She finally lashed back at him, furiously spitting out the words. “You son of a bitch.You have no right. You weren’tthere. You don’t know what happened.”
“Tell me.”
“Go to hell.”
Simon didn’t respond to her rage; there wasn’t any need. He given her two options, both bad. Now she had to decide whether to resist or—
“Oh, Christ—” Churchfield turned away. Her lip was quivering uncontrollably. She bit at it.
Simon slid into his seat. He repeated softly, “Tell me.”
She was silent, fixated on the wall. I thought she wasn’t going to answer him. Finally, in a strained whisper: “He was drunk. He attacked me.”
“So it was self-defense?”
She turned to him. Her eyes were dark with anger. She said, “He was furious over Tina. Because I hadn’t told him. We argued…said some things. I slapped him. He…he went wild. Attacked me.”
“Did he try and rape you?”
“He…he had that look. He said he was going to teach me a lesson. Like before. He mentioned the beach. I tried to fight him, but he was too strong. I don’t remember grabbing the bottle. I…I only remember that it was in my hand. And I swung and hit him.”
“Was anyone there? Were there any witnesses, or—”
“No. No one else was present.”
“Where were your security men?”
“Outside. In the car. I made them wait in the car. I didn’t want them there.”
“And Colonel Weller?”
“I said no one was—”
She stopped, looking around the table with a puzzled expression. She settled on me, her eyes widening in disbelief. I gave her an apologetic smile and removed the cell phone from my shirt pocket. In the quiet of the room, we could hear the woman’s tinny voice clearly. She was shouting the same thing, over and over.
“It wasn’t her, I killed him. It wasn’t her, I killed him…”
Churchfield gave a strangled cry and lunged toward me.
• • •
Her move took me by surprise. I yanked away the phone before she could grab it from my hand. Churchfield kept swinging an arm at me, tears of frustration in her eyes. Simon was instantly on his feet and by her side. As he pulled her back into her chair, she looked up at him pleadingly. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She wasn’t there. She’s only doing this because—”
“It’s the truth,” Simon said.
“But it isn’t. I’d sent her away. I wanted to talk to Mike in private.”
“Ithas to be the truth,” Simon said again. “Because it’s the only way to end this.”
Churchfield stared at him in confusion. She started to say something, then noticed he was smiling. He said softly, “Your daughter knew this was the only solution. That’s why she incriminated herself.”
She stared at him. “My God. Are you saying you’re willing to—”
“Yes.” He was still smiling.
“But what you said earlier. About accusing me publicly. All the rest of it.”
“It was harsh, but necessary. I needed a confession. Something I could use.”
“Use? For the senator?”
“Yes.”
Her voice tentative now: “Are you sure he will…agree?”
He nodded, looking to me. My cue.
I said, “There is a condition for our help, Madam Secretary. I’d need a favor.”
She turned to me, her tone wary. “What kind of favor?”
“It’s a message for General Markel. Tell him he has a week.”
She frowned. “A week for what?”
“The general will know.” I slid a card across the table toward her. “Tell him to contact me when it’s finished.”
She glanced at the card, then looked at me. “I’m afraid I’ll need to know what this is all about.”
“Agent Hobbs was my friend…” I left the statement hanging.
I saw it then, a flicker of comprehension in her eyes. She said quietly, “We never had this conversation, Collins.”
“What conversation, ma’am?”
She picked up the card.
Simon spent the next five minutes talking to Colonel Weller on my cell phone, getting her account of what happened the night General Garber was killed. Once that conversation ended, he immediately called Senator Garber. In a regretful tone, Simon detailed the events of his son’s death to the senator. Much of Simon’s version mirrored what Churchfield had described. The only difference was that when General Garber had tried to rape Churchfield, it was Weller who came to her rescue, picked up the bottle, and struck Barlow with the fatal blow.
Simon said, “Yes, Colonel Weller is quite traumatized, Senator. No, I don’t think medical care is necessary. I’ll tell them. I’m truly sorry it turned out like this. No, don’t blame yourself. Good night, sir.”
As he passed me the phone, he looked at Churchfield. “He would like to meet Colonel Weller someday. Apologize to her.”
Churchfield nodded.
“The senator would also like to apologize to you.”
She swallowed hard. “This is very difficult for me to accept. Maybe it’s better to go with the truth. Perhaps the senator will understand it was self-defense.”
“It’s a risk,” Simon. “He might think you were lying.”
“I’m aware of that. But I don’t want him to spend the rest of his life believing that his granddaughter killed her own—”
“It’s over, Madam Secretary,” Simon said.
50
It was almost eleven by the time we made the return trek to the limo and drove from the Pentagon. Simon and I sat in the back, sitting in the dark and nursing drinks. He had a glass of wine, and I had a designer beer.
At the moment, Simon was relating the details of the case to Enrique. He enjoyed discussing investigations once they were finished; it was how he wound down, decompressed. When Nicole was alive, I used to engage in a similar routine. Anytime I’d make a big arrest or bust, we’d sit out on the porch with a couple of drinks, and I’d tell her what a big hero I was. I knew my stories probably bored her to tears, but she always acted completely fascinated by what I was saying. That was Nicole. During our entire marriage, she always made me feel like I was the most important thing in her life. Since she passed away, I still went out on the porch to unwind. Sometimes I’d even close my eyes and talk through a case, pretending she was still there sitting beside me.
But when I opened my eyes, I saw only an empty chair.
I waited for the familiar ache in my chest to appear. The one I’d lived with every day for the last three years. When it came, I took a deep breath and stared at the flickering streetlights until it went away.
We turned north on the GW Parkway. Simon was still talking. As I listened, I found it hard to believe that we’d started the investigation only this morning. It seemed such a long time ago. It was even more difficult to accept that we’d actually succeeded.
I sipped my beer.
Of course, the truth was that wehadn’t succeeded. Not if our purpose had been to identify the killer of General Garber to his father.
Walking from the Pentagon, I’d asked Simon if this bothered him. Not only hadn’t he fulfilled his promise to Senator Garber, but he’d also lied to him.
“I didn’t lie, Martin.”
“C’mon. We both know Colonel Weller didn’t kill General Garber.”
He shrugged. “She confessed.”
“Because you manipulated her.”
“Not at all. She provided her account freely. I didn’t advise her on what to say.” He gave me a smile.
I let it go. The bottom line was, he’d made the only decision he could. Still, I found it amusing the way Simon modified his ethics to fit the situation. As long as he hadn’t personally coerced Weller’s confession, he felt justified in citing it to Senator Garber as fact.
I said, “There’s one other aspect about the killing you haven’t mentioned.”
; We walked along. He gave me a sideways glance. “Andy?”
I nodded.
He shrugged. “We could never prove his role.”
“No.”
But we both realized that Churchfield could never have immobilized General Garber for the time it took him to die. That meant someone—a male—had helped her. Since the generals and Churchfield’s security team weren’t present, that left only Andy. Now I had to ask myself, would Andy have willingly helped murder General Garber?
He wouldn’t have been able to resist. After thirty long years, Andy had an opportunity to avenge the deaths of his friend Jerry and the rest of the men Garber had maimed and killed. In Andy’s mind, he probably saw it as a noble, almost heroic act.
Simon began telling Enrique how he believed General Garber’s killing occurred. I got comfortable and closed my eyes, visualizing his words. One by one, the images shuttered across my tired mind like snapshots on a conveyor belt. I saw Garber’s crazed and drunken face as he lunged at Churchfield, tore at her clothes. I saw her fighting him off as she cried out for help. I saw her flailing hand grab the bottle from the coffee table and swing a vicious blow. I saw Garber clutch his throat and crumple in agony to the floor. I saw Andy rush into the room, responding to Churchfield’s cries. I saw Churchfield turn to him, trying to explain what has just happened.
At that point, the image freezes.
Andy is standing over General Garber, watching him as he gasps, frantically trying to breathe. Churchfield tells Andy to do something, get help. Andy makes no move to go. Instead, he leans close to Churchfield and makes a suggestion. Her eyes widen in shock. She shakes her head, no. Andy points to the bottle she is still holding and tells her what a scandal would mean. That perhaps it was better this way. This time Churchfield hesitates. For a moment, she is torn; she knows what he’s telling her is true.
She again shakes her head, no. She can’t bring herself to do it.
Get help, Agent Hobbs.
But Andy has seen her uncertainty and bends over Garber. He grips the general’s hands and lies on top of him, using his weight to pin him down. Garber thrashes wildly, trying to throw Andy off. But the general’s reflexes are slowed by the alcohol, and Andy is too heavy.
Garber soon weakens, his screaming lungs starved for air.
His struggles fade into stillness. Churchfield watches in horror, but does nothing.
The image fades to black; Simon has stopped talking.
Maybe his assumptions were off, and this wasn’t the way everything played out. Maybe it was Andy rather than Churchfield who actually struck Garber with the bottle. In my mind, who actually administered the blow wasn’t as critical as understanding Churchfield’s response afterward. Why hadn’t she tried to prevent Andy from killing Garber? Did she let him die because she was afraid of what a scandal would mean to her reputation and career, or was she simply paralyzed with fear?
Or was there a deeper, more calculated reason?
While we could never know the answer, I believed it was the latter. Specifically, the fine line between love and hate. Even though she’d once been in love with General Garber, she’d also grown to hate him for what he’d done to her. In the end, when it counted, the hate won out.
The limo slowed, and I heard the soft click of a blinker. Then Enrique’s voice: “We’re almost there.”
I opened my eyes.
• • •
We were cruising through downtown Rosslyn, not far from the Key Bridge. Here the mist had thickened, turning into a fog. Enrique made a left and pulled in front of gray office building. Ahead, we could see a single car parked along the curb. It was a shiny red BMW, the same car Amanda and I had driven earlier.
I said to Simon, “Why did you ask Amanda to meet us here, anyway? I could have waited for her at the Pentagon.”
He shrugged. “We didn’t know how long we would be. I thought she’d be more comfortable in Crysto’s.”
Crysto’s was the ritzy penthouse restaurant that Simon owned. As we got out of the car, I told Simon he didn’t have to hang around; Amanda and I were going to drive right home.
“I want to tell her she did a good job, Martin.”
We took the elevator to the twelfth floor. The restaurant had a Closed sign on the door. Within seconds of Simon’s knock, a maître d’ with slicked-back silver hair appeared and peeked at us through the frosted glass. Seeing Simon, his face lit up, and he unlocked the door with a flourish.
We entered a grottolike foyer, complete with ivycovered stone walls and a bubbling fishpond. Simon said, “Wait here, Martin.”
So I stayed by the pond while he took the maître d’ by the arm and led him to the reservation desk. Simon said something, and the maître d’ made a quick phone call. Afterward, they conversed in hushed tones for several minutes. The maître d’ kept looking my way, grinning broadly. After the third time, I checked my zipper. That wasn’t the problem.
A second man in a tuxedo appeared from a door at the back. He was carrying a bottle of wine, which he immediately took over to Simon. Simon inspected the label, gave a nod of satisfaction, then handed the guy a wad of bills. The man smiled appreciatively and continued down the short hallway toward the dining room. Moments later, the maître d’ winked at Simon, flashed me another grin, then also departed for the dining room.
I strolled over to Simon, my curiosity meter pegged. I asked him what the hell was going on.
He smiled, reaching into his jacket. “I’m fulfilling my obligation to your daughter.”
“Emily? What does she have—”
Then I saw the manila folder he was holding out to me. Across the front were written the words “Hold for Lt. Santos.” It was the same one that Enrique had picked up for him earlier. I shook my head when the realization sank in. “Jesus. Emily was the woman?”
“Yes. Take it, Martin.”
As I did, I knew what it would contain. I slowly peeled back the flap. Inside was a white envelope addressed to Emily, the one I’d found on her dresser this morning.
Simon said, “Emily was quite confused. You’re her father. She didn’t feel comfortable broaching this subject with you. She said whatever you decide is fine with her. Her only concern is your happiness. She also wanted me to tell you that she cares for Amanda very much.”
I blinked. “Amanda?”
Simon smiled again. “We’ll talk at Emily’s party. You can tell me how the evening turns out.”
“‘The evening turns out’? What are you talking about?”
But he was already striding out the door.
I stared down at the envelope, my heart pounding.
I removed the letter inside.
My dearest daughter,
You’re thirteen now. You must be so beautiful. I wish I could be with you on this day, share your joy, and tell you how much I love you. I’m so proud of the woman you’re becoming. You may not realize it, but I am always there with you, watching you from afar. I know when you are happy and when you are sad. I know when you’re thinking of me, and I hope you can tell when I’m thinking of you. If you have any doubts, feel your heart. Whenever you feel the beat, that’s me, telling you that I love you.
My eyes began to mist. I could barely read. I looked around. I was alone in the entryway. I swallowed hard and kept going.
The next few paragraphs were easier. Nicole wrote about things like maturity and responsibility and temptation, often citing examples from her own teenage years to highlight what she meant. My name finally appeared at the top of the third page.
Emily, this is hard for me to say, so I’m just going to say it. I loved your father with all my heart. But by the time you read this, I’ll have been gone three years. My absence isn’t fair to you and it isn’t fair to your father. You need a mother, and he needs a companion. God didn’t make us to live our lives alone. If he hasn’t found someone by now—and knowing your father, he hasn’t—I want you to tell him it’s okay. We had twenty glorious years. Nothing will eve
r change that. But the reality is, life is for the living.
Will you do that for me, Emily? Will you tell him it’s okay to find someone?
Please.
Lord—
I lowered the pages, wiping at my eyes with my jacket sleeve. The maître d’ appeared from behind me, his face soft and sympathetic. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“Is…is there a rest room?”
He pointed down a corridor by the coat closet.
It took me a few minutes to clean up and rein in my emotions. The maître d’ was waiting where I’d left him. I said, “I’m ready.”
He smiled and led me toward the dining room. It was empty except for a woman sitting at a table by the fireplace. Her back was to me, and she was sipping wine.
As I walked toward Amanda, I still had no idea what I was going to say.
Epilogue
Ireceived the package five days later.
It was early Wednesday morning, and I was just leaving the house for work when I saw it sitting on the welcome mat by the front door. It was a small package, not more than three inches square, wrapped in butcher paper and heavily taped. I knelt down and studied it. No postage markings that I could see. When I picked it up, it was curiously light, only a few ounces. I slowly turned it over and saw a single word, written in block letters.
HONOR.
I now realized who had sent it, but I’d been expecting a phone call or an anonymous letter, not a package.
Returning to the house, I continued downstairs to my basement office. Using my pocket knife, I cut the tape and removed the butcher paper, revealing a small white cardboard box. I lifted the lid.
Lord—
I stared, overcome with revulsion.
Ears. Two of them. Sitting on a bed of cotton.
I placed the box on the desk and sagged into a chair. It took almost a minute before I could get up the nerve to look in the box again. My impulse was to throw it in the trash, but I had to be sure.
A Long Day for Dying Page 34