This Much Is True (45 page)

Tally moans only once and then she’s fiercely pacing the length of the room as if a renewable-energy source has just surged through her body unexpectedly. “He tried to rape me,” she says more fiercely. “He was going to kill me but then the knife clattered onto the ground, and I grabbed for it and he wrestled it from me and stabbed me in my side a second time. That’s when I started thinking about what exactly I could live with.” Her eyes narrow and she looks hard at the lady cop, who eventually has to break her gaze from Tally’s. “Even as he drew it out of me and held it to my neck again and I saw all my blood pooling on the stone walkway, I kept thinking:
What can I live with
? Somehow, I wrestled him for the knife, and I stabbed him. He stopped long enough that I was able to push my way out from underneath him. I started to run from him, but he grabbed my ankle and twisted it hard and then stabbed the knife into the top of my foot. And that’s when I got really pissed off because now he was just being cruel. I need my feet to dance. I remember turning around and kicking at him with my good foot, but he managed to get up and come after me, and he grabbed my arms again.”

She stops for a long moment seemingly caught up in the horror and reliving it all over again. New sweat forms along her hairline. She brushes at it with the back of her hand and begins to make these little gasping sounds as if it’s an all but futile search for air of any kind, even as her breath gets shallower. She edges her way so slowly across the floor it’s as if she’s moving on sheer will, alone. She grabs her midsection and clutches a single crutch with the other, as if she has to physically hold herself together, with this singular effort.

On some existential level, I feel like I’m the one holding her up—by some intrepid force, imagined or otherwise—from the other side of the glass if only because of our intrinsic connection.
And it may not be enough. Panic surges.

“I pushed him away and he fell. He didn’t get back up. I noticed Rebar sticking out of him at a weird angle, and he got this glazed look. I grabbed the stone wall for support and made my way out into the middle of the street. I stopped the first car I saw. A taxi. Miraculously, it was my husband Linc and the taxi driver. They saved my life by taking me to the hospital before I bled to death.”

“The taxi driver says Lincoln Presley
your husband
went into the alley.”

“He didn’t.” She vehemently shakes her head side-to-side. “He went to edge of it, but he never went in. He got a look at the guy’s face from twenty feet away, but he never left my side because I begged him not to.”

“You’re lying. You weigh all of a hundred pounds,” the Russian woman scoffs. “How could you have pushed a man of that size to the ground?”

“You want to try that theory out?” Tally asks.

She leans the crutches against the table stands firm on her good foot with her hands on her hips now, although I see her secretly flinch with pain. The Russian woman walks over and digs her nails into Tally’s forearms. Within two seconds, the woman’s on the ground and hits her head hard on the cement floor.

“Anyone else?” Tally asks, rubbing her hands together.

Tally’s eyes turn the fierce jade-green again as she stares them down. One of the guys shuffles over, while the woman detective gets up and angrily dusts herself off. He approaches Tally from the front and grabs at her left arm; but within seconds he, too, is on the floor. If they weren’t impressed before, they are now. All of them hang their heads and won’t look at Tally, except for the Russian woman. She gets this sinister smile, and demands Tally tell the story all over again.

Four more times.

Same story.

The only thing that concerns me is why Tally lied about me going into the alley.
Why lie?
Then, it slowly dawns on me that there’s no witness to back up what I did or didn’t do in the alley.
She’s protecting me with that lie.
She pushed the guy, but her statement doesn’t bring into question about what or who killed him if I never went into the alley.

After telling the story in total five times, Tally retreats to the chair they designated for her earlier and hasn’t moved since the last retelling. All five leave the room for a supposed conference. Tally stares straight ahead at the blank, yellowed wall in front of her. The guard with me rolls his eyes, and then shuffles out of the room, leaving me alone, too.

It’s like we’re on different ends of the world.

I’m studying Tally’s face looking for any sign of what she might be thinking when I notice the blood beginning to pool on the floor next to her chair. She seems to notice it at about the same time, too. She inhales deep and then kind of sighs as she gets up from the chair, grabs her crutches, and slowly makes her way over to the mirror. She places her palm on it. I do the same from the other side, bleakly noting how her blood stains the mirror on her side.

She’s talking low. It takes a few seconds to figure out what she’s saying. “I’m sorry, Elvis. I’m so sorry. I really am. I’m sorry about everything.” Her eyes fill with tears as she absently wipes at them with her right hand. She attempts to smile and then steps back from the mirror. “I’m sorry for putting you through this. I hope you forgive me someday.”

“Nothing to forgive. I love you, Tally,” I say, even though she can’t hear me.
Such simple words and yet how often have I said them to her? Hardly ever.

She retakes her place back at the table and places her boot over the pool of blood staining the floor and just stares at the wall.

The guard returns and gestures that I should follow him. I take one look back at Tally sitting there—so forlorn—while her blood still pools beneath the table. Yet I actually smile, consoling myself with the certainty that I’ll be able to see her and touch her and tell her, I love her,
in person
, just minutes from now.

We’ll finally sort this whole thing and the two of us out. Together.

* * * *

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Linc ~ Hanging by a moment

E
lation carries me out the door and away from her. Our upcoming reunion doesn’t have me looking back because the simple promise of our reconciliation has me moving forward and out the door.

I’ll see her in a few minutes. We’ll be together soon—minutes from now. We will work this out. We will come together. Finally.

Kimberley’s there. One of the officers undoes my handcuffs, while she hands me a stack of clothes and quietly tells me, “
to hurry up and fucking
change
.”Only Kimberley Powers could put a finer point on the circumstances more bluntly than anyone else.
Sense of urgency implied.
Another officer thumbs me toward a restroom. I duck inside, wash my face and hands, and marvel at the fine soap that the officers get to use versus their prisoners. I change in a hurry, while my mind swims with endless thoughts of Tally.
I have to get to Tally. We have to stop the bleeding both physically and mentally of her and me.
I’ll see her in a few minutes, and this thing will be all but over. Our reconciliation will finally happen. Nothing and no one can keep us apart any longer.

Kimberley meets me in the hallway. She holds up her index finger to her lips as soon as I start to speak. She firmly grabs my arm and leads me toward the front of the police station. We pass the cops waiting around in the outer office. We pass right by the interrogation team at a hurried pace; they still watch me with this recognizable suspicion when I glance their way. Kimberley tells me to ignore them and to keep moving. “Keep fucking moving,” she urgently whispers.

The police chief, himself—the cop with the most decorated uniform and endless gold bars and stars bars on his jacket—personally escorts us out of the police station and down the intimidating building’s front steps. He briefly shakes my hand and then hurries back up the stairs and into the dark recesses of the front entrance. I’m too stunned by his abrupt escort and my subsequent release to realize what’s actually happening.

There are reporters everywhere, holding up their various cameras with flashing white lights and winking red buttons that indicate they’re already recording these events. They shout in both Russian and English all around us.

My lawyer, who Kimberley briefly introduces me to as
Ken
something or other, is on one side of me, while Kimberley is on the other. Instead of stopping to address the press, they usher me straight toward a waiting black SUV and push me through the open passenger door without fanfare of any kind.

“No comment,” Kimberley says, turning back only once to address the crowd of reporters before she climbs in the car right behind me. Ken gets in from the other side and ominously slams and locks the door.

“Kimberley, what about Tally?” I ask in sudden desperation as I finally realize we’re just going to drive away.

“Not right now,” she says to me. “Go!” Kimberley shouts to the driver.

We’re doing sixty in as many seconds.

“Don’t stop,” she shouts to the driver above the roar of the vehicle’s gunned engine.

Another two minutes sail by before she turns to me.

“You look like shit. Sorry.” She frowns. “There’s a quasi press conference at the airport with mostly American reporters. Here’s a toothbrush. Drink this water. Comb your hair. Chew this gum. Here’s your speech. Memorize it. You’ll be giving it as soon as we get there.”

I stare at the piece of paper and start to read it aloud. “It’s been a harrowing experience to be accused of a crime I didn’t commit. I’m looking forward to putting all of this behind me and the opportunity to again throw a baseball in the greatest country in the world—the United States of America.” I stop and take a breath and hold it for a few minutes to get my temper under control. “I’m
not
saying this.”

“Yes. You. Are.”

“It doesn’t even mention Tally. It makes me sound like a fucking hero.”

“You are. It’s subtle, but
yes,
that’s how we’re playing it.”

“No,” I say with a groan. “I took her to the hospital. She was almost
raped
, Kimberley. The guy attacked her and may have been trying to kill her. He knew who she was. Geez. What happened to her is so much worse than what happened to me in there.” I point back toward the receding outline of the Moscow Police headquarters just before it disappears from view. “I have to go back and tell her how sorry I am about everything. I have to tell her how I feel about
her
.
About us.
I have to win her back. I have to hope that she’ll forgive me, despite all of this, and in leaving her right now when she needs me the most.”

“No.” Kimberley’s eyes fill with tears.

I’m taken aback because Kimberley normally doesn’t cry, except sometimes when she talks about Elliot. The old fears start to creep in. “Kimberley, I have to get to Tally. You don’t know what they can do to her. Turn the car around.” Desperation returns.

“You can’t be with her, Linc. Not now. Not for a long time. She’s Kryptonite for you, Superman. Under these circumstances…she may be accused of a crime before this is done. She’ll probably have to go through their courts and clear her name. It will probably be ruled self-defense, but we don’t know that for sure. You can’t be with her or be near her or even talk to her, until this whole thing blows over. If it ever does,” she adds grimly. “And she knows that.”

At this point, Ken decides to insert himself in the conversation. “Mr. Presley, my advice is to get you out of the country as quickly as possible before the Moscow Police decide to re-examine your statement.”

“I’m paying you five hundred an hour for that opinion?” I don’t even attempt to hide my disdain for the guy.

“We’re in
Moscow
, Mr. Presley. My rates are quadruple that. We’ve been here for
seven
days.”

I’m not going to get anywhere with Ken. That much is clear. And I owe him a bundle of money already.
Shit.
“Turn the car around!” I roar.

“No,” Kimberley says and then cajoles the driver to go even faster.

“Turn the car around!”

“No! She
knows
. I talked to her on the way to the police headquarters. I told her this was how it might go down. She had a pretty good idea of what she might be walking into. I prepared her as much as I could.”

“You told her to
lie
about me going into the alley?”

“Well no,” Kimberley says, looking confused. “She told me you
didn’t
go into the alley. What are you talking about?”

“I went into the alley.
I
went into the alley, and I saw him lying there. I saw his face. He was alive but just barely. I didn’t do anything to him, but I saw him. That’s how I could identify him to that first detective. Yet when she gave her statement, she said I didn’t go into the alley. She was specific about that—”

“Don’t say anymore,” Ken says.

“So they couldn’t hold you.” Kimberley holds her head in her hands for a moment and quietly moans. “She
knew
that. She knew that it could ruin your career if you were involved in any way.
She knew.
I told her the Angels were already balking at your contract extension. They’re unhappy with how this went down.”

“What?” I ask, incredulous. “That I stopped to help a girl, who was in trouble, who, by the way, they think is
my wife
?”

“Yes,” she says, but then hastily glances away out the window. A minute goes by, and then she’s gazing back at me, looking uneasy all at once. “Don’t get me started, Linc. You can’t go back. There’s nothing you can do. She knows that. I told her the Angels weren’t happy with you and might not extend your contract. I was panicked, okay? I didn’t know how I was going to tell you that your baseball career might be over.”

“Wow. They
are
unhappy,” I say. Then, I shake my head in disbelief. “Do you know how that looks to Tally? Leaving her like this? I’m choosing baseball
again
.”

Deeply disappointed with the Angels and somewhat annihilated by the idea that my career may be over, I draw in air and search for courage, although the fears have already begun to roll in on me, one by one, just like Tally and I talked about once.
Falling. Failing. Losing. I feel them all.
My career might be finished. And yet it’s nothing compared to the thought of losing Tally forever. I take a fear-releasing breath; and with it comes the staggering realization of how insignificant losing my career baseball is in comparison to losing Tally.

“Do you know how that looks to Tally?” I finally say.

“She knows it wasn’t you making that choice.”

“And that makes it okay?”

“No.” Kimberley sighs. There’s a hint of defeat in her eyes. “Look. Rob Thorn is there with her. Marla and Charlie met him at the Moscow airport this morning. I briefly met with her and told her how I thought it might go down so did Ken.” Kimberley waves over at my lawyer. “Her own lawyer whom Rob hired on her behalf told her how it might go down. She knew what she was walking into.”

“No one can prepare you for the Moscow Police. It’s not the States, Kimberley.”

We stare at one another for a long thirty seconds. She looks away first but not before I glimpse her uncertainty.

“I have to go back.”

She ignores what I’ve said. “Charlie and Marla are meeting us at the airport. We’ve chartered a plane. Your dad took care of it and your Uncle Chad and even Rob Thorn. Your trip home is bought and paid for in all the ways that count.” She looks unhappy with herself. “Look, you can’t help her. If you go back and restate your statement, they’ll start suspecting hers. You have to stay out of it.
Listen to me.
It’s done. Your part is done. There’s nothing else you can do.”

“But we’re
married
,” I say with true feeling because even
I
believe the lies I’ve told now.

Kimberley just rolls her eyes at me. “You’re. Not. Married.”

“They think we are. I signed for her surgery. As far as they know, she’s my wife, and I’m her husband.”

Kimberley sighs big and then gets this vexed look. “In a matter of hours, they’ll figure out that wasn’t true. We have to get you
out of the country
and back to the States before they actually come up with something legitimate to hold you on—like
lying
about your marital status. Get a grip, Prez.”

Kimberley looks out the window again, apparently now intent on studying the Russian landscape that we’re passing at the incredible speed of light, and in search of all the right answers. Then she turns and stares at me hard.

“You can’t help her. She knows that. She asked for Rob. She
called
Rob. He can help her. Her lawyer can help her. You. Can’t. Help. Her.”

“Rob never lets her down. She can depend on him, where she’s never really been able to depend on me when the chips are down. Kimberley, she is the only thing that matters to me. I can throw a baseball for anybody, any team, anywhere. If I leave Tally this time I will lose her forever and rightly so.” I tap the driver’s shoulder. “Turn the car around.” I look over at Kimberley intently. “You know what that’s like…when you really love somebody.” She gets this wounded look, and I feel a little bad for unconsciously bringing up Elliott. “Turn the car around,” I say again to the driver.

He looks at Kimberley through the rearview mirror. “Turn the car around,” she finally says. She gets this little smile when she looks at me. “You really love her.”

“I do. I always have.” I grab her hand and kiss it. “It’s going to be okay, Kimberley.”

* * *

We pull up outside the Moscow Police Headquarters within ten minutes. The reporters are still staked out in their tactical positions, awaiting news of Tally Landon’s fate as much as I am. I take a much-needed cleansing breath fully preparing to throw over my career for Tally.
Part of me registers just one thought: That it’s about time I took a stand.

I’m out of the car and jogging up the steps before Kimberley can change her mind about me doing this. Within a few minutes, the reporters have become alerted to the fact that I’ve returned. A flurry of activity has their microphones set up in front of me to capture every word within a span of five minutes. I borrow a little from Kimberley’s prepared speech and center myself. I already know that what I say can make the difference in Tally’s release or not. I recognize enough of these reporters. Many are from L.A. and San Francisco. There’s enough American representation to ensure this story gets played worldwide; and, for once, I’m grateful that being who I am and my fame might somehow help Tally or hopefully ensure her freedom. The Russians all around us look a little nervous as I address the growing crowd.

“It’s been a harrowing experience to be accused of a crime I didn’t commit and yet my experience is nothing compared to Talia Delacourt’s. She’s an accomplished star ballerina, who was violently attacked, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and, perhaps, just for being famous. The taxi driver and I just happened along at the right time to help her and save her life by being the ones to get her to a hospital in time.” I extend my hand toward the crowd. “Helping Talia Delacourt was the least I could do. I’d do it again, even if it means losing my baseball career over a straightforward misunderstanding and an outright false accusation of a crime I didn’t commit.” I take a breath. “Now I’m looking forward to putting all that’s happened here behind me and knowing that Talia Delacourt is going to be okay is a huge relief. However, right now, she is behind those closed doors telling her story to the Moscow Police and relating the horrible circumstances of that day as the victim of Balanchine’s reprehensible violence. I anticipate she’ll be released shortly after giving her statement. And I plan to be right here when she is.”

The overall crowd begins to murmur at the last part of what I said, and I note a few of Moscow’s police officers rush inside the front doors, probably intent on notifying the powers that be as to what I’ve just said.

“As to my own future, I hope to get back to the States and soon return to throwing a baseball in the greatest country in the world—the United States of America.” I stop again and cast my eyes over the crowd of reporters and slowly nod. “Whether that is for the Los Angeles Angels or another Major League Baseball team remains to be seen.” Kimberley’s in the far background openly glaring at me and practically waving me off. “I’m not the hero here. Talia Delacourt is. She was violently attacked by this Nicholai Balanchine and yet bravely fought him off. He inadvertently died from injuries sustained when he landed on a piece of Rebar sticking up from the ground when Tally defended herself against his attack of her. That’s the truth. Truly? All that matters here is that Tally is okay and by some miracle, she’ll recover from her serious injuries and Balanchine’s reprehensible violence. She did nothing wrong. She’s the victim here. She’s innocent. We should all be as brave and courageous as Talia. I’m in awe of her. She’s is an extraordinary talent, and we should all have a better appreciation for the arts and ballet because of her.” I look over at the American reporters I already recognize. “As Americans, we’re lucky to have our freedoms and such talents in our midst. I know we all hope that Talia returns back to the States immediately so we can watch all of her fantastic performances. She is gifted. Extraordinary. The real hero—
heroine,
if you will—of this story is Talia herself. She’s the bravest, smartest, and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known and an incredible dancer, besides. We’re lucky to have her. I just hope she knows how much she’s loved…by all of us, especially me. Thank you. Now, I’ll answer your questions.”