His cell rang right when he entered the city limits. He pulled over in a 7-Eleven parking lot. “Why didn’t you—”
“It’s not Sean,” Sarah announced. She was sniffling, like she’d been crying.
“How do you know?”
“Because I found his shoes—his Nike Air Force 1s. They’re here, in his closet.”
A tidal wave of relief threatened to swamp Will. He sagged against the driver’s door.
“But his favorite athletic shoes are missing. You know, the Nike Dunk ‘Paris’ ones. Mom says he wore them when he had breakfast with her the last day she saw him.”
The tidal wave broke over Will’s head, incapacitating him.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The man had been pacing his office for nearly 20 minutes with his eye on the desk phone. He hated that phone—the cumbersome nature of it—but his wife had insisted on it. She’d said it “made” his office, whatever that meant. He didn’t care about décor. Function was what mattered to him.
His contact was late. He was never late. When his phone finally rang, he snatched the receiver out of its cradle.
With no preamble, his source reported, “The dental record is back. It’s not Sean Worthington.”
So Sean was likely alive . . . somewhere. Unless he’d run into foul play and the body hadn’t been discovered yet. Anything was possible.
“I have a tip,” his source added.
The information relayed next made sense. The Worthingtons were resourceful. If one of them wanted to disappear for a while or for years, they had the wealth and connections to do so.
He, of all people, knew that loyalty could be bought. For how long, though, was the question. He simply had to locate the person or persons who could be turned.
43
NEW YORK CITY
Sarah had sat in a stupor right outside Sean’s closet so long that she couldn’t even see her hand in front of her. The sky was dark outside the large bedroom window. Her fingers were numb from gripping her brother’s Nike Air Force 1s.
Her cell had rung and rung. Text messages had vibrated. She hadn’t made a move to answer them.
That body isn’t Sean, but where is he? The words reverberated over and over in her brain.
She couldn’t handle being in limbo between life and death for much longer.
At that moment she heard the creak of the front door opening. Sean!
She dropped the Nikes and then tripped over them in her rush for the door. Before she found the light switch in his bedroom, a man’s frame filled the doorway.
“Sarah?”
It was Will. She took two more steps and collapsed in his arms.
There had been five times in Will’s life when he had felt helpless. He could remember each of them distinctly.
The first was when he’d seen his mother, a bastion of strength, sitting alone in their backyard garden at Chautauqua. She was crying. Will couldn’t recall exactly how old he was, but he was young. He hadn’t known how to comfort her, so he’d done the only thing he could. He’d climbed up into her lap and hugged her. To this day, he could remember the tears that dripped onto his cheek, the sadness, the heaviness, of knowing something had gone terribly wrong.
Now he realized that was likely the moment his mother had found out she was pregnant with Sean, before his father’s return from India. That experience of seeing his mother’s weakness had formed in Will, from an early age, a fierce protectiveness toward those he loved. That included the tiny packages of his brother and sister at their births.
The second time he’d felt helpless was also at Chautauqua. Will had hoped for one night’s dose of peace and quiet and a sunset view before his campaign launched. Instead his mother had joined him and told him how Sean came to be a part of their family. The revelation had shaken his world and much of what he had thought to be true about his childhood and his parents’ relationship.
The third and fourth times were both today. The third, when Drew had identified the type of shoe found on the body, and Will recognized that Sean had a pair just like them. The fourth, when Sarah had told him which other shoes were missing—the very ones Sean had worn to breakfast with Ava. Somehow, for Will, those shoes became the icon of their brother, who had simply vanished into thin air. Where was he? They were no closer today to finding him than they’d been a week ago.
The fifth time was now, as he held his baby sister and bore the weight of her grief as well as his own.
44
Sarah awoke from her spot on top of Sean’s bed. In the night, Will had thrown a large fleece blanket over her. She cuddled deeper into it, trying to forget why she was there.
The siblings had stayed the night at Sean’s. The agreement wasn’t voiced aloud, but both needed to be there, together, surrounded by as much of Sean as they could.
Sarah inched herself up and yawned. There, on the floor next to the bed, was Will. Her protective big brother was sound asleep, his right arm thrown over his forehead, his lanky form and feet sticking out of the too-short afghan. Sarah chuckled. He still slept in the same position he had as a kid.
She bet if she bounced him awake by jumping on him like she used to when they were growing up, he’d look just as annoyed. The touch of home brought a smile.
Peering at the time on her cell, she realized with a start it was after 9:00. Time only for a quick shower and to throw back on the clothes she’d worn to Sean’s. That would have to do for the day. Hopefully nobody would notice how rumpled they were since she’d slept in them and mistake her overnight for something else. Gossip was abundant at the DOJ. At least 90 percent of it was false, but that didn’t stop the rumormongering.
She tiptoed around Will, out the bedroom door, and down the hall to the bathroom. She didn’t want to wake him by using the bathroom attached to the bedroom.
After her shower, she twisted up her damp curls into a chic bob and scribbled a note: I love you to the moon and back.
Tiptoeing back into the bedroom, she placed it by Will’s side. He’d understand the phrase from their childhood.
The first person Will called when he woke was Drew. He’d left the man hanging after he’d asked about the shoe specifics. When he filled Drew in, his mentor was quiet.
“Drew?” Will finally said.
“If Sean was dead, we’d know. We’d sense it. I don’t believe he’s dead. I think he just needed some time and space away. He deals with things differently than you would. If you’re overwhelmed, you plunge headlong into work. If he’s overwhelmed, he retreats.”
In all the years Will had known Drew, the man had never been wrong.
Tucking Sarah’s note into his pants pocket, he headed out Sean’s door to a nearby coffeehouse. Today he’d need two stiff cups, back-to-back, instead of his usual one.
In the cab on the way to work, Sarah checked her texts from yesterday. Kirk Baldwin’s was short.
Not on roster. No GJer knows a Michael Vara.
So that was a dead end. Usually Sarah hated dead ends. This time she was relieved. Green Justice tried to go about saving the planet and its creatures in a reasonable way, even if the fact the organization existed and pointed out problems incensed a lot of big industry titans. Kirk too was solid, trustworthy. He’d been Sean’s friend for 15 years. Though the burly, bald-headed guy stated his points with no apology, his speech and actions were laden with personal integrity. Sarah was glad she didn’t have to burden him with any more digging.
She looked at her next text.
Darcy
St. Mark’s school closed. Former headmistress at church tomorrow a.m. Volunteers there. Stopping by again around 9:45 or 10. Join me if you want.
Sarah eyed the time on her cell. She could make it if the cab driver hustled.
45
CORVO, AZORES ISLANDS
The view was impressive, crafted by a once-active volcano. The most northern island of the archipelago of the Azores, it was perfectly remote. No traffic jams, no high-rises, no shoppin
g plazas, no fast-food drive-throughs. Not even a hotel. Best of all, litle chance of cell phone reception or internet.
To stay off the grid, Sean had gotten one of the best pilots for hire on the market to fly him to São Miguel, landing at Nordela Airport in Ponta Delgada. After a day’s stay in a hotel that didn’t check ID, his pilot had flown him to Flores. The man was sworn to secrecy, paid well for an extended “vacation,” and provided amenities.
Sean had spent five days on the beautiful island of Flores—a lush paradise of birds and flowers. With only about 4,000 residents, it was quiet, a place he could hear his own thoughts.
The first three days he’d rested in a whitewashed one-room house he’d rented as the island was lashed by rain.
The last two days he’d taken in the sights—the bluest crater lakes surrounded by high mountains and the sloping hillsides and valleys of fertile farmland. When business potential for the area nudged into his mind, though, he knew it was time to leave.
So he’d rousted his pilot from snoring under his Tommy Bahama hat to fly him to Corvo. This time, for the remainder of the three weeks he’d decided to take, Sean told the pilot to return to Flores. He wanted the island all to himself, with the exception of the native villagers.
They landed at the tiniest airport and shortest landing strip he’d ever seen.
“Wait in Flores. Pick me up from the airfield in two weeks.” Sean grinned. “Anything you want, put it on my tab. I’ll take care of it when I return.” With as much cash as he’d spent in Flores and the hotel over the last five days, the hotel hadn’t minded keeping a running tab for him for the couple of weeks he was away. Nor had the pilot, with the promise of comfortable circumstances while he waited and pay for his additional services.
He’d given his pilot that instruction over a week ago. By now Sean had met most of the 400 friendly islanders on Corvo. With no hotel, they’d happily taken him in, welcomed him like family.
Corvo was simple and beautiful. The electricity was iffy. He’d visited the rocky coastline and peered over the steep cliffs, not surprised that merchants in the old days had had a tough time landing on the island. But it was also one of the natural wonders that had helped the island maintain its quaint charm.
He’d gazed to the south, where cattle and wild horses grazed—a larger population than the people. He’d enjoyed a diet of fresh vegetables and fruit, including maize and delicious melons. As he hiked the island each day, if he grew hungry he only had to knock on a door. Whatever they were having for lunch or dinner became his lunch or dinner. The villagers liked the American dollars and the outside company that was rare on their island. Sean relished the new flavors of the cuisine, basked in the attention from the locals, and found their dialect—a unique language spiced with Old Portuguese words—intriguing.
He could get used to this lifestyle, he thought. Living more simply, making his way among people who were close to the land, and finding ways to assist their communities. He also loved feeling like family.
On Corvo, there were no locked doors. There was nothing to steal. Besides, everyone knew what everyone else had, so the perpetrator would have been found quickly. That meant there was no crime, no suspicion. Everyone helped everyone.
It was a bit of heaven right on earth.
Togetherness. That’s what I’ve been missing. Longing for.
Her beautiful, passionate eyes flashed into his mind again. Strange how, even with the distance between them, she was the one person he missed the most.
NEW YORK CITY
“Justin Eliot? Oh yes, I remember him.” Marie Chesterton, the gray-haired former headmistress of the special school at St. Mark’s, lowered herself onto a pew in the church’s sanctuary. “Such a troubled young man. No support except for his dear mama.” She clucked in sympathy. “No father anywhere. No grandparents to come see him in his plays. I guessed that she’d had the baby very young, though she never said so. She was much younger than most of our parents.”
“You said he was troubled? In what way?” Sarah asked.
“Emotionally, I mean, dear. The first year or so at our school he had episodes where he would become frantic—so frenetic that he’d run circles around the classroom and needed to be calmed. Other times he would retreat, say he was no good, worthless. He often couldn’t concentrate on his studies, but we did the best we could. He was on medication, but that didn’t always work.” Her expression was sad, tender. “I sat with him many times and held him until his mama could come. She always had a calming effect on him.”
“You mentioned the first year or so,” Darcy noted. “Did those episodes lessen after that?”
“Yes, he seemed to settle in. Even made a good friend.” The older woman smiled. “They were in plays together.”
Sarah eyed Darcy and knew they were thinking the same thing. Could that childhood friend have grown into an off-kilter adult with an ax to grind against oil companies, and talked Justin into doing one last act for old times’ sake? Such as dressing up as a polar bear and leaving a backpack by a building? Could it be as simple as that? “What was that friend’s name?”
Marie’s gaze flicked back from her memories to rest on Sarah. “Michael. Michael Vara. Both boys had no father.”
Sarah and Darcy exchanged glances. The apartment where the suicide note was found had been rented to a Michael Vara. It would have been easy for Michael to fake Justin’s handwriting and signature, especially since it wasn’t on file anywhere officially, like at the DMV. The building manager said Michael paid the rent on time via checks from an account in New York, but the envelopes were sent from different locations, many of them overseas. Other apartment dwellers in the building said they hadn’t seen Michael in a long time, perhaps six months or so.
“Do you know what Michael did after he left your school?” Sarah asked.
Marie nodded. “Indeed I do. We talk often.”
Darcy perked up. “So he’s local still?”
“Oh, no, dear. Well, he has a flat here in the city that he keeps for the short times when he returns—says it’s cheaper than staying at a hotel.” She chuckled. “Always was economical. He’s mostly been in England and Ireland the last four or five years.” Her face lit up. “A success story for sure. He works with emotionally troubled young people, helping them work out their fears and find companionship in theater pursuits through acting camps. That kind of thing.”
Darcy leaned forward. “Was he ever emotionally troubled himself?”
Marie lifted her chin and gave an icy schoolmarm glare. Now Sarah could see why she made a good headmistress. A kind, grandmotherly type on the surface but steel underneath. She wouldn’t put up with any nonsense. “That boy went through a rough time in life,” Marie declared. “Saw his father beat his mother nearly senseless, then kill himself right in their own living room. Michael was 11. Guess anybody would struggle after that.”
Sarah nodded. “Indeed they would. I’m so sorry.” In her pro bono work at Harvard Law, she’d seen too many of those sad cases. They hadn’t been simply cases to her, as they were to some of the other budding attorneys who only wanted to use the experiences as stepping-stones for their career. She often couldn’t sleep at night, seeing the real faces behind the trauma. At what stage might someone have intervened to help the family before the crisis reached the tipping point? It was a question she’d pondered often.
“But Michael is strong willed. He decided he wanted to turn the tough things that happened to him into something good to help others. Pursued that as soon as he graduated from high school. He studied drama at NYC, on a scholarship,” she announced proudly.
That certainly doesn’t sound like a guy who would have anything to do with a bombing, Sarah thought.
“Do you know if Michael and Justin were ever in contact after they left the school?” Darcy asked.
“Indeed they are,” Marie answered. “Michael’s worried about Justin. Says he isn’t the same since his mama passed. Told Justin he could stay a
t his flat anytime he needed a place to stay. Gave him a key.”
That certainly explained how Justin came to stay at the apartment, with no signs of breaking and entering.
“Were Michael and Justin interested at all in ecological causes while they were at school? You know, ‘save the earth’ and ‘protect the whales’ kind of stuff?” Darcy asked.
Marie appeared to be thinking hard. “Not to my knowledge. Michael wanted to help other kids. But that could be. Those boys had gentle souls inside all the hurt. Rescued a spider that had strayed into the classroom and carried it outside to live a full life before one of the other kids could kill it.”
So both did care about animals. Had it become more than that? Perhaps an obsession enough to bomb a building for? If so, who had planted the seed for violence and then funded it?
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Once he’d known the body wasn’t Sean, the man had ordered a track on private planes and limos for hire through his expansive network. That was when they’d located a man who’d been heard mouthing off at a bar in Chinatown in New York City. He’d boasted about his friend, a pilot for hire, getting a sudden job late one night a couple of weeks ago. Nick Delray was willing to talk for a price and some additional drinks.
“It was a cush job, out of the country somewhere,” the contact reported after flying in to New York City and showing up at Nick’s apartment. “Clearly Nick had already had a few drinks, but he said it was a string of islands. Nice weather. Tropical. He hasn’t seen or heard from his friend since.” He chuckled. “He was working hard to prove to me they were good friends. He insisted the pilot wasn’t back yet because, as he said, ‘If he was back, he’d call me.’”
“So he didn’t know any other specifics?” the man asked. “Including the name of his pilot friend’s fare?”
“Nope, as much as he tried to make me think otherwise, to milk me for more money.”
A Powerful Secret Page 16