Not in the Heart (15 page)

C
HAPTER
23

14 DAYS BEFORE EXECUTION

Aiden was having tests, and as my next interview with Conley approached, I was in the writing groove—like a pitcher in the zone. Food and coffee were the fuel now and I had my head down as the words flowed. It was partly because I was through most of the spiritual logjam. I knew I had to fill in a few blanks Ellen had pointed out about his conversion, but I had the guts down about the trial and most of the pieces of the puzzle were there.

I try not to judge my material as I write. My approach is to purge myself of the story, to spill it on the page and not be concerned about the order or the form of the first draft. But even though it was raw, I had the feeling this was some of the best stuff I had ever written. Something akin to Ernest Gaines's
A Lesson Before Dying
, which had moved me. There were holes, of course, like the ending, but I had a great hook. I hoped the end would result in him giving life to another, but I couldn't be sure of that yet.

I didn't watch much television during this time, but the snatches of news I saw played up the story. There wasn't a hint that anyone was writing a book about Conley's life, and I was happy to fly under the journalistic radar. But I cringed when I saw a picture of my son, then a photo of our family. In the same newscast, the governor stepped to a podium amid flashing lights and a gaggle of reporters. Protesters outside the capitol building were shown holding “Thou shalt not kill” signs.

With his wife beside him, smiling and beautiful, the governor announced his desire for a new office and address.

“I don't know that there's ever been a time when we were more in need of strong, principled leadership. Unemployment issues, a faltering economy, and crushing debt have threatened our way of life. Forces outside our borders threaten us. Porous borders allow entry to those hungry for freedom and, in some cases, those with a desire to destroy. At this critical time, we need someone uniquely prepared to address these issues and unite our country with a single vision, with a voice of hope, and that is why I am announcing my candidacy for the presidency of the United States of America!”

There was wild applause, then wild protesting, then obligatory reactions from people on the street, saying, “Yeah, I think he would make a good president,” or “He can't hurt us more than the one in there now,” and the giggling younger woman who said, “I think he's hot. I'd vote for him.”

I tried hard not to think about that while I wrote, but as I crawled to my air mattress late at night, exhausted, I couldn't help wondering what this would do to our transplant chances.

It was midmorning, in the middle of one of those stretches of unbridled creativity when I'm not writing word by word but bleeding pages, that Abby walked in all smiles and sunshine. She really was a beautiful girl. No wonder Philip wanted to pay for her schooling. She was a bright light, but at this moment I wanted to pull the shade. She picked up a stack of pages from the night before and hovered, like a moth around a campfire.

“I did it,” she said.

“You did what?”

“Got an interview.”

I looked up from the screen. “For what?”

“A job. At Mane Street. He posted it on craigslist. Can you believe it?”

“Abby, no.”

“Dad, yes. It's with Tompkins himself. Tomorrow.”

“No way. You're not going in there.”

“How many times have you called him?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“I can get information, Dad.”

“He knows my name. He'll connect the dots.”

“I'm not using my real name. He only knows me as Cheryl. I'll make up a last name.”

I gave her my best fatherly stare.

“This is my chance to do some real reporting instead of being a gofer.”

My fingers itched to get back to the keyboard. “And how are you going to do that? You don't even know how to cut hair.”

“It's not a stylist position; it's for a receptionist.”

“So what are you going to do, write down your social security number and give him your work history and then say, ‘By the way, did you kill Diana Wright?'”

“Of course not. I might not have a chance to ask many questions in the first meeting, but you have to admit, it gives us access. And we haven't had that.”

“It's too dangerous. It's highly unlikely he was involved in Diana's murder, but if the detective was right, this guy will protect himself at all costs. If he finds out you're connected to a reporter . . . I don't want you to do it.”

She cocked her head and looked at me through those black glasses. “What are you afraid of? That I might show you up?”

“No, I don't want you to get hurt.”

“Is it that, or are you afraid I might find something you haven't been able to? I think that threatens you more.”

“That's absurd.”

“Mom said you're territorial. That I should be careful because you want to control everything.”

Her mother was a vindictive, heartless person to say such an incriminating thing about her husband. She was also dead-on. And of course, being the self-respecting American male, full of pride, vinegar, and misguided zeal, I had to defend myself against this vicious attack.

“I don't want to control you. What have I said no to so far? I've let you follow every idea you've had, and your instincts have been good.”

“I get you coffee, Dad. My best instincts have been to hold the mayonnaise on your ham and cheese. I haven't done anything of substance and you know it.”

I tried to think of a good argument for that. She had helped with a lot of the research into Conley's past. But that wasn't glamorous. She also made good coffee, but I decided not to bring that up. I may look like a dolt of a dad, but I'm not that stupid.

“I thought you wanted to learn what it was like to put a book together. That's what I've been trying to do. Putting your life on the line is not part of the deal.”

“How is going for an interview and asking a couple of questions putting my life on the line?”

“What if he offers you the job?”

“Great. I'll have more access.”

“What if he offers to take you to dinner?”

“Even better. It'll give me a chance to catch him when his guard is down.”

“Abby! You don't get it. At best he's a creep with some shady business dealings. At worst, he could have shot a woman in the head and buried her body in a garbage dump.”

“But you said yourself that's a very small chance.”

“Yes, but if he did it, he was smart enough to frame another man for the crime. I don't want a guy like that to have access to 
you
.”

She moved closer, a vein in her neck pulsing. “Exactly. If this guy is the evil killer, I want to know it before Terrelle Conley is executed, don't you?”

I thought about that for exactly two seconds, then turned back to the computer screen. There are some things you just don't want to know or to think about when you're in the middle of writing.

She cursed. “You don't trust me at all. You still think I'm that little girl you used to take to the library for story time. I'm a grown woman. I have good ideas, good instincts. I have a gut feeling this is something I need to do.”

“I don't think of you as that little girl. I know you're grown and you can make your own decisions, and I'm proud of you. But I don't want to put you in this position.”

As I spoke, she shook her head and looked down, as if all the praise I gave rang hollow.

“Why, because you care so much?” She laughed. “You wouldn't know where I was or what I was doing if I hadn't found you at the casino. I had to follow you around like a hungry puppy to get you to notice me.”

“Abby, I think about you every day—”

“Abigail,” she snapped. “And
thinking
about someone doesn't mean you care about them. It's not the same. You think a lot more about gambling than you ever have about your children. I used to think that if I had something wrong with a vital organ, maybe you'd notice me. Maybe you'd care. But then you drew away from Aiden, like you were more concerned with protecting yourself than helping Mom carry the load. What's that like, Dad? Caring about someone by thinking about them but never coming to see them, never calling them? You don't want me to have contact with Tompkins because you care? Sorry, I'm not buying it.”

She whisked out of the room and I sat staring at the computer screen. I knew I had to go after her, but I was glued to the chair, glued to the screen with all the letters and lines running together and my vision blurring from her words.

I see myself as good at dialogue, coming up with the next question for the interview or press conference, boiling the conversation down to one cogent question, so I went through our next scene in the kitchen, me putting a hand on her shoulder, remembering to call her Abigail, telling her I was sorry, thinking of some other assignment to divert her from her plan to wear tight jeans and a clingy blouse that I knew the guy couldn't resist. Something that would keep her satisfied but safe.

Before I could try out my snappy dialogue, my phone buzzed with a restricted call on the screen. An uptight and overly caffeinated voice said, “Please hold for the governor.”

I sat, listening to the hustle and bustle of the wheels of government churning.

“Truman, how's the writing going?” Townsend said. I could see the flash of white teeth, the tweezed eyebrows, the perfectly tanned skin crinkling as he smiled.

“Making progress. Maybe one of these days you'll let me write your story. You seem to be in the news.”

“Things are getting a little crazy, I'll admit that. But I have a favor to ask. Could you meet with me this evening? I have something important to talk about that I can't do over the phone.”

“What time?”

“I'm open at eight fifteen. Oh, and I'd really like Ellen to join us. She should be in on this.”

“That might be tough, given Aiden's condition.”

“How is he doing?”

I told him the latest prayer request Ellen had sent to her Facebook prayer group, and Townsend gave a concerned grunt/groan that showed he was feeling our pain. But as soon as the calculated amount of time had passed, he said, “I think we really need her in on the conversation.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks. I'll see you two tonight then.” He gave me instructions on how to get through security after hours.

I hung up and went to the kitchen to see Abby. The coffeepot was going strong and I heard her engine fire outside. By the time I made it to the door, she was gone.

C
HAPTER
24

Without a word about our previous conversation—nor many words at all—Abby dropped me off later at the hospital. While I met Ellen, Abby hurried up to Aiden's room.

I do not have a good history of being a passenger with my wife driving, and she instinctively headed to the passenger side. Our worst experience had been a few years earlier when she picked me up at the airport. Instead of a mutually satisfying conversation, which I'm not sure I have ever enjoyed, she put the car in park at a red light and climbed into the backseat. Sadly, that was not the low point of our marriage. From that point on, I parked my car at the airport and drove myself. But tonight I would allow her to drive us to the governor's mansion as penance for infractions past. I decided this small gesture would show her how much I had changed.

With trepidation, she started the car. She tried to hide her fatigue and worry but I could see through the fake smile. I asked her how Aiden was doing and she gave a curt, quick answer, as if she was really wondering why I didn't leave enough time to go up and see him.

“Looks like they did a good job on the window,” I said.

“It does cut down on the street noise,” she said. She mentioned that the guy from her church was a gem and had taken care of several automotive problems she'd had over the years, which immediately made me feel like a failure as a husband. I'll bet the guy even did his own oil changes at home, crawling under the engine and getting his hands dirty, something I had never done. I am not a guy who tinkers in the garage on weekends. Nothing mechanical relieves me of stress.

“How's the writing going?” she said.

I'm never sure how to answer that question because writing is a process of momentum. It's a lot like learning to ride a bike and you do it anew with every project. In order to keep the bike up, you must have speed, but you can't have speed until you're sitting on the bike, pedaling with all your might. Time away from the page is a momentum killer. Riding to the governor's mansion after dark was time I wasn't writing, so it frustrated me. But how can you explain that? How do you describe an obsession?

“It's going well,” I said.

“How is it with Abigail?”

I tried not to read anything into the question, but honestly, how can you not? She could have said, “Abby says it's going well” or “Abby says you're a jerk.” I couldn't help but think I was being set up.

“She's a pistol, like always. I can't believe how smart she is. She's a great kid.” I was really laying it on now. I believed those things about my daughter, but the voice didn't sound like mine.

“I can tell she's impressed with you.”

“How so?”

“She says you eat, drink, and sleep the project. You're an animal. When you get committed to something, you won't let go.”

Meaning that if I were half as committed to my marriage and family as I was to my work, I would win Father of the Year? I saw a sign for a casino and was glad Ellen was driving. I needed some release and it had been, for me, a long time since I had visited a gambling establishment.

“Tell me more about what Carlton said,” Ellen said. Her voice was calm and she seemed more comfortable behind the wheel.

I told her the verbatim conversation, leaving out his tan, white teeth, and all the stuff that runs through my head when I think of the toad. I know that last statement was unkind, so in fairness to toads everywhere, consider it withdrawn.

“Sounds kind of ominous,” she said. “What do you think he wants?”

“Knowing Townsend, it'll probably be something simple. Firstborn child. A piece of my anatomy. But I don't think it's a coincidence that I have another interview with Conley tomorrow.”

“It has to be about Aiden.”

“I assume. But given his designs on the White House and what the pundits are saying, he may want to invite you to the inauguration.”

She drove in silence, a little slow for the middle lane, but I didn't say anything. No sir. Not going to mention the fact that cars were passing us on both the left and the right. I just looked out the window, trying to keep my lips tight and my spleen from exploding.

“Maybe he wants you to be his press secretary,” she said. “Have you thought about that?”

The thought had crossed my mind, but I laughed. “I can't imagine a less satisfying job. Trying to come up with creative answers as to why Townsend would do anything would be impossible. I'd rather be unemployed. As for why he wants you there, I think he wants to get another look at your legs.”

She gave that Ellen laugh, the one with all air and a tilt of her head back and a smile that could melt the hardest heart. Yes, she was older and she hadn't had the “help” that Jennifer Townsend had, but she was genuinely beautiful. Not a great driver, of course, but you can't have everything.

“You don't have to worry about my relationship with the governor because I don't have one,” she said.

“You could have. Come on, your parents wanted you to marry him and you know it.”

“That's such an old burial ground, Tru. I chose you.”

“To your everlasting regret. How long did you two date before I found you in the newsroom?”

She shook her head. “Let's not go there.”

“No, we've never really talked about this. It was serious, wasn't it? I mean, think about it. You could be sitting in the governor's mansion tonight getting ready for a move to Washington, DC. Your life would have turned out drastically different. You might not have had children, but you could have raised several porpoises and saved the life of endangered marsh scum.”

“I don't have to live in a mansion to have everything I need.”

“What about everything you want?” A car passed on the right and a guy with more bling than an NBA all-star told us we were number one in his book. Ellen was oblivious.

“I don't think about what my life might have been. I'm too busy with what
is
.”

“And what
is
right now is pretty bad.”

She sighed. “I'd pretty much say I hate my life. The stress. The uncertainty. The struggle with Aiden. With Abigail. With you.”

She said it in a melancholy way that matched the night sky. A lonely, unloved woman sitting beside a lonely loser. We should have been the perfect pair, but we were Naples and Fort Lauderdale, on different sides of the peninsula but with no relational I-75 to help us meet. Highways of the heart can't connect souls when there is so much distance.

“But I'll tell you this,” Ellen said. “I wouldn't trade places with Jennifer Townsend.”

“Why not? All the stability you can handle and the only stress you'd have is where to store your furniture for eight years.”

“Truman, this is going to come as a shock to you, but I wouldn't trade the uncertainty or the stress. I've learned things about myself through this that I never wanted to learn, would never have learned if it all hadn't crashed down around us.”

Our exit was coming up and she was still in the middle lane, but I was able to bite my tongue. I think it was a test and I passed. On the right side, of course.

She continued, “There are things you learn about life and yourself in the valley that you can't learn anywhere else. And yes, God is there.”

“So you're telling me God gave Aiden a bad heart so you could learn more about life? Couldn't you just have gone to one of those women's seminars? That would seem a lot more fair to Aiden.”

She gave her signal and crossed two lanes to the exit. It nearly caused me to speak in tongues.

“I don't presume to know why God does what he does. But I know I would not be the person I am today if I hadn't gone through this.”

“So does that mean I was a mistake? I'm trying to make sense of it. Was I God's punishment to you? Did he zap Aiden because you married a heathen?”

She drove in silence and I knew I had touched a nerve, though I didn't have designs on that nerve.

As we neared the governor's mansion, she pulled over, without giving her signal, and threw the car into park. “I don't look at you as a mistake, Tru. You've given me two beautiful children. All of our troubles caused me to run to God, and I don't think that would have happened if everything had gone smoothly. I'm not happy about our problems, but they've had a deeper effect. I know I can't get you to understand, but it's true. And I still have hope that somehow we can work this out. But I'm tired. It feels like we're in a boat and I'm the only one rowing. And we're going around in the same circle.”

She looked at me without tears, without drama, without longing or anything but that hollow reckoning of a woman who has been alone. Just a blank stare. But even with the stare, there seemed to be an invitation, something drawing me inside the pain.

She didn't say anything else. The prosecution was resting. And the defense had no believable witnesses.

“I'll bet Oleta and Terrelle don't have these kinds of conversations.”

“I'll bet they wish they could,” she said. “She's told me she'd give anything just to have dinner with him and hold his hand or argue over which movie to watch on a Friday night.” She looked into the night. “Abigail tells me she thinks there's a chance Terrelle might be innocent. Do you agree?”

I shrugged. “In the universe of chances, that's one of them. I don't see what it matters at this point.”

The LED clock clicked over another minute. We were already late for the meeting, but that didn't concern her. She was always the one who played loose with the clock. I watched my seconds and she lived by the hour hand.

“Tru, I haven't told you this yet, but Oleta and Terrelle didn't want to write a book. I suggested it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I gave her the money for the book.”

I stared at her, trying to think of the next question at the press conference that had become our marriage.

“It was manipulative and dishonest,” she said.

“But it worked. You got me into the story.”

“I knew if you got onto the trail, you'd be able to follow it. That you wouldn't give up.”

“You knew what I would do with the money.”

She nodded.

“And that I would feel obligated.”

“And that the work would fill in the blank places. That you'd work at it with the same passion as your gambling.”

“And you knew this would get me home.”

“I hoped it would.”

A warm feeling mixed with disgust. “What about Abby? Did you set that up?”

“I was as surprised as you were when she showed up.”

“But you sent her to the casino.”

“She asked where I thought you were.”

I sat with the confession for a moment. “So I lost your money.”

“Our money.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I had savings. There was a life insurance policy my father had paid fully. I took the cash value. Sold a lot of your stuff on eBay.” She smiled. “Just kidding.”

In the midst of this revelation, when my default was to excoriate her for her devious, conniving ways, reach out with my fangs and slice her open, I realized how much it took for her to take this step—or leap of faith. She
wanted
me back in her life, which made me concerned for her sanity and judgment. Perhaps she knew this was our last, best chance.

I processed this and had nearly formulated my response when my cell rang. “It's him,” I said as I answered.

She nodded, put the car in gear, and pulled out without adequately looking at oncoming traffic.