A Slow Walk to Hell (36 page)

W
hen Emily saw
Sleepless in Seattle
on HBO last month, her romantic teenage mind latched onto the idea of orchestrating her own matchmaking attempt. Emily concluded that the only way to stir me to action was to make me jealous. Enter the very fictitious and extremely wealthy fiancé Bob, a name Emily had chosen as an ironic little joke, since Robert was my middle name.

In my defense, the reason I never made the connection was because no one had ever called me Robert or Bob in my life. Hell, I barely even knew I had a middle name.

An excuse Enrique never came close to buying.

“It won’t flush, Marty. We were dropping hints all over the place.”

“Just tell me the rest of it,” I said irritably.

So Enrique told me that Simon endorsed the deception, but Amanda wanted no part of it. She had no desire to trick me into coming around. Even after Simon shelled out for the monster engagement ring, it took him several more weeks to convince her to play along.

“Look,” Enrique said, “I’m not sure why I’m even telling you all this, except that I think you two are both nuts. If you like each other so much, why can’t you get together? How hard can it be?”

“You have an hour?”

Rising from our chairs, Emily and I watched Amanda slowly make her way up the porch steps. She said to me, “Enrique called. Said you two had a talk. I decided I should explain.”

I nodded, deducing as much.

Flashing Emily a tired smile, she asked, “So what’s the verdict? Need me to ask the judge for an appeal?”

When Emily told her of my decision, Amanda appraised me coolly. “My, my. No bread and water for thirty days?”

“Only for the second offense.”

Emily kept grinning, anticipating the proverbial happy ending. What she didn’t seem to realize was that this wasn’t a movie and we weren’t standing on the top of the Empire State Building.

I said, “Uh, Em. Do you mind if—”

“I’m gone, Dad.” She practically skipped toward the door. “If you want me to turn off the lights—”

I shot her a blistering look.

She winked at Amanda. “Dad’s okay. He’s a little slow because he hasn’t had much prac—”

“Emily.”

She giggled, disappearing into house.

My ears burned. Facing Amanda, I said awkwardly, “Have a seat. I’ll get you a drink—”

She shook me off. “I only came over to tell you…to apologize. I never really wanted to do it. That’s why I tried to decline the investigation, made everything so…difficult.”

“If it helps, I’m glad the way things turned out. Being with you made me realize how much I—”

“Don’t say it, Marty. I’m pretty fragile at the moment. I understand you think you love me.”

“I do love you. Very much.”

She sighed. “What I said earlier still goes. Why now? Why are you willing to admit your feelings now?”

“Because I’m ready to put the past behind me.” I held out my left hand to prove it.

She stared at my ring finger, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. “It’s…gone.”

“It’s gone.”

“Marty, don’t do this unless you’re sure. I can’t compete with Nicole. I won’t compete with her. I couldn’t handle it if you—”

“You won’t have to compete. I loved Nicole, but she’s dead. She died five years ago.”

She appeared shocked by my statement. An understandable reaction. She never heard me admit this so bluntly before.

“She’s dead,” I repeated, “and we’re alive. We have a right to be happy.”

She shook her head, still unwilling to accept what I was saying. I moved toward her. “I love you, Amanda. I’ve loved you for a long time.”

She stared at me, her eyes glistening. “Marty, I’ve waited so long. I never thought…I never allowed myself to believe…”

“Believe it. I’m asking you to believe it.”

I drew her to me, felt her tremble in my arms. She kept asking me if I was sure and I said I’d never been so certain about anything in my life. Afterward, we stood clinging to each other and I felt her tears on my shirt. Finally, she tilted her head to me and as I leaned down to kiss her, the porch lights went out.

What took you so long, Emily?

I
had no choice, Martin. It was the only way to get something General Baldwin wanted.

For a long time, Simon’s justification for whitewashing Teresa Harris’s role in the murders bothered me. No matter how hard I pressed him, he would only repeat his remark about unforeseen problems in the initial arrangements. “Someday, you will understand, Martin.”

But someday never came. As the months passed and the shooting faded from the headlines, I gradually forgot about his comments and the case. To be honest, I wanted to forget, so I wouldn’t have to think about how much I missed Sam.

That all changed a year later, when I found the letter in my mailbox.

It arrived in a plain white envelope. Other than my typed name and address, nothing else was written on it. The absence of a stamp indicated someone had placed it in my mailbox. Inside the envelope was a single piece of paper, with two typed lines. When I read them, I thought it was a joke. It had to be a joke.

Then I remembered my talk with Sam’s mother.

A few days after the shootings, she’d phoned me, apologizing for the rudeness of her husband and asking if I still had Sam’s letter. When I said I did, I heard the relief in her voice. After I promised to FedEx it to her, she thanked me for being such a good friend to Sam. She told me his funeral would be held the following week in a secret location, with only close family attending. In light of the circumstances, her husband felt it was better that way. She hoped I understood and I said I did.

What I didn’t understand was what she told me next; Sam had been cremated. Knowing their family was devout Catholic, I mentioned my surprise over this.

“It was Sam’s wish, Marty. He made it clear he wanted to be cremated.”

“I see.”

But at the time, I didn’t see. Now, as I stared at the letter in my hand, I was thinking about the cremation and the secret funeral and Simon’s remark about unforseen problems. It was all beginning to make sense now.

“I’m afraid of Hell,” the first line read.

And below: “Clayter Lake.”

I arrived at the lake around four in the afternoon. It was a beautiful spring day, clear and cool, and as I drove around the campground, I could see it was only about a quarter full. Rounding a bend, I came to a familiar rock outcropping and glanced at a nearby campsite, where a shiny new Toyota Land Cruiser was parked. Through the trees, I could make out a domed tent and a bobbing ski boat.

Pulling in behind the Toyota, I followed a rocky path toward the tent. As I passed through the trees, I saw a man in a wet suit standing in knee-deep water, bending over the boat. He appeared to be quite tall and had long, shoulder-length brown hair.

I said tentatively, “Sam?”

The man glanced up, frowning. His face was hidden by a neatly trimmed beard. “Who is Sam, Mister?”

I squinted at the man. “A friend of mine. I was supposed to meet him here.”

The man shrugged, stepping out of the water. “Must be at another site. My name’s Caldwell. Stephen Caldwell.”

It had to be Sam; it was his voice. But the beard held me in check. I couldn’t be absolutely certain if—

The man’s face spread into smile. He began to laugh.

I said, “You son of a bitch.”

“It was worth it. But whatever you do, don’t call me Sam. He’s dead, remember? Sam Baldwin is dead.”

He laughed harder and harder, as if he’d pulled a joke on the entire world.

When you think about it, I guess he did.