Deceived (19 page)

Nick slumped in
his seat, deflated. "What the hell happened, Carolyn?" he asked after
a few seconds. "What in God's name happened?"

"I'm
sorry, Nick. You don't know how sorry I am."

"
…
I'm
sorry too." Nick straightened, composed himself. "I'll have my
request for a leave of absence on your desk within the hour."

The train began
to slow as it approached the station under the Capitol
.

"Nick, I
told you, I have to do this by the book. I'm going to ask you to go straight
home
…
not to return to the office."

As if he
were a criminal? As if he couldn't be trusted?
"That's standing by
me?" Nick asked sarcastically.

Shame-faced,
Carolyn explained: "You know procedure. I should have had security escort
you from your office this morning. I didn't want to do that to you; I hoped to
save you the embarrassment. So I asked you out to lunch instead. And as to
sticking by you, half the senate just saw me eating lunch with you. I'm in your
corner, and if they didn't know that before, they know it now."

That explained
why Carolyn had picked the senate dining room for lunch
—
he felt foolish
for doubting her. The train pulled to a stop and Nick stood.

As the door to
the car opened, Carolyn said, "I think it's for the best, Nick. I really
do." She left the car, faced him from the platform. "You getting
out?"

Nick shook his
head. "I'll take it back to the senate office building. Catch a cab home
from there."

Carolyn smiled
thinly. "You can get through this. Just take care of yourself, okay?"

A bell sounded,
a signal the train's doors would soon be closing. Voice flat, Nick said,
"It seems, Carolyn, someone's already taken care of me."

The car door
shut, separating Nick and Carolyn, then the train rumbled slowly from the
Capitol station.

Nick sat on his
couch, hunched forward, two hands cupping a tumbler as if it contained a
precious fluid he could not trust to the grip of one. Periodically, between
sips, he took his eyes from the floor to the ceiling and back again. It was
seven p.m. He had arrived home at three-thirty, mixed his first gin and tonic
at four, dropped on the couch and had not moved since except to refill his
glass
—
he'd forgotten how many times.

Reason told
Nick he could ill afford such self-destructive behavior, but somehow reason seemed
irrelevant. Grief, anger, and impotence
—
the feelings needed to be
masked, and alcohol did the job quite well.

He tilted the
glass, straining the drink between his teeth.

The stares;
the whispers
. In the restrooms, the halls, the cafeteria, from secretaries
to division heads, Nick imagined the topics were the same: did he do it? Would
you have guessed? Even those who had offered a supportive word had entertained
uncertainty behind their eyes.

He let his
forehead sink to the lip of the tumbler
.

On the coffee
table in front of him lay a folded copy of the
Washington Post.
Nick's
eyes swept the page eight column, covering the hearing and accusations. Thank
God they hadn't included a photo
—
as it was he had felt on display coming
home, imagining every person he passed had read the article and somehow
recognized him
.

The sharks
would circle soon; blood already stained the water
.

Nick looked down
and noticed his gin and tonic had disappeared, again. He rose to fix himself
another. Three ice cubes, a little tonic, the balance gin; he had dispensed
with the lime slices a few drinks ago. He then returned to the couch.

As long as he
believed in himself it didn't matter who condemned him
—
isn't that what
he always assumed? Now he understood the crushing weight of accusations, of
suspicion. And their cost. Who was left to uncover what happened to Scott now?

The doorbell
rang, breaking Nick's thoughts; he swung his head in the direction of the front
door.

The sound drew
instant sweat from his palms as the possibilities flashed through his mind:
newspaper reporters, television cameras. How quickly he had fallen to the level
of a cornered animal cowering in shadows.

The bell rang
again but Nick remained frozen, glass poised half-way to lips. The silence
lingered this time. Had whoever rung the doorbell given up? Were they headed
for the elevator this very second?

Nick set his
drink on the coffee table and hurried, almost frantically, to the peep hole in
the door and looked out.

Meg.

She stood on
the other side of the door, her image distorted by the fish-eye lens, the
forefinger of one hand poised near the bell.

Nick saw her
pause, then turn and start slowly for the elevator. He delayed only a moment
longer before pulling the door open. She spun, mouth agape on seeing him,
clearly uncertain of what to say or do.

He greeted her,
his face a mask concealing all emotion
.

Seeing her
here, three feet distant, eyes turned to the floor, Nick realized how little he
had left. Family gone, Scott gone, and his job
—
the sense of himself he
had grasped fiercely and built a life upon
—
now gone as well. And Meg? It
was too late to pull her to him
—
he had already pushed her away.

And yet she
stood at the entrance to his apartment.
Why?

Nick moved from
the doorway. "Come in."

Meg entered
uneasily, shuffling to the center of the living room. After Nick pushed the
door shut she said hesitantly, "I stopped by your office earlier
…
you
were already gone."

He nodded. "A
leave of absence. Carolyn thought it might be in my best interest. The GAO will
make an announcement tomorrow." How easy to say, so much harder to accept.

"I
…
I'm sorry."

"Me
too." He forced a smile. "Can I get you a drink?" He gestured
toward the coffee table, to the drink he had set there. "I've already
helped myself," he said, as if that wasn't obvious from his slurred
speech.

Meg shook her
head. "No, I just came to
…
After yesterday, I wanted to
apologize."

"For
what?"

"The
spread sheets," she said.

He had his
answer
—
guilt had brought her to his door. Or was that only part of it?

"They were
my responsibility," Meg continued. "And Senator Whitford was right;
the tallies were off. All in one direction, just as he said. I don't
…
don't
know how it happened."

Nick sunk to
the couch. He took a long drink, then said, "I'm not sitting at home with
a drink in my hand because of inaccuracies in a spread sheet. You heard the
charges, the evidence."

Meg began to
pace the room. "But I
…
Whitford, the committee, they attacked you
over those spread sheets, and it wasn't your fault. You placed me in charge of
producing them.
I was in charge.
"

"Meg
…
"
He intended to tell her what was done was done, to forget about it, but
realized suddenly she needed to accept responsibility. He let her. "Okay,
something got screwed up and you were in charge
…
welcome to the GAO. Now
what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't
know
…
"

"If I was
still your acting boss, I'd tell you 'I don't know' doesn't cut it."

Meg's fist
pounded an imaginary lectern. "I spent most of last night at the office
trying to figure out what could have happened; I still don't have an
explanation. It just doesn't make any sense. The numbers shouldn't have been
off."

"Go
through the old drafts," Nick suggested calmly, "retrace your steps,
check the backup copies on your computer, on your secretary's computer. You'll
find the answer. I have faith in you."

She raised her
eyes quizzically, as if startled to hear him say so. Did she blush then, or was
he imagining things? "I'll try," she said.

"Good."
Nick lifted his drink, downed it in three large gulps. "Now if you'll
excuse me, time for another fill up." He moved to the kitchen counter
.

"Are you
all right, Nick?"

"I'm
absolutely great. Why do you ask?"

He turned to
find her biting her lip. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to
…
I'm doing okay." He held up his glass. "Sure you don't want one
…
only
you can keep me from drinking alone. I've got wine, if you'd like."

Meg nodded. "All
right."

"Chardonnay?"

"Fine."

He poured the
drinks, handed Meg hers and indicated a chair. "Just throw the laundry on
the carpet
…
I'll get to it sooner or later."

She folded the
two shirts that lay on the chair and set them in a neat pile on a side table,
then spent the next few moments staring at her drink in silence. Nick finally
spoke: "I didn't do it, Meg. In case you're wondering. None of it."

"You
didn't have to tell me that."

"No, but I
guess I wanted to." Nick poked at the ice cubes floating in his drink. "There
must be talk. At the office. And I
…
I just wanted you to know."

Meg set her
wine glass on the table and leaned toward him. "Nick, the charges, now
that you've brought them up. The bank in the Bahamas, the account in your name.
That didn't just happen; it wasn't just a clerical mistake. Someone opened that
account to discredit you. I have to believe that."

Nick held his
head in his hand. "Possible."

"More than
possible. Remember, the other day I asked you if we might be in some danger
…
with
what happened to Scott, to McKenzie. What if I was right? What if someone
wanted you off the Yünnan Project audit just like they wanted Scott off? Well
now they've gotten their wish, haven't they? It wasn't murder, but every bit as
effective
—
someone neutralized you just before you could place what
you've learned into evidence before the Senate committee."

Nick had tried
to discount Meg's fears before; no longer. He paused, considering her words. "Let's
say you're right," he said finally. "What can I do about it? I've
retained a lawyer
—
a good lawyer. Beyond that, I have to trust the
authorities. The truth
will
come out
…
I believe that."

"Dennis is
the authority in this case, Nick. You can't leave it to him. You've got to do
…
something
…
I
don't know what. But if you sit in your apartment and don't try
—
"

"What the
hell do you want me to do?" Nick exploded, and then, on seeing Meg's face
fall, lowered his voice. "Hey, I apologize. Really. I know you were trying
to help, it's just
…
I guess I have a long history of hiding away from my
problems; maybe that's the way I like it.
…
Don't worry, everything's
going to work out."

Meg shook her
head almost imperceptibly. "I hope so." She took a drink of wine,
then ran the tip of her index finger back and forth along its rim. "Nick,
I know we've had our
…
some friction," she said quietly, "but if
I can help, in any way, any way whatsoever, let me know, okay?"

 
Friction?
That's
how she interpreted his cold shoulder? Nick's heart flipped. "My turn to
apologize, okay? If I've been a bit cold since Scott
…
since he died, well
…
it's
not your fault. It has nothing to do with you. It's me. It's the way I
am." He felt water build in his eyes and wiped them uselessly. He looked
away, embarrassed.

"Nick?"
Meg whispered softly.

He stood and
walked to the window. With his back to her, he drew his sleeve across his face.
"Sorry, I don't usually do that kind of thing. Too much to drink, I
guess." His head spun
—
the gin, Scott, Whitford, Meg, so many
things. He shut his eyes and let his forehead rest against the glass of the
window; it felt cool, comforting.

A hand touched
his shoulder lightly. Meg had followed him to the window.

A single tear
started down his face and this time he didn't stop it. He kept his eyes shut,
swallowed hard, and opened his mouth. The words came, slowly at first
.

"You
started to ask me once why I missed Scott's funeral."

"I heard
you had car trouble."

 "That's
what I told people, but the truth is, I just I
…
I just couldn't."

"I think I
understand," Meg whispered.

Nick shook his
head. "No. No you don't." He took a deep breath, forcing himself
onward. "When I was eight," he said, barely audible, "my parents
jumped in the car to go to the grocery store."

He saw himself
on the pier again, his mom telling him to put down the fishing pole and come
along. "They wanted him to come with them, but I wouldn't. I told them I
wanted to fish; I told them I was old enough to stay home alone. They left
without me."

Nick paused,
collecting himself. "They said they'd only be gone a few minutes. A half
hour went by, and then an hour. Then a squad car pulled into the driveway.

Meg's hand
tightened on his shoulder.

Nick heard the
sheriff's words again, matter-of-fact, as if to say, "This is life, kid,
get used to it." "A tourist ran a stop sign," Nick continued. "Broadsided
them. They died instantly, the sheriff said."

Meg stroked his
shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Nick." Her voice trembled with emotion.

Nick nodded. It
took a moment before he could go on. "I stayed at a neighbors for the
night; the next day my aunt arrived. I didn't have any brothers, sisters,
grandparents, just her. She lived out east
—
I hardly knew her."

More pictures
came to him. His aunt, standing in the doorway. She had checked his tie, his suit
coat, his shoes. "We'll leave for the funeral in a half hour," she
had said. "I'll call you." And she had. From the bottom of the
stairs. "It's time to say good-bye," she had called.

Good-bye? To
his parents? He was eight, and was being asked to say good-bye to the two
people who were his whole life?

"The
funeral was that weekend," Nick went on. "I was to drive with my aunt
…
to
be pitied and plucked at by people I hardly knew. But when my aunt came to my
room to get me, I was gone. I had hid. Maybe I couldn't stand the thought of
seeing my parents go into the ground. Maybe not seeing it made it less final. Maybe
I was just scared. Or maybe I felt guilty. If I had gone with them to the
store, hadn't argued
…
Who knows?
…
No one knew where I was. My
aunt, understandably, became frantic. She called the police, the neighbors. They
didn't find me until that night, after the funeral."

His aunt's face
filled his mind now, she had pulled back the sheet in the far corner of his
parent's closet and found him. Curled in a ball. Wrapped in the smells of his
mother and father.

Nick rubbed the
heels of his hands deep into his eye sockets. "It all came back to me
before Scott's funeral," he said, "as if it had happened all over
again. Even the guilt: if I had taken Scott's call, if he had a chance to fill
me in on his investigation
…
And so I hid. Like an eight-year-old
child."

"It wasn't
your fault," Meg whispered.

Nick lifted his
head from the window, turned toward Meg. Her face was streaked; her hand
covered her mouth
.

"Everyone
I've ever been close to
…
" Nick's voice faded to nothing.

"I'm so
sorry, Nick," Meg said. "So sorry."

Nick nodded,
all at once embarrassed at his tears, his show of emotions. He pulled himself
upright, took a deep breath, and escaped to the security of his drink. He
finished it quickly and started to the counter for another
.