Not in the Heart (31 page)

“That's enough,” Ron said.

“No, let me get this straight.” I did my best Columbo, hand to the head, pacing. “You controlled the appointments, but Carlton set up other clandestine meetings. You discovered the relationship and tried to end it, but she wouldn't comply. You threatened. She believed there was a future for her in his life.”

“I never meant to mislead her,” the governor said. “And I didn't want to hurt you.” He looked at his wife with doe eyes. “But I never dreamed you would—”

“You've always known, Carlton. Don't pretend.”

“No, I never suspected.” He looked at the two of them, crestfallen.

“Do you think I would let a simpleton, a stylist
I
had suggested, keep us from our goal? Yes, it was regrettable. Ron never meant to harm her. We wanted her to leave and offered to help make that happen.”

“Especially since she was carrying the offspring of the future president,” I said.

“That's not true,” she snapped. “The autopsy stated she wasn't pregnant.”

“But she thought she was.” I looked at Townsend. “And she told you that.”

“I told her I would provide for her and her child. Not to worry. Things would work out.”

Ron pointed Helen's gun at me. What kind of name is
Ron
for such a menacing figure?

“That girl was not going to keep us from the White House and neither are you,” Jennifer said to me.

“And Ron here offered Conley a bottle if he'd approach Diana after work that day,” I said. “Or maybe just some money.”

Ron smiled but it did not warm my heart.

“So how does this end?” I said. “There's no drunk on the side of the road you can frame.”

“We tried to warn you, Mr. Wiley,” he said with perfect diction. His words came out as if he were reading a script.

I looked at the ceiling, deep in thought. “So the story will be that a disgruntled father showed up with a gun at the mansion? Why would I be disgruntled when you're doing so much for my son?”

Jennifer smiled. “Now you can phone the prison, Carlton.”

“What?” the governor said.

“He's right. That's how it happened. Truman heard you were considering a stay.”

I took a step forward. Sometimes you wait; sometimes you have to push things ahead. “And Ron here, trusted aide to the First Lady, heroically intervened, saving the governor's life.”

“Former trusted aide,” Ron said. “Who happened to be invited at the last moment.”

“Right. You had to go freelance after the murder. Distance yourself. How did you know I had a gun?”

“Perhaps it was a lucky guess,” Ron said. “Perhaps I have been monitoring you a little more closely than you knew.”

“And Tompkins? Part of your handiwork?”

He smiled but didn't reply. It was really all I needed.

Jennifer looked at her husband. “Call the warden.”

Ron raised the gun and pointed it at my chest. I could see it then, with Mozart sprinting off on another familiar melodic line, the haphazard, winding hand of God moving the chess pieces of our lives in such a way as to have me at this place at this time on this night. My son in a hospital bed. My wife at his side. My daughter and I reconciled. And a man on a gurney at Starke with a doctor and some sharp knives, the full weight of the law hovering over all of them. Over all of us. Did God really work this quickly? Was this his answer? I had to believe it was.

I had to believe.

I looked at Ron, then at Mrs. Townsend, then at the gun.

“Please. Not in the heart.”

Before the man could pull the trigger, the governor shouted, “No!” He sprang from his seat and lunged for Ron's arm, but the gun went off and I felt a weird sensation. It wasn't searing pain like I expected. I staggered back against the wall and must have hit the radio because Mozart went silent. But I could still hear him in my head.

Ba da ba bum bum bum bum bum.

At least, it sounded like Mozart.

It was the strangest thing, like some brother I'd never had putting pressure on an artery. And a deep feeling of peace washing through me, past all of the questions and doubt and hard-heartedness.

The door opened and people rushed in. A radio squawked. Someone called for an ambulance. Now more people in the room. Someone pressing on my neck.

“There's a lot of blood,” someone said.

“Sir, can you hear me?”

Flashing lights. Movement.

“Just hold on,”
I heard someone whisper.
“Hold on.”

C
HAPTER
49

Ellen squeezed her son's hand but received no response before they wheeled the gurney away. Her pastor was there, along with his wife and several members of the church keeping a silent vigil in the waiting room.

Abby stepped off the elevator and fell into her mother's arms. “Something's off with Dad,” she said.

Ellen couldn't shake the same feeling, one of dread or a growing sense that something was taking over his life. She filled Abby in on his last phone call but since then he hadn't made contact or answered any texts. Another family came into the room and Ellen and Abby stood by the far window, the one overlooking the emergency room.

A nurse found them and the room got quiet. The woman let them know Aiden was being prepped for the procedure. It was a matter of waiting now. Everyone in the room looked at the clock. Ellen thought of Oleta and what she was going through at the prison. The television was muted but showed the scene outside Starke and protesters lined up with placards. Ellen had to turn away and saw an ambulance racing toward the hospital. Then an urgent report cut in from a reporter outside the governor's mansion who seemed frantic to read information from a notepad.

“Mom,” Abby said. It was a plea of helplessness, and Ellen recognized it. She pulled her daughter to her shoulder and the two wept together.

Moments later, Dr. Fanelli hurried into the waiting room and found Ellen and pulled her into an empty hall. It seemed to her that bits of information were flowing through his brain she would never understand. Until he spoke.

“Ellen, listen carefully. There has been a stay of execution.”

“What?”

“The governor just gave a stay order. Terrelle's heart is not available.”

As if those words weren't enough to take her breath, he spoke again, measured, gentle.

“Ellen, your husband has been shot. Truman was injured. He's being brought to surgery. But there has been a massive loss of blood, as I understand.”

The room spun, moved like an amusement park ride. There was no air. No sound. No light. Just death.

“What happened? Was it . . . self-inflicted?”

“No. Something happened at the governor's mansion. We don't know the details. But I need your decision. Truman is an organ donor. . . . Are you able to make this decision? Do you want your pastor with you?”

“What decision?”

“If we can't save him. If we can't resuscitate . . .”

Ellen listened, processed the information, and through tears nodded. The doctor hurried away, barking orders. Ellen was met by Abby and the others and fell to the floor, sobbing.

After the surgery, Dr. Fanelli allowed Ellen into the room where her husband lay. The body had been hastily prepared and the room sanitized. There were no blood-spattered garments, no gaping holes. He was covered from the neck down. All she saw was his face and the tousled hair and the lines drawn by time and stress.

“I've never seen anything like it, Ellen,” Dr. Fanelli said. The man wasn't weeping, but close to it. “It was as though he knew he had to hold on, just the right amount of time.”

Ellen couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.

“The bullet missed the heart but struck a major artery,” the man continued. “He never really had a chance. The blood filled . . . He just would not let go. Through willpower or some power greater than his own, he held on.”

The doctor left her alone with Truman, and Ellen touched his cheek again as a tear fell. She had dreamed they would be together, prayed that God would allow them to live until they were old and had grandchildren. But here was Truman, ashen, his life taken in an instant.

She couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't process the loss of a husband and the gain of a son—if that's what would eventually happen. How could she process that? It would take a lifetime.

Through the blur of tears and the memories, she noticed something she hadn't seen on his face in a long time. Maybe she had never seen it. It was a look of peace.

E
PILOGUE

“Put that down!” Abigail Wiley told her brother as he lugged a box into the entry.

“It's not that heavy,” Aiden said. He wiped some sweat from his brow. “Dr. Granger said I can do just about anything I want now. And there's two more out by the frog.”

She shook her head at him and focused on the box. The familiar logo of the publishing house stood out and something electric shot through her. Like Christmas and her birthday and wedding day rolled into one.

“Mom! They're here!”

Ellen came running and stopped short when she spied the box. She quickly retrieved a pair of scissors and cut away the clear tape. It was all too slow for Aiden, who grabbed the cardboard and ripped the top apart.

Inside were the brightly colored book covers with the catchy title. Terrelle Conley's face appeared in a photo that had circulated the globe. Hands raised, arms outstretched, being embraced by his wife—it was a bittersweet photo that captured the elation but not the loss Abigail and her family felt.

Abigail picked up a copy gingerly and held it like it was a piece of her father. In fact, it was. It was a piece of all of them and what they had been through the past year.

Aiden opened to the pictures in the middle of one copy. “They got the funeral in here.” He pointed out the network news personalities and political and sports celebrities who had paid their respects. He looked at his mother. “Did you ever figure out whose arrangement that was from New Orleans?”

“No,” their mother said, then opened a copy to the dedication page. Abigail watched as her mother put a hand to her mouth and turned away.

Abigail stared at the cover and the words at the bottom:
Written by Truman and Abby Wiley
. It felt like cheating to have her name there, but having it as “Abby” made sense. It would honor her dad in a small way.

She had gone back and forth about the attribution with the publisher and Gina Lessinger, her father's former agent, who had a change of heart after his death. With all the work she put into the manuscript and the interviews that were sure to come, it was only fair to name her. But she felt unworthy.

“We should call Oleta,” her mother said, but before she reached the phone, there was a knock at the door. Oleta held a copy and tears of joy brimmed. Behind her was Terrelle, shy but beaming.

“We won't come in because we've got the cat dander on us, probably,” she said. “But we had to come right over when the UPS guy delivered these.”

The three of them joined Oleta and Terrelle outside. There was a nervous pause as they all focused on the book cover, then read the back.

“I never thought I'd see my husband on the outside again,” Oleta said to Abigail. “We have your father to thank for that.”

“Your father would be proud,” Terrelle said, his voice deep and plaintive.

“He would have loved to be there when this picture was taken,” Abigail said.

“He'd have loved seeing Ron Detmüller with his blond hair shaved off and on his way to prison,” Aiden said. “And what it did to Townsend and his wife.”

“I don't think he would have rejoiced in their demise,” Oleta said. “I think he would have felt a little sorry for them.”

“I'll never forget his visits to me at the end,” Terrelle said.

“I'll never forget the detective who found Dad's flash drive,” Abigail said. “He had tears in his eyes. You don't see that every day.”

Her mother held the book to her chest and looked toward the trees. Birds were getting antsy to leave the coast and fly north.

“What are you thinking, Mom?” Aiden said.

“That we should go to the beach. Take a walk down there to celebrate. I think Truman would like that.”

And so they did. When Terrelle and Oleta left, the three of them hopped in the Sequoia and drove straight to the beach, recounting stories of Truman Wiley on the way. They spoke of his failures, the love they felt, their regrets, and what he taught them in his imperfect way.

As the sun was setting, Aiden and his mother waded into the surf arm in arm, pant legs rolled up, laughing and enjoying the moment. But Abigail walked behind, her feet just outside the reach of the incoming tide. She thought of her father's heart and how it now beat in the chest of her brother. His last gift to them.

She wished she could tell her father what she had learned. About life. About him. Even about God and possibilities. It felt like all God needed was an open door. An open heart.

And then she waded in after them, splashing and running toward her family, into the ocean.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my Tyndale family for letting me tell another story from the heart. Sarah Mason helped rescue my ramblings and get Truman's voice. Karen Watson continues to encourage—thanks for giving me a chance. Thanks also to Sherry Parmelee, who read an early version and provided Tallahassee pictures and technical help, especially with Murrow.

Thanks to Sean Callebs for his friendship and allowing me to use a tiny slice of his career as the catalyst for this tale.

Thanks to all who read my stories. I'm humbled at your feedback and that you continue to read. May your tribe increase.

Thanks to my nine children for being constant inspirations, and to my own Ellen, Andrea, who puts up with much too much of my Trumanness.

And thanks to God for his indescribable gift, which changes anyone who will open their heart to him.