by Camryn King
“No, Kennedy! It actually blew up? You mean to tell me that if you hadn’t escaped through the attic you would have been killed? Lord, no, I almost lost my baby. Don’t tell me the rest, Ken. I can’t take it. I swear my heart can’t take anymore.”
Kennedy heard Karolyn crying and second-guessed her decision to tell all. Any part of her two-month ordeal was a lot to digest. Getting it all in one hearty, fact-filled meal had probably given her mother heartburn of both the literal and figurative kind.
“The bottom line is that I got out, I got away from him and I’m safe now. But there is one last thing I feel I have to share with you, it’s probably the most important detail of all, and the reason for everything that happened that I just shared with you. Did you see the news over the weekend, the picture of the owner of TBC Network?”
“Who didn’t see that scandalous mess? It’s all over the news, the internet the paper. People at work were shocked, thinking there’s no way he could ever do something like that.”
“What do you think?”
“I believe the pictures. With everything that man has done all these years, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
“Mom, I can understand you sharing what I’ve told you with Ray, but please let me tell Karl when I’m ready, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And what I’m about to say next, please keep this between the two of us for now.”
“Okay.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes, Kennedy. What is it? I won’t tell a soul.”
“I’m the one who took those pictures of TBC’s president and his boyfriend. That’s why you got a visit from the Blues Brothers and why I’ve been running for my life.”
33
After selecting three guys to join him in Springfield when the time came, Zeke rented a small home in the country near the Kyvas’ land and tried to put what happened behind him. Easier said than done, when the media feeding frenzy continued, as did the war between the conservatives and the liberals, the alt-right and the far left, with no end in sight. Early in his military career, Zeke had tucked his opinions behind the oath, determined to suck it up and be a good soldier. But in the last couple weeks, for the first time in life, he’d straddled the political fence, a position brought on by seeing breaking news in a redneck bar that led to ignoring a direct command. Nagging questions had plagued his ride back to rescue Wade. Was his commander-in-chief fucking gay? Or was what they’d shown on television something that happened after too much vodka? Either way, did the depth of their “close” dealings spill over into business, trade and other areas as his detractors suggested? How did America’s interest and the common good of her citizens factor into that? Had Van Dijk lied to him, knowing exactly what the photos showed but giving him the line about national security to stir up his patriotism? Finally, what would happen to Wade? He knew the type of people she was going up against. They were the same ones who’d ordered him to kill her, the same ones who’d then shipped him to Middle America to babysit billionaires. These men were ruthless, cutthroat. As calmly as they’d ordered a hit on Wade, they could be planning one for him.
That thought was enough to bring on an attack but there was also the difficult task of keeping his truthful opinions, real feelings, and love/hate relationship in check—loving the values that TBC stood for while hating its owner. Just thinking of that asshole made his blood boil to the point he could kill somebody. He didn’t give a fuck that his opinion wasn’t politically correct. Van Dijk was a faggot, a sissy, a got damn homosexual. There were troops he knew would serve him up a dose of friendly fire. Back home real men would string him up and show him exactly what they thought about guys like him, would serve him up the dose they administered to back door bandits.
It wasn’t how he felt two weeks ago after leaving Wade in the car on a street in Chicago, hauling ass to his Jeep and getting out of town. That day he felt conflicted, as though he may have let down his boss. On that trip, he’d thought a lot about the military men in his family, wondered how they would have handled the assignment, what kind of journey they would have made if they were wearing his shoes. Would they understand, he wondered, or would they call him a traitor? For pissing on the vow he’d made to support and defend the United States constitution, and the men who upheld its laws? Or would they remember other lessons, like those the women in the family taught, especially his mother—that a real man would stand up for justice, even if he stood alone.
He’d felt justified leaving Kennedy alive that Saturday morning. But the longer he’d driven, his car radio tuned to AM radio and conservative pundits defending their man, he’d second-guessed his decision, more than once had almost turned the Jeep around to go kill that bitch. Then Bullet texted him out of the blue. It was the perfect opportunity to get answers, find out if this was why Bullet had responded so strangely the first time around.
WTF with Van Dijk? Bullet texted.
Is that what you saw? Zeke asked.
When?
The pics I sent you.
Hell, no!
Zeke didn’t know whether to believe him. But whether he had seen them or not wasn’t the most important thing to know.
Zeke texted quickly. Do me a favor.
Shoot.
Take another look. See if they’re real.
Don’t have ’em.
Will send again.
K.
Zeke had to return home to send them since the pictures were on his computer, not on his phone. He walked straight over to the laptop, fired it up, transferred the pictures to his phone and texted them to Bullet.
An hour later, Zeke received back an answer.
Those look real as fuck man, damn!
Are you sure it wasn’t photoshopped?
If so, the best I’ve seen. I’m deleting this shit off my phone.
Zeke’s jaw clinched. Gotta go. But Mr. TBC? Playing in the backyard? Motherfucking faggot.
* * *
Zeke checked his watch. He was scheduled to report to base at seven a.m. He needed to get himself together. Remembering what he wanted to forget had stressed him all the way out. He had to take something just to calm down, keep from giving in to instinct, and training. He’d been trained to kill, and he’d learned well. There were a few people he’d like to take down, namely Van Dijk, who’d deceived him at every turn with this assignment. He was sure assaulting one’s boss would not be a good look. Zeke had given his years of service and sacrifice to this country, more than half of his life, and had the utmost respect and loyalty for the flag. Van Dijk was highly respected, almost a father figure, which made betrayal cut all the way to the bone.
Zeke walked into the kitchen, grabbed a beer and tried to calm down. He picked up his phone, scrolled to his father’s number. Since on the assignment tracking Wade, he’d been distant. That wasn’t unusual. His family was used to long spurts without hearing from him and vice versa. Right now, Zeke could use a talk with his dad. Or grandpa Buck. But he wasn’t ready for words with them yet. Mainly because he was considering something for the first time since he was seventeen years old—getting out of the military and protecting others—of giving up the professional gun.
He knocked back the beer and headed to the Jeep. He switched from AM news to FM rock. Just as he pulled through the gates at the base, his phone rang.
“Foster.”
“Good morning, Foster, it’s Braum.”
Zeke gripped the wheel. “Good morning, Mr. Van Dijk.”
“I’ve been meaning to call you. It’s been a hell of a circus over here, as you can imagine.”
Zeke didn’t have to imagine the circus. He’d been in the tent.
“Didn’t feel a particular urgency, though. I read a newspaper article concerning an explosion that happened somewhere in Illinois. Gas leak, the paper said, blew the house to bits along with everything in it.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Given your track record when it comes to carrying out
assignments, I had faith that orders would be followed to the letter.”
It felt as though a thousand thoughts flooded Zeke’s mind all at once. Was this a test? Had they found Wade? He decided to take a page out of Van Dijk’s book—not for national security, but his own.
“Absolutely, sir.”
“We want you to know how much we appreciate you and your service to the country. I will pass on your achievement to the president and I wouldn’t be surprised if he called to thank you personally. We’ll get through this round of lies. Pictures sent anonymously,” he spat out the word. “Of course they were. Because they were never taken. No one will ever come forward and say they were the person behind those disgusting, fake, manipulated shots.”
Zeke hoped those words were true. If Wade had any sense at all she’d find a low, or even better, a no profile job and quietly fade to black.
“Don’t get too comfortable in Springfield,” Van Dijk was saying when Zeke began listening again. “You’ll only be there for six months or so, just until you train the security team. After that I’ll need you back here, in New York, the center of the world.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Cassie is coordinating travel arrangements with the Kyvas. She’ll let you know when they’re set to travel. Should be in the next week or so.”
“I appreciate it, sir.”
The call ended. Zeke went to work and the world kept on spinning. As the days passed, an interesting thought took hold. Now that it seemed likely he’d move back to New York, he wasn’t sure that’s where he wanted to be.
34
Just two weeks after escaping death, Kennedy was on the road to truly reclaiming her life. The conversation with her mom was the clue that she hadn’t done it yet. Yes, she’d released the photo. Yes, for the moment, she’d escaped Sutton’s grasp. Yes, she had money and could pretty much do what she wanted. But the TBC Network seemed to be more popular than ever, a fact that bothered her to no end. So far, the enormous, relentless pro-Van Dijk propaganda machine had successfully refuted the picture’s authenticity and drowned out the experts who said the picture was real. She’d moaned to Tamara and Dodie about it and received conflicting opinions.
“You did the right thing in exposing that asshole,” Tamara told her that first week in Grand Cayman. “I’m glad the picture paid dividends but is that all you wanted?”
Dodie’s advice was simpler, more direct. “Take the money and run, honey.”
Along with the TBC president’s seeming Teflon image, strange men still hounded the family. The two men who showed up at the mental hospital, most likely the Feds, had made her mom the center of small-town gossip. Karolyn did not like the spotlight. And for all her good fortune, Tamara was right. Kennedy had still been living on the outskirts of her life. Not living, existing, when she viewed herself honestly, still bearing the residue of KW and Kim. The night after talking with Karolyn, and hours after meeting the therapist Dr. Jennings had recommended, Kennedy had sat in the middle of the guestroom’s king-sized bed with a journal that the therapist Dr. Bobbi had given her, and following the therapist’s instructions had made three lists regarding her life—what she was grateful for, what was working the way she wanted, and what she wanted to change. The third list was the longest by far and the one she’d begun tackling immediately.
In the past two weeks, she’d hired a “green team,” an attorney, accountant, and financial planner to assist in managing her wealth. With their advice, she’d set up a trust so that transactions made through it would be done anonymously, in a way that it would be almost impossible to trace back to her. Through their consultation, Kennedy had discovered that Grand Cayman was one of the world’s largest offshore banking centers. There were almost six hundred banks within the tiny island’s twenty-two miles, including forty-three of the top fifty world banks. One of the first accounts made after the trust was established was one to transfer monies so her mom could buy a new home. Being able to do this added years to Kennedy’s life. It had taken some persuading, but her mom had agreed to put their Peyton residence up for sale and for the first time in her life, consider living someplace other than where she’d grown up. Ray had family in Las Vegas and Karolyn liked slot machines. Plus, by moving there she wouldn’t have to spend another winter “scraping ice off windows or shoveling snow.” She’d agreed to make the payments on her brother’s condo and bought him a shiny new truck, but because he was running for office and his finances would be scrutinized, he turned down her offer of more financial help.
“Let me take a rain check,” he’d jokingly told her.
That she would share some of her windfall with her brother was a given, but her first conversation after arriving in Grand Cayman had put the presumption into doubt. She’d decided to share with him what had happened to her, what had accidentally happened in the Bahamas, and why she was on the run. He’d listened, then put a knife in her chest with four curtly delivered words.
“I don’t believe you.”
He felt badly about her being robbed, but couldn’t imagine that Van Dijk was behind it. “Being in another country made you a target,” he’d reasoned. “Americans get robbed all the time.”
He felt her being followed, hunted, spied on was a product of paranoia and an over-active imagination. Already shaking by this point with his summary dismissal, Kennedy left out the explosive ending to her two-month nightmare. An argument ensued, turned into a scream fest and ended with her abruptly ending the call. Their mother had intervened. Karl called back and apologized. He still doubted the picture’s authenticity or his hero’s involvement, but he congratulated his sister on “getting paid” for “whatever,” and was sorry for the anguish it had obviously cost her. Half-heartedly, Kennedy realized, but the best her brainwashed brother could do.
Kennedy sold her condo and resigned from Chicago Sightings. Scott refused to speak with her. Monica was disappointed, but more understanding. Kennedy made a few phone calls and made the exit a little less painful by referring several lucrative advertising contracts their way—one a full-page ad that would run in their December issue. It was a close-up of the rainbow shot in the Bahamas, with the colors manipulated to bring out the reds and greens. She’d photoshopped out the island and replaced it with a blue-green ocean. Over the water was the simple caption: Photographer Kennedy Wade. Her website was listed at the bottom. One step closer to her life.
Both she and Karolyn became debt-free. At her financial planner’s suggestion, a “fun money” account was established and a budget to handle major purchases and ongoing expenses. Eventually, she’d purchase a house. She had no idea where “home” would be, but just days ago she’d set up a temporary residence in a two-bed, two-bath condominium right on the beach. Just in time, since two weeks from now Gwen was coming to visit. Kennedy couldn’t wait. Their friendship had suffered. She missed her friend. Part of rebuilding her life was restoring relationships. There was so much of what had happened that she hadn’t shared with Gwen. That would change with her visit, and hopefully so would Gwen’s cool demeanor. Once told of her life the past two months, Kennedy was sure Gwen would understand and forgive all. She’d bought a cute used Kia, a warm weather wardrobe, and top of the line electronic and photography equipment that she put to use on the beautiful island every single day. She’d returned to scouring websites for possible sales. Another step closer . . .
One of the best decisions she’d made in the past two weeks was making the appointment with Bobbi, the therapist Dr. Jennings had recommended. Her outer scars continued to heal, some had already faded. But there were emotional wounds still gaping, oozing anger, and stinging with pain.
Kennedy was on her way to see Bobbi now. It would be her second visit to the office. The first time, she’d been skeptical. Naturally pretty, with kind eyes and a ready smile, Kennedy had thought them around the same age. She’d imagined someone older, maternal, and didn’t know how she felt telling her business to someone so young. When she found
out Bobbi was closer to fifty than forty, she was shocked. Ten minutes into their first meeting, she was converted. Bobbi was an excellent listener. Her office was more that of a living room setting. That, combined with her relaxed, casual demeanor dispelled assumptions of getting counseling and made you feel like you were sharing confidential secrets with a good and trusted friend.
Bobbi’s office was in fact in a condominium complex, where several other businesses were housed. She pulled into a parking space and took the stairs to the second floor, noting the beautiful surroundings and the clean, fresh air. Is this my life? Not long ago she’d asked that question and prayed the answer was a resounding no. Today it had a totally different meaning. She opened the door. A melodic series of sounding bells announced her presence. The condo opened into an outer office where last week a receptionist had handed her a series of forms to fill out before meeting Bobbi. She wasn’t there now but Kennedy assumed someone had heard her enter and would be out soon. Meanwhile, she took in the tranquil blue walls, the beachy furniture surrounding the glass-top desk, and the big, leafy plants that brought the outdoors inside.
The inner door opened. “Hello, Ken.”
“Hi, Bobbi.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I was on the phone. Come right in.”
Kennedy followed Bobbi inside to the main office where Bobbi counseled her clients. It was cozy yet inviting, its walls a warm yellow that contrasted with coral-colored floor tiles. Floral seating consisted of a couch on one side of the room and two matching chairs with a small table between them facing a view of the ocean on the other. Bobbi directed her to that area. The flow of water from an angel fountain on the patio provided a soothing, almost imperceptible energy. Himalayan salt lamps and the subtle smell of lavender completed an atmosphere that had obviously been designed to soothe the soul.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”