. He begs you to be on your guard against this Peter, to be careful . . .”

  forty-seven

  ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, Dan Minor arrived home to find a message from Lilly Brown on the answering machine. But when he played it back, it was not what he had hoped to hear.

  Lilly’s voice sounded nervous, and her speech was rapid. “Dr. Dan,” she began, “I’ve been asking and asking around about Quinny. She has a lot of friends, but nobody has seen or heard from her in months. That’s just not right. There’s a group she stays with sometimes who live on East Fourth Street, in some of the old tenements there. They’re wondering if maybe she’s sick and got locked up in a hospital somewhere. Sometimes when Quinny got one of her big-time depressed attacks, she wouldn’t talk or eat for days.”

  Is that where I’ll find her? Dan wondered, his heart sinking. Locked in a psychiatric ward—or worse? The past winter had been bitterly cold in New York. Suppose she hadn’t left the city last fall? If Quinny had been in a protracted depression and not been forced into a shelter, anything might have happened to her.

  What made me so convinced I’d find her? he asked himself, for the first time really feeling a loss of resolve. It’s not over yet, though, he thought. It’s just that I can’t sit back any longer and wait for her to show up. Tomorrow I’ll start checking out hospitals. He forced himself to acknowledge that he would also have to find out which city agency might list the unidentified dead.

  Lilly had talked to homeless people who squatted in abandoned buildings around East Fourth Street. Next weekend I’ll walk around there and try to talk to some of them myself, he decided.

  There was something else he could do. Lilly had described how Quinny looked now. She said that her hair had turned completely gray and was long enough to reach her shoulders. “She’s even thinner than she is in that old picture you have,” Lilly had said. “Her cheekbones stick out. You still can tell she might have been really pretty when she was young.”

  There are places that will do computer aging, if that’s what they call it, Dan thought. I know the police department can do it.

  Dan decided it was time to actively pursue other ways to find Quinny, or, even if it was bad news, to find out exactly what had happened to her.

  As Dan changed to shorts and a long-sleeved sweatshirt, preparing to go to the park for another run, he found himself hoping that he would luck into another chance encounter with Nell MacDermott.

  That possibility helped to relieve the growing anxiety that he was now feeling about Quinny. I became what I am for her sake, he thought. Please let me be able to tell her that, he prayed.

  forty-eight

  CORNELIUS MACDERMOTT had a visit on Monday afternoon from Tom Shea, the party chairman for New York City. He had come because he needed to know one way or the other about Nell’s decision on making a run for the congressional seat being vacated by Bob Gorman.

  “I don’t have to tell you it’s a presidential election year, Mac,” Shea said. “A strong candidate for this seat is going to help get out the overall vote we need to put our guy in the White House. You’re a legend in this district. Your presence at Nell’s side during the campaign will be a constant reminder to the voters of what you did for them.”

  “You ever hear about the advice they give to the groom’s mother before a wedding?” Mac snapped. “It’s ‘Wear beige and keep your mouth shut.’ That’s what I intend to do if Nell runs. She’s smart, good looking, fast on her feet, knows what the job entails and is capable of doing it better than anyone else I know. Best of all, she cares about people. That’s why she should run. That’s why people should vote for her—not because I’m considered some kind of legend.”

  Liz Hanley was in the office with them, taking notes. Good God, is he prickly today! she thought. But she understood why. Mac had confided in her his concern about Nell’s emotional state, and he was paralyzed with worry that her visit to a psychic might somehow become known and then be leaked to the press.

  “Oh come on, Mac, you know what I mean,” Tom Shea said good-naturedly. “People fell in love with Nell when they saw that picture of her as a ten-year-old, trying to dry your tears at her parents’ memorial Mass. She grew up in the eye of the public. We can hold off the announcement till the dinner on the 30th, but we have to be sure that the effect of her husband’s death won’t make it too tough for her to campaign.”

  “Nothing is too tough for Nell,” Mac snapped. “She’s a pro.”

  But when Shea left, Mac’s façade of bluster crumbled. “Liz, I blew up at Nell last night when I realized she was going to go to that psychic. Call her up and help me make peace. Tell her I want to have dinner with her.”

  “Blessed are the peacemakers,” Liz said dryly. “For they shall be called the children of God.”

  “You’ve told me that before.”

  “That’s because I’ve done this before. Where shall I tell her to meet you for dinner?”

  “Neary’s. Seven-thirty. You come too, okay?”

  forty-nine

  ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, at her second meeting with Ben Tucker, Dr. Megan Crowley skillfully maneuvered the conversation around to the day the young boy had observed the boat blow up in New York harbor. She would have preferred to wait for another session or two before bringing it up, but Ben had experienced nightmares again over the weekend, and she could see they were taking a heavy toll on
him.

  She began the session with him by talking about ferryboat rides. “When I was little, we used to go to a place called Martha’s Vineyard,” she said. “I loved to go there, but boy, was that a long trip, at least from here. Six hours in the car, and then over an hour on the ferry.”

  “Ferries stink,” Ben said. “The one I was on made me want to barf. I don’t ever want to go on one again.”

  “Oh, where did you go on one, Benjy?”

  “In New York. My dad took me to see the Statue of Liberty.” He paused. “That was the day the boat blew up.”

  Megan waited.

  Ben’s expression became reflective. “I was looking right at the boat. It was cool. I was wishing I was on it instead of on that stupid ferry, but now I’m glad I wasn’t on it.” He frowned. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Megan saw the look of fear settle over him. She knew he was thinking about the snake, but she still had no real idea how the two things were connected. “Ben, sometimes it helps to talk about something if it’s bothering you. It’s pretty awful to see a boat blow up.”

  “I could see the people,” he whispered.

  “Ben, you know something? If you would draw a picture of what you saw, I bet it would help you to get it out of your mind. Do you like to draw?”

  “I really like to draw a lot.”

  Megan had sheets of sketching paper, Magic Markers and crayons waiting. A few minutes later, Ben was bent over the worktable, deep in concentration.

  As Megan watched, she realized that he must have seen the accident in closer detail than even his father had realized. The sky in the drawing became filled with brightly colored debris, some of it in flames. Other objects resembled pieces of broken furniture and dishes.

  Ben’s face became pinched and tight as he drew in what was clearly a human hand.

  He laid his crayon down. “I don’t want to draw the snake,” he said.

  fifty

  AT THE APPOINTED HOUR, Nell was settled at a corner table, sipping a glass of wine and nibbling on a breadstick when her grandfather and Liz arrived at Neary’s on East Fifty-seventh Street.

  Noting her grandfather’s surprised expression, she said airily, “Just thought I’d play your game, Mac. Arrange to meet at seven-thirty. Arrive at seven-fifteen. Then tell the other guy he’s late so he’ll be thrown off balance.”

  “Too bad that’s the only thing you’ve learned from me,” Mac barked as he slid in next to her.

  Nell kissed his cheek. When Liz had called her earlier, she had laid it on the line to her. “Nell, I don’t have to sell you on the way Mac operates. He calls it as he sees it. He’s bleeding because he knows what Adam’s death means to you. He can’t stand to see you hurt. He’d kill for you. God help him, he’d even have taken Adam’s place on that boat to spare you pain.”

  Listening to Liz earlier, Nell had felt ashamed of herself. Yes, they had their differences, but Mac was a rock for her, always there, always ready to help if she needed it. She simply could not stay mad at him. “Hi, Grandpa,” she said now.

  Their fingers interlocked. “Still my best girl, Nell?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Liz had settled across the table from them. “Shall I leave while you two make up?”

  “No. The special tonight is sliced steak, your favorite. My favorite too.” Nell smiled at Liz and gestured with her head toward her grandfather. “Of course, only the mind of God knows what the Legend here will have.”

  “In that case, I’ll stay. But do you think we could possibly talk about the weather or the Yankees until I have a chance to eat?”

  “We’ll try,” Cornelius and Cornelia MacDermott said in unison, then smiled at each other. Inevitably, over shrimp cocktail, they began to discuss the election. “It’s never over till it’s over, Nell,” Mac said. “In an election year, New York, both city and state, is always unpredictable. That’s why every congressional district is important. People who feel strongly about one candidate will pull the lever down for everyone else on that same slate. You are a candidate who can make them do that.”

  “Do you really think so?” she asked.

  “I know so,” Mac replied. “I haven’t been doing this all my life for nothing. Let us put your name on that ballot, and you’ll see.”

  “You know I probably will, Mac. Just let me have another couple of days to get my head together.”

  The issue of the election temporarily out of the way, she knew what the next subject would be.

  “You go to that psychic?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Did you get to speak to Jesus Christ and the Blessed Mother?”

  “Mac,” Liz warned.

  He can’t help himself, Nell reminded herself. She chose her words carefully: “Yes, Mac, I did go. She told me that Adam was sorry he had opposed my decision to do something I wanted to do. I’m sure, of course, that what that meant was my decision about going into politics. She said that Adam wants me to go on with my life and to pray for him. She told me he said to give away his clothes so that other people can be helped.”

  “If that’s what you heard, it was pretty good advice.”

  “I’d say it wasn’t much different from what Monsignor Duncan might have told me if I’d spoken to him. The only difference,” she added deliberately, “is that Bonnie Wilson hears it directly from Adam.”

  Nell was aware that both her grandfather and Liz were staring at her. “I know it sounds incredible,” she said, “but when I was there with her, I believed it too, absolutely.”

  “Do you believe it now?”

  “I believe the advice. But Mac, there was something else. Peter Lang’s name came up. Again, I don’t know what to think, but, if I can believe Bonnie Wilson, Adam—from the other side, as they put it—is warning me about him.”

  “Nell, for God’s sake! You’re taking all this much too seriously.”

  “I know. But Adam and Peter Lang were working together to develop that property on Twenty-eighth Street. Adam was designing the building that was to go up there. Peter called me late this afternoon, saying he had important business to discuss with me. He’s coming over tomorrow morning.”

  “Look,” Mac said, “Lang didn’t get to where he is now without pulling a few fast ones, so chances are he’s not lily white. I’ll get someone to nose around.” He paused, hesitating to bring up one more problem over dinner. Then he plowed ahead. “But he’s not the only cause for concern right now. Nell, you must have heard about that building façade that collapsed on Lexington Avenue this afternoon?”

  “Yes, I caught it on the six o’clock news.”

  “It’s just one more problem, Nell. Right before I left the office tonight, I got a call from Bob Walters. Sam Krause was the builder who did the actual work on that Lexington Avenue building. But Adam was the architect of record at Walters and Arsdale who designed the renovation. If corners were being cut—you know, the kind of thing that you hear about, with inferior supplies being used and a slackening of standards—then arguably Adam was the one to have known about it. Several pedestrians were hurt in the collapse, and one is in critical condition and may not make it.” He paused. “What I’m saying is that Adam’s name may come up in another criminal investigation.”

  Mac saw the glimmer of anger flash in his granddaughter’s eyes. “Nell,” he said, his voice almost a plea, “I have to warn you about all this. It’s not easy for me. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

  Nell flashed back to earlier in the day, when Bonnie Wilson was communicating with Adam: He is looking at you with so much love . . . she had said; . . . he has forgiven his assailant . . .

  “Mac, I want to know every single thing they are saying about my husband, because even if it kills me, I’m going to get to the truth of all this. Somebody put a bomb on that boat and took Adam’s life. I swear this to you: one way or another, I’m going to find out who it was, and when I do, that person will wish he were already burning in hell. A
s for Walters and Arsdale, I’ll sue them for every penny they’ve got if they keep trying to make Adam the scapegoat for all their own misdeeds and mistakes. And when you speak to those old pals of yours, you can just tell them that for me.”

  In the silence that followed, Liz Hanley cleared her throat and said softly, “The steak is coming. Could we discuss something else, the Yankees’ lineup, maybe?”

  Tuesday, June 20

  fifty-one

  AS HIS DRIVER THREADED THE CAR through the tortuous morning traffic on Madison Avenue, an edgy Peter Lang mentally reviewed the approach he would take in presenting to Nell MacDermott his offer to purchase her late husband’s property. He sensed that he would have to proceed with care, because when he had phoned to set up the meeting, he thought he detected a note of hostility in her voice.

  Funny, she seemed friendly enough when I saw her last week, he thought. Nell had talked about how Adam had been looking forward to working on the project, and how proud he had been of his design.

  If Cauliff never told her that he was off the job, then surely there’s no point in telling her now, Lang reasoned. I’ll offer her a better than fair price, he decided; that way she won’t have any reason not to take it. As he considered his options, however, he realized he felt no reassurance in his rationale. Every instinct told him this meeting would not go well.

  The car continued to move at a snail’s pace. He looked at his watch; it was ten of ten. He leaned forward and tapped his driver on the shoulder. “Is there any particular reason why you insist on staying in this lane?” he snapped.

  AS SHE OPENED THE DOOR to Peter Lang, Nell could not help wondering just how bad the traffic accident had been that kept him from attending the fatal meeting on Adam’s boat. Less than a week had passed since she’d seen him, yet she could not detect the trace of a bruise on his face. Even his lip, which had been badly swollen, seemed completely healed.