Fatal Conceit (20 page)

Sam hung up the phone and patted her knee. “Sorry, babe, but I've got to go,” he said. “There's been a problem. I need to go into the office and it may take some time. You can stay here if you want and I'll send a car back for you in the morning. Or, I'll have the driver drop you off at Dulles and you can catch a flight home tonight.”

She chose to go home and then except for a few brief webcam conversations and his “good morning” and “good night” texts, she'd hardly heard from him during the week.

If he was tired and a bit frayed around the edges when he spoke to her on Wednesday morning, his mood darkened considerably after he met with Tucker Lindsey. “And that son of a bitch, excuse my language, Rod Fauhomme was there.” She could feel his smoldering anger, but he still wouldn't talk about it. Instead, he asked if she would go to the lake cabin with him for the weekend. “I have a lot of thinking and work to do,” he said. “But I'd love it if you'd go and keep me company. Just knowing you're near me and that I'll wake up with you in the morning makes me happy.”

That was the sort of thing he was always saying that melted her every time. “I'd love to go,” she said. “I'm not complete when I'm
not with you.” And she meant what she said about the weekend, it was special, it was always special with Sam. No one else had ever made her feel as safe and loved. But she'd also needed the alone time walking around the lake to think, and if this was to be the last time, to commit it to memory.

Sitting on the porch waiting for him to be done in his office, she watched a pair of loons on the lake playfully chasing each other over and under the water, rubbing necks and grooming each other; she wished life was anywhere near that simple for her and her man. She fantasized that Sam would listen to what she had to say and forgive her and choose to be with her. But then that voice, the one that tried to warn her back to when she was letting Ariel Shimon wine and dine her, sighed.
Who are you kidding, Jenna? Surely you don't think even this kind of love can overcome that. This isn't the movies.

As they drove back from the cabin to New York on Sunday afternoon, her mind had been on the tangled web of her life. Not only did she have to confess her own sins, but according to Sam their relationship was also tied up with what happened in Chechnya—and between Sam and Fauhomme. Just the thought of the leering, piggish face of the president's campaign manager filled her with foreboding. “Your secret is safe with me, my friend.”

After Sam dropped her off, Blair felt the need to talk to someone. But the only person she could confide in about Sam was Connie Rae Lee. They only talked on the telephone since the Fourth of July party, and Connie was always turning the conversation toward Blair's relationship with Sam. She figured that Connie was digging for any little bits of information she could use for Fauhomme, but since she kept the conversation to “girl talk,” she didn't feel she was betraying his confidence. And the things Connie said about Fauhomme—his drinking and abusive behavior—made her feel as though she ought to be able to talk to her friend candidly.

“I think I have to tell him, Connie.”

“I don't know, Jenna,” Lee said doubtfully. “I mean, what would you do if he told you that he'd slept with some other women for money and that's what he was going to do with you when you met?”

“I know, I know,” she replied and started to cry.

“Look, honey, I don't see why you need to tell him right now, if ever. I mean, how's he going to find out? I'm not going to tell him, and Rod's not,” Lee said, then changed the subject. “What do you think he wants to talk to you about? The divorce?”

“I don't know, maybe,” Blair sniffed. “Or it could be something to do with this hearing.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “How do you mean?”

“I'm not sure. The whole time up at the cabin he was preoccupied about it and said he needed to work on what he was going to say. He wants to run it by his friend, Pete Oatman, the superintendent at West Point, tomorrow. It wasn't anything specific he said, but he made it sound like somehow I was involved. Apparently, he and Rod and that guy Tucker Lindsey had it out the other day.”

The other end of the line was quiet before Lee spoke again. “I'm sure that was all just a heated strategy meeting . . . happens all the time in politics. They're all so macho. But it's going to be okay, honey. I've got to go. Let's talk tomorrow.”

Sometime after two in the morning she had finally fallen asleep and dreamed of Sam. In her dream, she walked out of the cabin and saw him standing naked on the small dock that went out into the lake with his back toward her. The loons were swimming nearby making their haunting calls when he turned. She saw that his face was lined with worry and his eyes were sad, but when he saw her, he smiled and all the cares melted from his face. “I love you, too, Jen. Nothing's going to happen tomorrow that we can't deal with.” Then he walked to the end of the dock and dove into the still, dark waters. That's when she woke up.

Blair got out of bed and dressed, then grabbed her laptop and
left the apartment. On mornings she didn't have to be anywhere, it was her habit to head to the STIR coffee shop on the corner where she'd read the online news reports and catch up on emails. She noted that the flower shops along her street were slow putting their fragile wares on the sidewalk until the day grew warmer, another sign that winter was on its way.

Instead of sitting outside, she chose the warmth of a small table near the window, where she settled down with an Americano and blueberry scone. After scanning the headlines, mostly about the election now only a week away and the start of congressional hearings on “the Chechnya incident,” she checked her emails. Near the top, beneath the usual spam advertisements was one from Sam; she looked at the time it was sent.
While I was in the shower.
She opened it happily, expecting some poetic love note, but all it said was: “No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you. 121078. Call Ariadne Stupenagel. 212-804-5438.”

A line from
The Last of the Mohicans
? 121078? My birthday? Ariadne? His old girlfriend? Obviously means something to him, but it's a mystery to me.
Smiling, she returned to the rest of her emails. There was one from her mother with the usual small talk about what was going on at home and pointed questions about when was she going to visit “with your new beau.” She felt a stab of guilt; she hadn't told her parents much about Sam, not his name, just that he was “a little older” and “works for the government.” And “he treats me better than any man I've ever known.” Her parents had never been the sort to pry, but she could tell her mom's curiosity was driving her crazy. They'd been very excited when she told them she had been accepted to law school, but never asked her where she was getting the money for it. That was her business.

There was another email from her agent letting her know about a cattle call for a new Broadway production “that might even include a few lines.” In the past, such a call would have reinvigorated the dream until the next disappointment, but that dream didn't matter to her anymore. What she wanted was to
pursue her law degree and allow her relationship with Sam to go wherever it was meant to go.
If we can just get through tonight
, she thought, but that brought tears to her eyes.
It's impossible
.

After about an hour at the coffee shop, she was ready to go home when she noticed several people had gathered below the small television mounted near the ceiling in a corner of the shop and were watching raptly. Then she saw Sam's face appear on the screen. At first she assumed that it had to be a story about his impending testimony, but when she saw a middle-aged woman cover her mouth and shake her head she was filled with dread. As if pulled by a magnet, she rose from her seat and walked slowly toward the television.

Before she even heard the broadcaster's voice she read the text below Sam's photograph.
General Allen dead in New York hotel
. She absorbed the news like a fighter taking a blow to the solar plexus. She couldn't breathe and felt woozy; her eyes filled with tears. She had to be reading it wrong. Then she heard the broadcaster: “. . . source close to the investigation indicated—and this is only speculation at this point—that General Allen took his own life.”

Suicide?
The word burned into her brain like an ember.
He
chose
to leave me?
She felt sick, as if she might throw up, and turned back toward her laptop, stumbling against a chair before reaching her table and gripping the edge so as not to fall down. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, she closed her laptop and put it in its case and then walked out of the door in a fog.

He's not dead. This has to have something to do with Fauhomme.
A small desperate cry escaped her mouth as she picked up the pace back to her apartment.

Punching in the security code to get into her building, she suddenly thought of the strange, cryptic email he'd sent.
I will find you.
That's it. It was some sort of code to let me know he was okay and will explain later.
He wasn't suicidal, he couldn't
 . . . She remembered the webcam recording. Maybe he'd said something
when she was in the shower that would shed more light on what was going on.

Blair rushed into her apartment and started up her desktop computer, calling up the recording. She fast-forwarded it until she reached the point where she left to take her shower.

“I don't know why you'd want to record this.”

“Because I'm going to blackmail you with it someday.”

“You want to talk now about what you said at the cabin?”

“No. I'm going to go hop in the shower. I think you need time to think about this, so I'll wait until Monday for your answer.”

Sam looked sleepy. Then he spilled his drink.
Something's wrong
. He tried to stand up but couldn't.
He looks drugged.
Shaking his head as though to clear his mind, he leaned forward and typed something before collapsing back into the chair. The sound of a door opening and a voice, “Room service . . .”

“Help him,” she whispered, but then watched in horror. The man was not there to help Sam. He was there to kill him.

She remained focused but trembling while her body convulsed in agony. When her stomach stopped heaving, she wiped her dripping nose and sat staring at the now blank screen. She shook her head and reached for her phone, punching in the only number she could think of to call at that moment.

“Connie, oh, my God, Connie . . .” she gasped when her friend answered.

“Jenna! Where have you been? I've been trying to get ahold of you! You've heard . . . ?”

“He . . . he . . . oh, God help me . . .”

“It's so terrible. Did you have any indication that he would do . . .”

“He was murdered!” Blair cried out.

There was silence from the other end, then, “What do you mean? We're watching the television and they said . . .”

“I don't give a fuck what they said on the television,” Blair shouted. “I saw it happen!”

“What? Honey, I know this is a shock but . . .”

“Listen to me, please just listen to me. We were talking on the webcam and I was recording our conversation. I left to take a shower but I didn't turn off the recorder. I didn't watch it until just now and . . . oh, God, please don't let this be true . . .”

Connie was quiet so long that Blair wondered if the connection had been lost. But then she came back on the line. “Have you told anybody else about this?”

“What? No, I called you . . .”

“Good,” Connie said. “Listen, Rod's here and I told him what you said. He's worried that if what you say is true, it might be connected to this thing in Chechnya and you could be in danger. Don't go anywhere; he's going to send someone over to your apartment right away who will get you to safety. He said don't call anybody, not even the police can be trusted.”

“Please hurry,” Blair begged, then burst into tears. “I don't want to live without him.”

As she waited to be rescued, Blair threw some clothes into a daypack and alternated between sobbing and gasping for air.
Dead. Sam was dead. Murdered
. And still her mind searched for any reason to hope.

Packed, she stationed herself at her window where she could see the street in front of the apartment building. A tall, muscular man wearing a black T-shirt and dark glasses got out of the front passenger seat and walked swiftly up to the door. She started for her front door when he buzzed her apartment but then detoured to her desktop computer. One of the assets of living in that building was a video feed from the security camera at the front door. But he was looking down and she could not see his face. “Hello?”

“Miss Blair, I was sent by Mr. Fauhomme,” the man replied, still without looking up.

“Thank you,” she whimpered, and was about to hit the button to buzz him in when she looked at his right arm
. I've seen that tattoo
before
, she thought, and knew in that instant where she'd seen it. Fear rose like bile in her throat and threatened to overwhelm her.

Think, Jenna,
her inner voice demanded.
He's coming here to kill you.
“I just got out of the shower and need to dry my hair,” she said. “Come on up. I'll leave the door open.”

Blair ran into the bathroom and turned on her hair dryer before leaving the room and closing the door. She then grabbed her pack and jammed her laptop inside before opening the alley-side window and climbing out onto the fire escape.

The hair dryer ruse must have worked for a bit, because she had just reached the final ladder to the alley when she heard a curse above her. “Stop right there,” a man's voice above her shouted. Then he was on the fire escape and rushing down after her. “She's on the fire escape . . . the alley . . . don't let her get away!” he yelled into a cell phone.