Deceived (33 page)

"And if I
go to the newspapers or the police anyway?"

"Would
anybody believe you? Without hard evidence, I'd bet not. And you'll have
canceled your insurance policy. Think of what's happened, and you tell me: how
long before you'd have an accident or disappear? Your decision, Nick. Alternatives,
just like I had. Just like the senator had.
…
I'm going to have a glass
of port. Would you like to join me?"

"I don't
feel like a drink."
She shrugged. "We'll I do. I don't have much time left."

Not much
time left?
Carolyn's words gave Nick pause
.

"It's one
of the bottles Harry put up years ago."

Harry, her
husband who had died of cancer a few years back.

"Opened it
last night," Carolyn continued. "The second bottle I tried
—
the
first had turned. I thought for a moment they'd all gone bad, like Harry and
I." She poured herself a glass, a generous portion, then reseated herself.
She didn't drink immediately, just spun the stem of the glass slowly between
her forefinger and thumb.

"The 'iron
lady,' that's what they've always called me. You've probably called me that,
just never to my face. Tough, determined. Men said I had balls. And I never
minded. That's the image I cultivated, because that's who I thought I was. Want
to know something?"

"What?"

"I'm weak,
Nick. A coward. Just like Harry."

"I've
never thought of you, or Harry, as cowards, Carolyn," he said softly
.

Carolyn
laughed. "A few days ago I might have agreed with you, but not about
Harry. I just never let you, never let
anyone
, see what he had become in
those last few years. I kept up the charade, telling everyone Harry this, Harry
that, then I'd dress him up once a month or so for a grand appearance
…
for
all of a half-hour. Anymore and people would have known.
…
In the end he
was like a baby. He soiled his pants two, three times a day, and he'd cry
because he couldn't do anything about it
…
this strong man who used to
lift me in his arms as if I weighed no more than a bag of groceries. You know
he got so thin I could almost wrap my hand around his calf. Around his
calf
,
Nick."

"I'm
sorry," he whispered. "I didn't know."

"I didn't
want
anybody
to know. I lived with the man for three years like that
—
an
invalid who couldn't give love, didn't even
try
to provide companionship,
just demanded
—
three years while the love slowly drained from me, day
after day. In the end all I could see was a selfish old man. God forgive me,
but I couldn't recall the love anymore. I just couldn't."

Nick looked to
the pool of blood growing around the senator.

"
…
Do
you want to know how much of a coward Harry was, Nick?" Carolyn went on. "After
he died, I found something locked in one of his drawers that made me hate him. A
loaded handgun. I never knew he had a handgun, but it was there. A stack of notes,
too. Drafts of a letter from him to me, the first dated two years before he
died, the last one month before. Suicide notes, Nick. Harry planned to commit
suicide. For
two years
he planned to commit suicide."

"I can't
judge him for that, Carolyn."

"
I have
judged him, and you've got it all wrong. Harry wasn't a coward because he
contemplated suicide, Harry was a coward because he planned suicide for two
years and
never pulled the trigger
.
…
There, I've said it. God
forgive me if he can. If Harry had been strong, he would have pulled the
trigger and saved our love. Instead he became a pitiable shell of a man who
cried himself to sleep in self-pity, and I couldn't,
couldn't
, remember
him as anything else."

"I can't
find it in myself to blame him," Nick said, " or you for that
matter."

"But
I
did blame Harry, Nick. I cursed him more times than you would believe. You know
what though, I've stopped. A few days ago, for the first time, I remembered the
old Harry. I forgave him, and I actually missed him. Maybe it's empathy.
…
I
pulled out Harry's gun a few days ago. The same one he never could bring
himself to use. I found the bullets, loaded it, but
—
…
I couldn't
even aim it at myself. Perhaps I had too high of an opinion of myself to
destroy this body in such a
…
personal
…
manner. I came to the
conclusion I'm every bit as weak as he. Every bit as weak."

"Then put
the gun down."

"No. Things
have changed in the last half hour. There's no going back now. As you said,
people have to take responsibility. I think I can do that now. Remembering
Harry, the way he was once
…
knowing he'll be waiting for me
…
that
helps."

She shook his
head as if to clear it, then looked to Nick, her eyes pleading. "One thing
Nick. I don't have any right to ask, but
…
Will you forgive me. It'll
help, somehow. It'll make it easier."

Nick looked
down.

"
…
Please,
Nick."

Nick nodded. "I
forgive you."

"Thank
you." Carolyn bowed her head in acceptance, when she raised it again her
eyes had brightened. "Suddenly, I feel so alive. For the first time in
years." She took a deep breath. "The air tastes fresh and smells so
wonderful. My skin's tingling. I've heard impending death can do that
…
heighten
the senses. A benefit I wasn't expecting
…
helps make it worth it, these
last few minutes, as if I'm experiencing life anew."

Impending
death.
Nick looked to the gun in Carolyn's hand. "Carolyn," he
whispered, "give me the gun."

Carolyn ignored
him. "I've lived in this house most of my adult life. I'll end it here
too." She got to her feet and moved to the window facing the east and
pulled the drapes open. "It's such a beautiful night, Nick; I don't want
to miss a moment. The air
…
so clear. Look at the stars, the moon. So long
since I even bothered to look. Don't make the same mistake. It's right out your
window, every evening. But today
…
it's something special today. The most
beautiful view I've ever seen."

"Carolyn,
give me the gun," Nick tried again.

"No. The
decisions I made, funny, but I still think they're the right ones. Problem is,
I can't live with the aftermath. Leave now, Nick. Out the back."

"I
won't."

"They'll
be coming soon. They'll send someone to deal with me. It would be better if
they didn't find you here."

"It would
be better if they didn't find either of us here."

"What
they'll find of me will do them no good, but it will serve a purpose. Once I'm
gone, they'll accept my story
…
they'll have no choice
…
and you'll
be safe. No one will dare touch you, Nick
…
my word on that. Now go."

Nick shook his
head.

Carolyn looked
at him quizzically, then reached for the cigar lighter Whitford had set on the
desk. She stood, then backed slowly to the window. She snapped the lighter
open, flicked it once; a half-inch flame sprung from its top.

"I'm
afraid," Carolyn said, "I'm not going to give you any choice." She
held lighter and flame to the drapes.

"Carolyn,"
Nick yelled, jumping to his feet
.

Carolyn held
the gun steady. "Don't, Nick. It's the only way."

The drapes
caught; Carolyn continued: "They'll find me, find the senator, and cover
things up. 'Freak Fire takes Life of Senator and Comptroller General,' will be
the headline, and, as far as the public will ever know, the truth. As long as
you stick to your story, you'll have nothing to fear."

The flames
licked upward slowly for a moment or two, then, as if enjoying the taste, began
to consume material hungrily. Smoke pooled near the ceiling.

"Come with
me, Carolyn," Nick pleaded, cautiously advancing. One step, two steps.

She shook her
head and said calmly, "No."

Within seconds
inch long flames grew to foot long flames. Seconds more and the entire length
of drape turned to a pillar of fiery red. Flames fanned across the ceiling,
cutting through smoke now a half foot thick.

"Stop,"
Carolyn ordered, gun still steady in her hands, and Nick obeyed. "This
fire's for me, and for the senator. Our hell, not yours. Go. Now."

Nick stood for
another few seconds as the blaze spread, first warming, then beginning to sear,
his cheeks, his hands, every piece of exposed skin. The black smoke curled
around him, forcing a fit of coughs
.

Through the
thickening haze, he looked to Carolyn and saw only her silhouette, like some
stone statue set against a backdrop of yellows and reds. Only this statue
started to move. Her arm raised, then brought the gun to her head. A moment
later she crumpled to the floor.

The heat
intense, the smoke almost to the floor, Nick's instinct for survival took over.
He covered his mouth with a hand and bolted for the back door. One bounce off
the door jam and he was on the porch, and from there stumbled out to the
backyard.

Hands on knees,
Nick greedily sucked in air. Rasping. Only when his lungs had partially cleared
did he again think of Carolyn. He looked to the house. Smoke poured out onto
the porch, flames followed, flat against the windows and licking through the
two doors.

Nick's scalp
tightened. Head bowed, he whispered "Carolyn"
—
a silently
offered prayer he could spare only a second for. The smoke, the fire, would
bring the man lying in wait at the front gate.

Nick ran across
Carolyn's back lawn without looking back. He made the woods then scaled
Carolyn's back wall. He had covered five blocks before he heard the first fire
engine.

"Again?"

Nick turned his
face from the window and met the eyes of the cabdriver in the rearview mirror. He
nodded. "Yeah."

They had
already circled the Ellipse, the large round plot of land just to the south of
the White House grounds, five times. Or was it six? Nick had lost count.

He turned back
to his right, to the window. The stolid architecture of the Commerce building passed
from view, giving way to the south face of the White House, the flood lights
about its base lending it a virginal white glow. Inside, the President's
reception would be winding down. Nick, however, could still gain admittance,
seek the ear of one of the President's chief advisors and tell them
—

Tell them what?
Nick asked himself.

Seeking the
truth at all cost had so far led only to death and suffering. Could he expect
any less from a full airing of Carolyn's and Whitford's crimes?The ability to
shut down an army, the chance to avoid Armageddon, how could one measure that
against such amorphous terms as right and wrong?

Nick pressed
his eyelids tight; a feeling of isolation swept over him.

Carolyn's image
came to him then, throwing open the drapes of her study. "It's such a
beautiful night," she had said, "I don't want to miss a moment. The
air
…
so clear. Look at the stars, the moon. So long since I even bothered
to look."

Nick looked up;
his eyes met the stars. They
were
beautiful.

As of tonight,
Nick's job was over for him; he would neither mourn it nor miss it. He had
sought purpose through achievement
—
a chimera, a folly, he knew that now.
And if that left only a void into which pain would flow, let it come. He had
hid, and run, from pain all his life: perhaps he was now ready to face it.

In his mind's
eye, his father and mother appeared, and the familiar tumult of emotions
squeezed him, but this time Nick did not hide. This time Nick did not run. What
had Carolyn said, something about finally remembering her husband as the man he
was, the man who carried her lightly in his arms. Nick too looked past the
anguish and remembered.

His father's
large but quiet hands. Sandwiches carefully wrapped in wax paper by his mother.
Sharing the hammock with one or both. Fresh towels from the line smelling of
ozone.

Nick's eyes
filled.

Things to
celebrate. Why had he thought them things to lock away to examine only rarely
and only under the influence of alcohol.

Drives in the
country in the pickup. His father's back, sturdy, as he split firewood. Card
games, board games. His mother's voice, singing along with the radio.

The best times
of his life and he was afraid to relive them? Why?

Nick wiped his
face of tears; new ones took their place. And it felt good
.

The cab continued
to circle, passing to the north of the Washington Monument, a symbol of
remembrance, tall, imposing, and lit for the world to see.

The cab driver
cleared his throat. "Look, buddy, I can do this all night
…
I mean
that's fine with me, but if there's some reason
—
"

Nick shook his
head and waived his hand, stopping the cab driver in mid-sentence. Enough of
circling, going nowhere, observing but not participating
.

Where to? Where
did he belong? He knew the answer. "George Washington University
Hospital," he said.

Visiting hours
would be over, but he would talk his way in somehow. He would stop first at the
restrooms and rinse the blood from his hair, brush the dirt from his trousers. The
tuxedo would still show wrinkles, but he guessed Meg wouldn't care. And he
would stay the night, if she'd let him, and watch over her from a chair so that
on first light, when her eyes opened on a new day, he would be there
.

As the
cabdriver left the road circling the Ellipse, Nick turned to look through the
back window. The White House seemed to retreat, growing smaller and less
significant, then the cab turned a corner and soon trees and buildings
extinguished its glow entirely.

Dennis had
claimed right and wrong were only labels invented by men. Perhaps they were. Perhaps,
if the terms existed at all, they were for another power to judge. On the other
hand, Nick thought, perhaps love was something very real. It was time, he
decided, to find out.

Nick lowered
the side window and let fresh air blow across his face. The streets of D.C.
looked clean and wide and new.