The Stranger Beside You (7 page)

She stomped on the gas and the tiny sports car surged.  The trees and foliage of Central Park streamed by outside my window.  Karly swooped nose-first into an open spot along the curb.  I staggered out of the car and Karly shut my door.  I hurried ahead of her and turned at 72
^nd
Street.  I felt dizzy from the blow to the head.  I crossed to Strawberry Fields, the John Lennon memorial located near the Dakota apartment building.  I dodged foot traffic, desperate to locate Clive.  Karly called after me but I ignored her.

Then I spotted Clive seated alone on a park bench and he stood when he saw me.  The sight of him took my breath away.  There was something in his face, something in his eyes, and I just knew.  I knew in that moment that I had not misunderstood him at all.  Tom really was dead.

12

Miami, Florida

Mr. Z was standing on the deck at the back of a beautiful beach home overlooking the ocean, then turned away from the water and stared down the length of the beach in both directions.  There were neighbors, but none closer than several hundred feet.  He opened the sliding glass door and went inside.

Mr. Z went into the kitchen and poured cranberry juice into a glass then added a shot of Grey Goose.  He swirled the drink and took a sip.  He took a second drink, then set the glass on the counter and left the room.  He glanced at his Rolex and decided it was time to go back upstairs and talk to Scotty Sheldon again.

Scotty Sheldon was seated in a dining room chair with his hands tied behind his back.  His head was slumped forward and he was covered in sweat with tape over his mouth. 

Mr. Z said, “It’s been an hour.”

Sheldon raised his head.  He was exhausted.

“Times goes so fast, yes?”

Sheldon stared at him but did not make a sound.

“Had enough time to think it over?”

Sheldon closed his eyes.

“Would you like Pierre to remove the tape?  Do you have something you’d like to tell me?”  Mr. Z’s tone was always pleasant, like a favorite uncle teaching his nephew how to skip a rock across the placid surface of a pond.

Scotty Sheldon glared hard at the man in front of him.  He strained against his bindings, his face flushing deep red. 

Mr. Z waited.

Sheldon took a long, deep breath through his nose and again he closed his eyes.

A moment of stillness hung in the air.

Mr. Z was calm.  He gestured at the massive brute named Pierre.

 “Scotty and I have talked it over, and it seems to me he needs some more encouragement.  Can you help us with that?”

Pierre nodded.  He crossed the room and opened a bedroom door.  He went inside and closed the door and Sheldon began to sob.

Mr. Z was thinking about his unfinished vodka and cranberry.  He had a taste for it now.  It lingered on his tongue.  The Grey Goose was quite good.

A sharp pop came from the closed bedroom door.  Both men could hear the sounds of movement, shuffling, laboring.  Three or four minutes later the door opened and Pierre came out dragging a large plastic bag across the floor behind him.  The bag had a leak, and it trailed blood as Pierre dragged it out of the room and disappeared down a hallway.

Tears streamed down Scotty Sheldon’s face.

Mr. Z watched Pierre until he was lost to sight, then he turned to Sheldon.  The look in his eyes could have easily passed for genuine curiosity.

“I wonder which of your family that was,” he said.

•  •  •

I rushed right up to Clive and then froze.  I knew what I wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come.  He looked at me with sad eyes and struggled to not look away.

“I’m sorry, Brynn.”

“No,” I said.  I touched my hands to my face.

He finally glanced away, his eyes wandering off toward nothing in particular.

“No,” I said again, and backed away a step.

Karly came up beside me.  She looked first at Clive, and then at me.  She was clearly confused.  She touched my arm, but I shrugged her off.

“What’s this about?” she said to Clive.

I rushed to him again, grabbing him by the shirt, pulling him to me.  Our noses were an inch apart.

“You’re lying!” I shouted.

Clive offered no resistance.  I forced him to look me in the eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“How is it possible?” I asked.

“I will tell you everything I know.”

Then I crumbled.  The strength flooded out of my body.  I dropped to my knees.  Karly followed me to the ground.  Pedestrians and joggers streamed around us. 

“I don’t understand,” Karly said.  “Please tell me why you are so upset.”

I couldn’t form a thought because my brain had sort of short-circuited and my body was functioning on autopilot because I was no longer in control.

Karly glanced up at Clive.  “Are you the one from the phone?  The Lawyer?”

He nodded.

“What did you tell her?” she demanded.

His voice was flat when he said, “I told her that her husband died this morning.”

13

This wasn’t how I had pictured the worst day of my life, not even close.  I remember watching
Four Weddings and a Funeral
, that great Hugh Grant film from the 1990’s.  At the funeral in the movie someone reads a poem about loss, something about “stop all the clocks” and “silence the bells” or whatever.  It’s a real poem and it is devastating but I understand it now.  Here is my version:  I want the world to stop.  I want this big machine we live in to shut down.  I want everyone to stop where they are and offer a day of reverence, a day of stillness, to show respect for the passing of the most important person who will ever be a part of my life.  There should be rain, and dark, dark clouds.  The wind should blow with a chill.  All laughter should cease.  I want the flowers to wilt, the grass to turn brown and the leaves to lose their color and fall to the ground.  The traffic should stop and all conversation should hush so that there is only silence.   If I had my way, the sun would hide itself, for there is no room for its splendor or brilliance or warmth in the midst of my pain.  Until further notice, it is banished from the sky.

In reality, this was a gorgeous day.  The sun was high and bright.  People rushed around, busy, stressed, happy, cheerful, depressed.  Birds sang from treetops, and the breeze carried on it the sweet aromas of the park.

They helped me to a park bench and Karly twisted the cap off of a bottle of water and insisted that I take a drink.  My vision was still blurred and my head was spinning.

“I don’t understand, I…don’t…understand,” I repeated like a mantra.

“Just sit down,” Clive told me.

He stood facing me.  Karly was seated at my side.

“Tell me what happened,” I demanded.

“I will.  I promise.”

Clive stared past me, his gaze drifting off in the general direction of Trump Tower. 

My chest tightened as I sipped the water and held it in my mouth.  My husband was gone.  I could feel myself slipping.  I flashed on that moment at midnight and waking to the sound of the door and looking at the back of Tom’s head, the side of his face mashed against his pillow.  I could see him at the bottom of the stairs, glancing back at me, telling me to relax.  And then I watched him disappear inside the back door of the black SUV parked in the driveway, a wink of streetlight coming off the silver handcuffs.

A breeze rustled my hair.

Karly handed me a tissue, and I held it loosely in both my hands for a long, numb moment.

“I need to talk to Clive alone,” I said.

“Sure,” Karly nodded.

“Let’s take a walk,” I told him.

“Take your time,” Karly said.  “I’ll be here.”

Clive and I lit off down a footpath, shoulder to shoulder.

 “I want answers.”

“It happened early this morning,” Clive began.  “Tom tried to escape.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I don’t think so.”

“They shot him?”

“No.”

“How did he die?”

“Understand, Brynn, everything I’m telling you came straight from the mouth of Special Agent Chapman.  He woke me up with the call.  I met with him first thing this morning.”  Clive paused a moment, uncomfortable with having to give voice to such raw words.  “He showed me the body.”

The words stung me.  The sun seemed so bright, making my head throb. 

The body
.  Tom had been reduced to an inanimate object.  I slowed to a stop.  I stared ahead, focusing to hold the nausea down.  “You saw him?”

“Yes.”

“Take me to him.  I want see my husband.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“I’m not asking permission.  I need to see my husband.”

He sighed.  “It’s bad, Brynn.”

“Tell me how he died.”

“They chased him down into the subway, jumped off the platform down onto the track, and ran into the tunnel.  He was hit inside the tunnel by a train.  He never had a chance.”

I closed my eyes and felt my body sway.  My legs wavered but I somehow managed to steady myself. 

“You don’t want to see what I saw this morning, Brynn.  Please trust me.  The person in the morgue is no longer your husband.  You won’t find closure there.  What you would see would only add to the pain.”

 “What was he wearing when you saw the body?”

“The same as last night.  Sweatpants and a T-shirt.”

I turned and looked at him.  “How can you try to persuade me not to see my husband one last time?”

“The choice is yours, but I’m asking you as a friend not to do it.  It’s not worth it.  You won’t see the man you love.  I hate myself for having to say that, but I’m begging you.  Please trust me.”

We walked on.  We passed a fountain.  The water spouted up, clear and lovely, shimmering in the rays of sunlight.  Young people lounged on the grass, talking and laughing, reading books, holding hands.  I was reminded of the afternoon in the park so many years ago when Tom proposed.  An afternoon so much like this one.  A lifetime ago, it seemed.  The emotions of then and now were separated by a vast chasm.  Tom and I had made the casual sojourn back to his tiny apartment and made love on the floor with the windows open so that we could feel the silky night air on our naked bodies.  It was heaven.  I wanted to feel that way again, just one more time, before I was forced to let him go.  I needed to touch him, to kiss his mouth, to tell him good-bye.  I needed to tell him that I loved him, that I’d always loved him more than life itself, and I longed to hear him say the same to me.  But that opportunity had been stolen away from us.  Why had this happened?  Why had he been arrested?  Why had he tried to escape when he was innocent?  And why would he do something so stupid as to flee headlong into a subway tunnel?  I did not know, but I intended to find out.

•  •  •

 Garcia had lost them in traffic.  He had not anticipated the Porsche.  It was not rigged with a transmitter.  After Brynn Nelson and her friend left the boutique, Garcia had jumped into the Buick and made an effort to follow them.  There was no chance of that so he circled back.  He knew where Brynn’s friend lived, so he parked across the street from her apartment building.

•  •  •

I sat in stunned silence.  The pain was still fresh.  I buzzed my window down six inches and turned so that the wind hit me full in the face.  For a long time I really couldn’t feel or think clearly.  Karly wasn’t big on sentiment, which I actually appreciated at the moment.  She didn’t try to make small talk, or tell me what a great guy Tom had been, or try to convince me he was in a better place now, or that the pain would fade with time.  I didn’t need to hear that crap.  I simply needed a moment to let the initial shock wash over me.  It felt like I was standing in the middle of a tidal wave.

She parked on Bleecker and we went up to her apartment.  She unlocked the door and tossed her Prada sunglasses onto a catchall shelf by the entry.

“I’ll pour us both a drink,” she said and disappeared into the kitchen.

I staggered forward and dropped into an oversized chair.  A ceiling fan leisurely rotated overhead.  Karly handed me a glass, pulled an ottoman over near me and sat on it with her knees together, clutching her drink with both hands.  She leaned toward me.  “OK, talk,” she said.  “And don’t leave anything out.”

I spent the next thirty minutes recapping the past twelve hours.  The doorbell at midnight.  Special Agent Chapman and his henchmen.  The arrest.  The interrogation at 26 Federal Plaza.  The mess I found at home.  The intruder. 

She listened intently, mostly without interrupting.  Finally she said, “Darling, I’ve known Tom longer than you, and I can assure you that he killed no one.”

“Why would they arrest him?”

“Because they are idiots.”

“Why would he try to escape?”

She sipped her drink.  “A moment of panic maybe.”

I thought about that.  “It was a stupid thing to do.”

“Of course.”

“He wasn’t thinking clearly.”

She shrugged.  “Obviously.”

“The arrest freaked him out,” I said.  “You should have seen his eyes.  I’ve never seen him like that.  And when I talked to him in that room with Clive and Chapman, he said the strangest thing to me.”

“Strange in what way?”

I looked down at my drink.  “It was like he was babbling nonsense.  I think he was in shock.”

“The Tom I knew was cool under pressure.”  Karly swirled bourbon in the bottom of her glass.   “I can’t imagine what it would take to shock him.”

I nodded.  “He was talking gibberish.”

“Where are the kids?”

“With friends.”

“What now?”

“I need to find Chapman.  I deserve some answers.”

“What if he won’t talk?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“He’s a fed.”

“So?  My husband is dead.”

“The feds don’t care.  As far as they are concerned Tom saved them a lot of taxpayer money by jumping in front of that train.  They’ve avoided an expensive trial.”

For a moment I was offended.