Bullet in the Night (25 page)

“No one deserves to suffer. Jesus died to set each person free from guilt and shame.” It would take more than my words to change these powerful beliefs.
Holy Spirit, this is your territory.

Sandy spoke barely above a whisper. “Angela, when we get our secrets out, they can’t control us anymore.”

Angela lowered her head.

Sandy continued. “People think hiding pain is a solution, but I found it’s not.”

Carrie chimed in. “It kills self-esteem and rots our bones. Lenora said that.”

I remained silent, knowing the value of group members counseling one another could be huge.

Angela waved their words away with a sideways motion of her hand. Despite the scars, her arms moved gracefully like a ballet dancer in unhurried, mesmerizing movements. The control she exerted over her body was extraordinary. She looked my way. “I’m sorry. I took up too much time. I’m done now.”

“No, go on,” I urged.

Carrie and Sandy agreed and leaned in closer.

“Last night I woke up sweating. I had the bad dream again.” Angela started to shake. Specters of fear marched across her wide eyes.

“Can you tell us about it,” I encouraged gently.

She rubbed her arms.

“Honey, you can trust us,” Sandy said with more compassion than I’d ever heard from her.

“Please go on,” Carrie urged, her chin lifted.

“When I dream, it always becomes the same nightmare. I’m falling off a cliff and my husband watches but can’t catch me.” Angela dragged the words as if they came from the depths of her soul, slowly, shyly. “I dread falling asleep.”

“It’s good to get this out.” Hope for her washed through me.

“Have you ever told your dream to anyone else?” Carrie’s eyes widened.

“One person, then she got hurt.”

“Lenora?” I asked quietly.

Angela nodded. Tears formed in her eyes. “Chuck says counseling with her made me worse. He said to stay away.”

My blood boiled. “That’s not true. Counseling can help.”

Sandy interrupted. “You’re cutting your body, and your man doesn’t want you getting treatment. What’s with him?”

Angela started to cry softly. “He’ll be wondering where I am.” Tears dripped across the bridge of her nose.

I checked my watch. “Our time has flown by. We’ll continue Tuesday.” I rose. “Angela, can you stay behind? Please. Just for a few minutes.”

I sensed her hesitation.

Her face reddened. “Only a minute. I need to get back.” Carrie and Sandy left without another word.

My heart ached for Angela. I longed to teach her to value herself as God did and stop desecrating herself.

Her eyes begged me not to press.

“Promise, if you feel the urge to inflict any cuts or other hurt on yourself, you’ll contact me first?”

She ran the edge of her thumb along the zipper on her jacket. I waited, acid in my throat. Would fear close her up again?

Finally, she nodded yes, and I released my breath.

“Now I must go.”

A nagging fluttered in my belly. I hated her leaving in this condition. She might regret that she got involved in the group experience and shared her feelings.

The three women walked out together.

I wrote up my notes, capturing Angela’s words in ink. My fear relaxed a bit. I believed that her feelings for her daughter would be a deterrent to suicide.

Angela had begun to open herself. My fingers whitened around my pen. How would her husband respond if he knew she came today?

Did Chuck know about Angela’s counseling and harm Lenora?

If so, would I be the next victim on his list?

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Nick, the children, and I ate dinner quickly that evening. He took the kids to my sister’s, following a tearful farewell on Jenny’s part, not our teens.

I began packing for his two-day conference and my meeting with Thomas Hartford. I laid outfits on the bed, choosing black and white garments, simple and interchangeable.

We drove to Mitchell Airport and self-parked in an outlying lot. The driver of our shuttle whisked us to the departure terminal along with eight other travelers of mixed ages.

At security I whipped out my plastic bag of cosmetics and slipped out of my shoes, a reminder our country changed in inconvenient and ugly ways forever on 9/11. We boarded ten minutes ahead of schedule. A minor miracle for air travel these days.

Nick and I sat side by side. Our comical crew was talented enough for Saturday Night Live. The flight attendant demonstrating the oxygen masks suggested picking the child you liked best to put the mask on first.

I stiffened at the increasingly loud hum of the engines, then grinned when the pilot’s voice came across the sound system saying, “Whoa Nellie.” Nick sensed my tension and reached for my hand. Takeoff and landing were the most dangerous parts of flying. I researched it. How comforting to hold the hand of the man I love and toss up a silent Our Father in case I was en route to eternity.

When the seat belt sign went off, Nick unsnapped his and opened his book. I put a pillow behind my head, IPOD buds into my ears, playing Chuck Girard’s “Voice of the Wind,” and I slept most of the way to Virginia.

The landing was uneventful, my favorite kind.

At Norfolk Airport we picked up the white Lincoln Town car the school had arranged for us to rent.

“I could get used to this, Nick. Compared to the mini-van I drive strewn with school papers and an occasional tennis ball rolling on the floor mats, it’s like I’m in a princess’s carriage.”

Nick grinned. “You are. So what does that make me, a mouse-turned-driver for Cinderella?”

I slapped his shoulder. “Time to listen.” I dictated Mapquest directions to the Conference Center at Virginia Beach.

In no time, we pulled up to the Boston style, red brick Founder’s Inn at Salem University. While waiting for the reception clerk to help the middle-aged couple ahead of us, I gestured toward the deceased gentlemen portraits on the wall. John Adams and Ben Franklin looked out with steely eyes and a stiff demeanor. “Intimidating poses.”

“Right,” Nick whispered. “Each guy looks like he’s got a toothache.”

“Remember, photographers didn’t want people to smile back then.”

“What a shame. I love your smile. Have I mentioned that lately?”

I hooked my arm through Nick’s. “That does it. I’m spending the night with you.”

A bellboy escorted us to our room. Nick tipped him generously, drawing an enthusiastic “Thank you.”

I walked into our suite and clapped my hands together. “It’s perfect. Refined, historic, and comfortable.” I pulled a Sprite from the mini-refrigerator stocked with soft drinks and snacks, then examined the bathroom. “Nick, look at this. A flat screen TV next to the bathtub.”

Nick wrapped his arms around me. “How luxurious. I want this to be a respite for you. I wish I could burrow you somewhere absolutely safe. I hate having you leave to see Hartford without me.”

“Purely a timing issue. Now this may sound corny, but you know I mean it—God’s with me. I’m never alone.”

“Still, be careful.” Nick put his face against my hair and brushed his lips across my neck.

I pushed him back lightly. “Don’t you tease. You have to review your speech, and only have an hour, right?”

“Two. Time enough...” Nick pulled me down on the bed.

Much later my sweet husband held me close and murmured, “Let’s extend our visit by a day. When the conference is over, I’ll go with you then to see Thomas Hartford.”

“Sweetheart, you know I can’t take another day off, and changing our plane reservations could be a nightmare. Stop worrying. Hartford is an electronics executive with a reputation to protect. That’s why he agreed for me to come by his home rather than meet in public at his business. He has way too much to lose to jeopardize himself. I won’t be alone anyway. Remember, he has a huge house party going on.”

“So he says.”

“I’ve no reason to doubt him.”

Half an hour later, I sat in the audience and proudly listened to my husband project his voice with authority based on his education and experience. His sincerity and solid arguments about Christianity and the moral law as a basis for American government were convincing.

After his speech, a swarm of law students surrounded him. Sidling up as close as I could get, I gave him a thumbs up and a little wave. He signaled back, and by arrangement, I left Nick to give his private presentation to the faculty and attend his reception while I drove to my meeting with Hartford.

Thanks to Mapquest, my reliable travel companion, I had no trouble locating Hartford’s estate, although I suspected it took me by the longest route possible.

A gray cedar sign, Hartford Woods, etched in six-inch letters, hung from a black iron double gate.

I stopped my car, buzzed down the window, and spoke into a microphone cradled in a metal cubbyhole on the brick gate pillar on the left. The instant I spoke, a formal, male voice asked my business. I glanced around. Was there also an observation camera somewhere?

“Dr. Jennifer Trevor. I have an appointment with Mr. Hartford.”

“Come in.”

The heavy gate swung open as if by magic.

Why the tight, protective cocoon, Mr. Hartford? I’d dislike the self-imposed isolation some ultra-rich people created around themselves.

I parked in the circle drive area marked GUESTS. Three lannon stone buildings differed only in width and height and sprang from the earth like giant towers. Residence, guesthouse, and office?

I gravitated toward the stone and cedar porch extending from the largest building, judging it to be the residence, and pushed the doorbell.

Moments later a woman clad in a gray full-skirted uniform pulled open one of the two massive oak doors. Soft music floated from inside. Her thin face, accentuated by a pointy upturned nose, greeted me with indifferent but polite courtesy. I was about to introduce myself when she said, “Follow me, please, Mrs. Trevor.”

I complied, glad that my arrival was anticipated. I’d feared Hartford would do a convenient Freudian forget.

I followed her down the marble-tiled foyer past an archway leading to a living room full of smiling guests chatting and holding drinks in their hands. The maid glided quickly past the group through glass French doors to a rear wing.

A powder room to the right attracted my attention, and I stopped, asking permission to use it.

She clucked, “I’ll be waiting here.”

Inside the spacious room I admired the ceiling papered in maroon fleur-de-lis. Mirrored, angled walls gave the feeling of being in a large octagon and turned me into eight people. It had been almost worth the visit just to see this room.

When I emerged, the maid stood stiffly outside the door. Hartford may have instructed her not to let me roam. She escorted me to a large olive green study. Beneath the crown molding, an artist had painted a border depicting classical books. Mahogany bookcases lined two sides of the room. Heavy paisley drapes framed tall narrow windows.

“Mr. Hartford will be with you shortly.” She turned and left, closing me in like I carried the E Coli virus, and she had to protect other guests from exposure.

I browsed through the books to get a feel for the topics. After a few minutes perusing a person’s books, I could usually summarize their interests and know a bit about their personality. I took pride in that.

Hartford’s taste flowed toward history and psychology, a little fiction, no financial or how-to.

The door creaked open, and Thomas Hartford strode in. I appreciated his promptness.

He shut the door brusquely, walked behind his desk, and lifted a candy dish in my direction. “Care for one?”

I declined and studied him as he selected a piece of red and white striped peppermint. He had gray-black hair, thick eyebrows, and a classic nose with a strong jaw that made him handsome despite facial scarring probably from teenage acne.

Slipping the wrapper off, he stuck the candy in his mouth, flashing a gold watchband studded with diamonds. It went well with his half-inch thick gold neck chain. I noted his thick fingers and couldn’t help wonder if one had squeezed a trigger.

Mr. Hartford neglected to invite me to sit. Obviously he didn’t intend for me to stay.

“Mrs. Trevor, allow me to clarify. Because this misfortune happened to Mrs. Lawrence, I decided to oblige you with this visit and answer your questions. Not because you have a right to know anything but because I have nothing to hide.”

“I appreciate that.”

“All right, Mrs. Trevor, get to the point of your visit.”

No time wasted on formalities. Fine by me.

“First, Mr. Hartford, when did you last see Lenora Turner?”

Using measured words he responded, “In Lake Geneva a week ago.” Stoic self-control. This was why I’d come: to study the effect of my words and read the body language of this man before me.

“Prior to this visit, when had you last seen her?”

“Not since graduate school.”

“I understand you held her responsible for having you removed from the graduate program?”

He lifted his chin. “Absolutely.”

“Which resulted in your threatening her at the time?”

He stiffened. “Who told you that?”

“Her husband.” No harm naming Tucker, I figured.

“How would he know? Lenora wasn’t married at the time. Regardless, that’s an exaggeration.” His veins became more pronounced in his neck. “Why are you bringing up ancient history?”

I met his gaze. “I think it may be pertinent.”

“Graduate school isn’t a time of my life that I like to recall. Not because I wasn’t doing well. In fact, I had a 3.5 average. My classroom work was impeccable. I simply didn’t meet Lenora’s definition of the perfect mental health counselor. The woman claimed I wasn’t compassionate, not enough of a people-person, however she defined the term. She claimed I had the ability but not the temperament. Back in those years, an advisor could make or break a student.”

Today, it would be unthinkable to give a professor that much power. I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Her opinion was based on an assessment of your personality and clinical work?”