by Tim LaHaye
“Oh, right.” Jodi placed both hands over the pages on her lap. “Um, sorry for not saying good night,” she said with about as much conviction as a kid caught with a hand deep in the cookie jar.
Joey shifted his weight, keys jingling in hand, but didn’t leave. He raised an eyebrow. “So, imagine this. I’m standing at the door calling your name. I got no response. Here were my choices as an old, hard boiled investigative reporter.” He held up a new finger as he ticked off the options. “A, she’s ignoring me; B, she’s in need of a hearing aid; or, C, she’s engrossed in something really juicy.”
Jodi laughed.
“Me?” Joey said, “I chose ‘C’ for juicy. So what gives? Give me the juice—unless, of course, it’s personal. Then, by all means—”
“Oh no, nothing like that,” she said, her hands still hovering above the letter like a mother hen protecting her young against a predator. “I was going to give this to you, um, later. After I had checked it out first, you know, seeing as how busy you are and all.” She hoped she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt.
He winked. “Never too busy for a juicy scoop.”
Jodi knew she really didn’t have a choice but to hand over the letter. She picked up the pages and, like a lawyer handing over incriminating evidence to the judge, she presented the missive to Joey.
Joey put his keys in his pocket, took the letter, and then started to read.
At first, she studied Joey’s face, hoping to find a clue to what he might be thinking. As the seconds slipped into minutes, she began to see the weather-beaten face of Gus. His bristlelike beard. His discolored teeth. His mop head. His well-tanned, leathery face. And those peculiar eyes with that simultaneously focused, faraway gaze.
She blinked. Joey was asking her a question.
“Where did you get this?”
“When I came to work today,” she said, feeling like a traitor, “a homeless-looking guy gave it to me in the parking lot.” She wasn’t about to repeat Gus’s warning not to give it to the wrong people. She didn’t know if Joey qualified as the wrong people—at least not yet.
“You got this from Gus?”
Her heart jumped. “Actually, yes. How did you know that?”
Joey smiled. “He signed the letter, remember?”
She felt like a kindergartner on the first day of school. “Right.”
“Hey,” he said, as if reading her mind, “for what it’s worth, he’s been coming around here with his little secret letters for several weeks. I’d call the cops and have the mental case hauled off, but I guess he’s harmless. Come to think of it, he always manages to disappear before I can call.”
Jodi’s eyebrows crumpled. “So, you don’t believe, like, anything he said in there?”
He shook his head. “Jodi, in this business we have an old expression: Consider the source. Why? Your sources are everything. The better and the more credible your source, the better and more accurate your story will be.”
“But—” Jodi fumbled for the right word. “But he seemed so . . . sincere.”
Joey folded the letter. “You know something? Charlie Brown is sincere—and he lost every baseball game he ever played. Jodi, you can be sincere and sincerely wrong, see?”
“Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best word,” she said, f lipping her hair over one shoulder. “How about something like honest.”
“What makes you say he’s honest? You’ve never met him before.”
“Well—maybe it was the way he, like, pleaded with me,” she said.
He laughed and then waved the pages. “These are unfounded, wild assertions of fact. His accusations border on slander.”
Jodi slumped against the back of her chair.
“Take my advice,” he said. “Forget this nonsense. Forget Gus. Better yet, don’t talk to him again. You’ll only encourage him to hassle you with more of these . . . these groundless ramblings. Next thing, he’ll say the president is an alien from Mars. End of story.”
She folded her arms together. “What if I could somehow verify what he’s saying? That would be a huge story, right?”
Joey tapped the letter against the top of the cubical wall. “Yes, it would be. Heck, it would be front page material, but, like I said, considering the source, there’s no basis for it.”
“So, why don’t I just—”
He waved her off. “Look around. We’re a small paper with limited resources. I don’t have the luxury of sending you or anyone else on a wild-goose chase.”
“I see,” Jodi said, looking away.
His voice softened. “You want to know something? I like you. I think your honors course teacher was right when she recommended you for this position.”
She looked up.
“Still, you’re gonna have to trust me on this when I ask you to let it go.” He checked his watch. “Gotta run. I’ll see you tomorrow and give you a story you can really sink your teeth into. How’s that sound?”
She forced a smile. “Great.”
“That’s what I like to see, a team player.” He f lashed a grin and then turned to leave, letter in hand. She watched as he stopped by his office and then headed for the parking lot. As best she could tell, it didn’t look like he was still carrying the letter. He must have left it in his office, she thought. Maybe he filed it—or tossed it in the trash.
Jodi’s heart sank. If only she had made a copy, maybe she could check things out on her own time. She felt certain Gus hadn’t completely fabricated these things; there must be some kernel of truth to the letter. Then, like a thunderclap, a new idea bolted into her mind. What if she went to Joey’s office and, assuming he left it where she could find it, got the pages, made a quick copy, and then put the letter back?
What would be the harm in that?
Chapter 6 Tuesday, 4:48 p.m.
Excuse me, Dr. Graham,” Jenna said. Her voice filled the intercom.
Dr. Graham placed his glass of Scotch on the edge of his marble desk, a giant piece of two-inch-thick, highly polished tan-and-white stone imported from Italy. He checked his Rolex and then massaged his temples.
“Yes, what is it?” he said in the direction of the phone.
“You have a visitor.”
Dr. Graham leaned forward to consult his leather-bound scheduler. He grunted as he scanned the appropriate page. “I’m not expecting anyone, am I?”
“No, sir, you’re not,” Jenna said. Her voice had an inviting air about it, at least in his mind.
“Good. Then let’s keep it that way,” he said, closing his day planner with a snap. “I’m in no mood for—”
“Pardon me, Dr. Graham,” she said. “He claims to be an old friend.”
It was the way she said, “Pardon me,” that always got to him. She spoke the words in such a smooth, silky tone. Dr. Graham pictured her red lips mouthing the words. She wasn’t a real looker, in his opinion. But there was a wholesome yet sexy quality about her that he found downright irresistible.
Jenna was twenty-six, single, and she worked long hours in his office—often ten to twelve hours a day. With a work schedule like that, he didn’t think she’d have time for a love life. She’d been on his staff for almost two years, and he couldn’t remember her ever mentioning anything about a boyfriend.
He had planned to ask her to dinner several times but stopped short, afraid she might turn him down. In an odd sort of way, he preferred to live with the fantasy of getting close to her rather than the reality of being rejected by her. He knew enough about rejection. Just ask ex-wife number one or ex-wife number two.
If only there were a safe way to break the ice. Come to think of it, he could invite her to go sailing with friends. That would surely appear harmless enough. Not a real date. But a good first step.
He was, after all, twice her age.
These things took time.
“Dr. Graham?” Jenna said. “Should I show him in?”
He blew a gust of wind through his teeth. He stared at the intercom and pictur
ed her face. “What’s his name?”
“Sir, he wouldn’t tell me,” she said. “He claims he’s someone from back home who wanted to surprise you.”
Dr. Graham folded his arms. He slumped back in his chair and focused on the ceiling fan as it whirled overhead. He wasn’t big on surprises. In fact, he paid both his lawyer and his accountant handsomely to avoid surprises. He ran a hand through his prematurely whitened hair.
On the other hand, maybe he should just loosen up and see the guy. That way he’d show Jenna he was . . . a f lexible person—no, more than that—he was spontaneous.
“Okay, Jenna,” Dr. Graham said. “Show him in. But leave the door open and buzz me in five minutes if he hasn’t left by then.”
“I understand, sir.”
Dr. Graham stood and then walked to the window. When the guest arrived, his back would be to the door—a power move. It was all part of the intimidation game, and he was among the best. A quiet moment passed before he heard the solid-oak, six-panel door open behind him.
“Hello, Vic.”
Dr. Graham, arms crossed, turned around and examined the man. A bushy eyebrow shot skyward. He brought a hand to his mouth as he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”
“Know?” he said. “It’s not who we know, it’s what we know. Knowledge is good—and dangerous. Am I right, Victor Graham?”
The visitor looked familiar, even sounded familiar, yet he was so badly in need of a shave, a shower, and a new set of clothes, Dr. Graham couldn’t quite recall the face. He strode across the expansive office and was about to extend a hand when the distinct smell of urine and other assorted body odors smacked him in the face.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Graham said, stopping several feet short of the man. “It’s been a long day, and I’m having difficulty placing your face.”
“I’m sorry . . . you’re sorry . . . yes, we’re both sorry,” the man said. “We seem to know a lot about sorrow. Maybe because we . . . we cause so much sorrow. Would you agree?”
Dr. Graham didn’t say a word. For the first time during their brief encounter, he looked—actually looked—into the eyes of his guest. The seconds passed between them. Yes, he was pretty sure he knew this man. But if so, it was a different place, a different time.
Dr. Graham stiffened. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for riddles, um . . . what did you say your name was?”
The visitor scratched at his beard. “I didn’t say, Vic. You haven’t forgotten your old . . . partner?”
Dr. Graham brought his hands together behind his back, primarily to control his urge to strangle Gus Anderson for coming here. It had been seven or eight years since he’d last seen Gus. His chest tightened over this unexpected development. The glass of Scotch on his desk beckoned.
Yes, that was exactly what he needed.
No, make that the whole bottle.
Gus had been his partner in Maryland; that was a fact he couldn’t deny. Hell would have to freeze over before Dr. Graham would dare admit it. If he did, and if Gus made a scene by dredging up the past, then what? Surely a sane person wouldn’t believe the claims from this homeless-looking bum, would they?
“Nice pad, Vic. You’ve done well,” Gus said. His head jerked to the left, then the right, and back to the left. “I bet there’s a boat . . . I bet there’s a red Corvette somewhere with your name on it, too.” The words were spoken without the cryptic cadence.
“I’m afraid there must be some mistake,” Dr. Graham said. No way would he admit that, indeed, he had a boat, a very nice sixty-five foot yacht, not to mention a brand-new Corvette—red. He glanced at the phone on his desk, wishing Jenna’s soft, comforting voice would interrupt this painful encounter.
“Afraid, yes, afraid,” Gus said, repeating the word with a solemn tone. His eyes seemed hollow, distant. “There’s so much to fear, isn’t there, Dr. Victor Graham?”
For a moment, Dr. Graham thought Gus might actually pull a gun. A crazy idea, sure. But not out of the question. In his business, that was a growing problem. Anything was possible with a person like Gus who was so unstable. Dr. Graham controlled his breathing and said, “Is there a reason for this visit?”
For a split second, a troubled look swept over Gus’s face. And then, just as quickly, he morphed into a picture of confidence. He raised and pointed two fingers, dirt caked around the untrimmed nails, at Dr. Graham. “I know about Maryland. I know about Delaware,” Gus said. He lowered his hand, turned to leave, and then stopped. He looked over his shoulder.
“And I know about Pennsylvania.”
The two men locked eyes.
The silence between them crackled with electricity.
Gus spoke first. He spoke with a sudden burst of clarity, as if the clouds of insanity temporarily parted in his troubled mind. “So, Vic, who has the power now? I’d say your world is a house of cards. Care to fold your hand?”
The phone on Dr. Graham’s desk purred. “Your appointment is here, Dr. Graham,” Jenna said.
Gus smiled. “I’ll show myself out, partner.” Gus took two steps and then added, “Like old times. No drink. No. You didn’t even offer me a drink.” That said, Gus disappeared out the door.
Dr. Graham raced to his desk, snatched his Scotch, tossed it back against his throat, and then wiped his lips with the side of his hand. He was pouring another glass when Jenna tapped on the door.
“Sir—”
“What took you so long?” Dr. Graham said, returning the bottle to the credenza. “I thought my instructions were for you to interrupt me in five minutes—not five hours.” As he guzzled another glass, his right hand trembled, shaking as if stuck in a wind tunnel.
Jenna came to the side of his desk. “Pardon me, but that was five minutes, sir.”
The way she said “pardon me” took the edge off his anger. Jenna didn’t know about Gus, so how could he blame her? He felt the effects of the whiskey smoothing out his nervous system. He sat down, pulled his chair forward, and then rested his arms on the desk. “Do me a favor, Jenna,” he said. “Don’t let that man back in our building ever again.”
“Certainly,” she said. “I’ll inform security, too. So, he wasn’t an old friend after all?”
Dr. Graham forced a thin smile. “That quack? He’s a confused man; that’s all there is to it.” He cracked his knuckles. “Now, about—”
Jenna stopped him. “Excuse me, sir.”
“Yes?”
“Then I guess you won’t care about this,” she said. “Your visitor asked me to give it to you after he left.”
She handed him a sealed white envelope. In the upper left-hand corner it read, “Gus Anderson, MD.”
Chapter 7 Tuesday, 4:50 p.m.
Stan stood at the foot of Faith’s bed. As hospitals went, this was a decent-size, semiprivate room. The other bed was unoc-cupied. A heart monitor chirped softly on its stainless steel perch to her right. Her eyes had been closed when Stan stepped into the room and had remained shut since.
Stan swallowed hard. Her dad said she might be sleeping. Even so, she appeared as lifeless as a china doll. Her skin, drained of color, looked as washed-out as the bleached sheets tucked under her arms.
The dim, indirect lighting didn’t help matters. Nor did the television. Although the sound was off, the TV screen, mounted above the foot of her bed, flickered constantly. It cast an eerie bluish light across her features, adding to her anemic appearance. Two IV drips, their thin tubes shuttling unknown liquid from the sacks of fluid to her left arm, were taped in place against her skin with white medical tape.
Every breath Stan took was laced with the distinct smell of hospital disinfectant. He felt weak in the knees. He hated this place.
Complicating his discomfort were the endless thoughts racing through his mind. He was having difficulty sorting them all out. The feelings. The emotions. The guilt.
The guilt was the big one.
He hated himself for what he had done.
True,
he hadn’t been a Christian at the time. He had given his life to Christ just three weeks ago. Still, three months ago he had robbed her of her virginity. The fact that it had been a mutual thing didn’t matter. She, at least, had said she loved him; to Stan, her conquest was just another notch added to his belt.
The shame he felt, even now, caused him to want to run and hide. Just then, something Jodi had said came to mind: “You are a new man in Christ, Stan. When you got saved, God, like, threw your sins into the bottom of the sea.”
And he was different. That’s what prompted him to come and ask for forgiveness. A tear warmed his face. He walked to her side and gently placed his large hand around hers. Her skin felt cold, even ice-like.
His eyes drifted to the hospital-issued bracelet, a thin, plastic band around her wrist. He saw her name and tried to read the date of admittance but couldn’t make out the upside down lettering. He gave her hand a soft squeeze.
Her eyelids opened half-mast. “Stan Taylor, what are you doing here?”
Stan’s throat went dry. “Faith, I—”
Pulling her hand free from his touch, her eyes flared with an unexpected burst of energy. “I can’t believe my dad actually let you in here.”
“Faith, please, give me a chance. I have something I need to say.” When Stan had told her dad in the hallway that Faith asked him to come, he’d stretched the truth. She had called—that much was true. But she had yelled and hung up before he could answer. He thought by coming he’d have a chance to set things right.
Faith rolled her head to one side, looking away.
“Um, look, I want to ask for your forgiveness, Faith.” Stan put his hands in his pockets. “What I did was wrong—”
Tears trickled down Faith’s cheeks. “I wish you’d just go away and let me sleep.”
Stan looked down at his sneakers. He was a big guy, but he’d never felt so small. “I’m sorry you decided to get an—”