The Runaway Pastor's Wife (10 page)

I
suppose this information would have remained a secret indefinitely had Elliot’s
direct “spies” not reported to him of my plans to divorce Amelia. He confronted
me with this report and made it clear that he would not allow a divorce. I
wasn’t actually surprised by his reaction. Anything that could remotely cause
an unfavorable reflection on Elliot Thomas or his family is never
tolerated—even something as simple as a divorce. People get divorced. It
happens. But to blue-bloods like the Thomases, divorce is apparently not
acceptable. It’s not an option. You have to know Elliot Thomas to understand
that. Everything, but everything revolves around his political career. And if
he deems it bad for his political standing, he won’t stand for it. He’ll do
whatever it takes to avoid a controversy, no matter how big or how small. No
matter how ridiculous it may seem to anyone else.

But it
was the threat that caused my alarm. It was more than a threat—it was
blackmail. Elliot said he would pull The Sports Page out from under me if I
divorced Amelia, and he proceeded to tell me just how he could do it.

At
first, I thought it was hopeless. I would certainly lose my company. Then I
remembered an incident that happened several years ago. An incident that
implicates Congressman Elliot Thomas of conspiracy to commit first degree
murder.

It
happened in 1992, about a year after Amelia and I got married. Elliot invited
me to join him and his chief of staff, a guy named Duke, on a weekend hunting
trip. We went to a place near
Natchitoches
,
Texas
, where
Elliot always goes on his hunting trips. We stayed at a big cabin out in the
woods. He thought it would give us a chance to get to know each other better.
It was my off-season so I figured, why not?

The
last night we were there, we built a big fire in the fireplace and pulled up
some chairs and a sofa in front of it. We were all drinking and telling
stories. The usual kind of stuff. They wanted to hear stories about some of the
ball players I knew, and they were telling all kinds of stories about people in
Washington
. Some
unbelievably private stuff about presidents, first ladies, Supreme Court
justices. The two of them talked and laughed long into the night.

Duke
and Elliot kept drinking like a couple of sailors on leave. I stopped earlier
in the evening because I wasn’t feeling well. I felt awful—my head hurt, I was
nauseated, I had chills—the whole flu thing. I finally stretched out on the
sofa, right in front of the fireplace and tried to go to sleep. By then they
were both drunk. Completely smashed. They were giving me a hard time for not
keeping up, but I felt so rotten I didn’t care. I just ignored them, rolled
over with my back to them, and finally drifted off to sleep.

I must
have slept a couple of hours or so. Evidently I had a pretty bad fever because
even with that fire going, I was freezing. I guess that’s why I began to wake
up. I didn’t move or anything, just started to become aware that I wasn’t
sleeping anymore. Elliot and Duke were sitting over at the kitchen table by
then, still carrying on, talking and laughing. They had no idea I was awake.
I’m sure they thought I was out for the night.

All of
a sudden I heard them mention Christopher Jordan, the senator who was killed in
a boating explosion several years ago.

I knew
from Amelia that Elliot had hated Christopher Jordan. Actually, ‘hate’ doesn’t
even begin to describe it. They despised each other. At the time,
Jordan
was
the Chairman of the
House Ways
and
Means Committee. Elliot had worked on a project to build a huge new addition to
the space center in
Houston
. NASA
had planned to build it at the Cape in Florida, but Elliot wasn’t about to let
that happen. He’d promised some major pork to his buddies back home. He had a
whole slew of land developers falling all over themselves to get this one. All
Elliot had to do was deliver the deal to
Texas
.

Obviously,
Jordan and Elliot butted heads. Actually, this NASA project was just the last
of a long line of bones Elliot had to pick with
Jordan
. These
two had bad blood between them that goes way back. Seems
Jordan
has
been Elliot’s nemesis since the two of them were back in law school at Harvard.
I don’t know exactly what started their feud. Probably just a natural contempt
for each other that continued to fester over the years. Problem was,
Jordan
was
always at least one or two steps ahead of Elliot. Every committee, every key
appointment, every prestigious chairmanship—
Jordan
seemed
to float right in and sail off with the prize. Elliot despised him for that.

Anyone
who knows Elliot knows the kind of ego that drives him. Guys like him won’t put
up with playing second fiddle forever. When
Jordan
was
appointed Chairman of the
House Ways
&
Means Committee, Elliot was furious. That, coupled with the humiliation he
experienced when
Jordan
made him grovel over
that NASA deal. I think it was more than Elliot could take.

I
realize how ridiculous this may sound. To imply that a
United
States
congressman would try to pull off cold-blooded
murder out of pure jealousy must sound crazy. But please hear me out.

Let me
get back to that night at the cabin. As I said, Elliot and Duke were absolutely
smashed. I’d never seen either one of them even slightly inebriated, let alone
drunk. Elliot kept giggling like a little kid. That’s probably what woke me up
in the first place. He isn’t exactly the sort of man who “giggles” if you know
what I mean. But Duke had him going with something about the “risks of nautical
life.” They were coming up with every possible pun you could imagine. Elliot
was actually singing and making up all sorts of dumb songs.

They
were laughing so hard, Duke even fell out of his chair onto the floor. Elliot
was practically gasping for air, he was laughing so hard. Then once they
started to calm down, Elliot began to mumble a lot. I could still understand
him just the same. I remember his exact words. He said, “Ol’
Jordan
thought he could threaten me, didn’t he? Said to me, ‘Thomas, you’ll take that
pork to
Texas
over my dead body!’
Well sir, he didn’t have to ask but once now, did he!” And off they went again,
howling and laughing as if it was the funniest thing ever said.

By
then, I was wide awake but I didn’t move an inch. I didn’t miss a word, but
they had no idea I was listening. They kept talking about some guy named “Bo.”
I didn’t have a clue who that was at first. I had never heard Elliot mention
anyone by that name. But Duke said, “I told you I never liked that name! I
wanted to give him a code name like Popeye—it was the perfect name for him and
you knew it! But nooo! You had to go and pick some sissy name like Beauregard.
What kind of a stupid name is that?” Then Elliot said, “We name this guy
something like Popeye and we might as well take out a full page ad in the
Washington
Post.
Just print a full confession in black and white! Anybody with half a brain
would link us to that bombing. Thank God, one of us has a brain, you moron.”

They
started singing again. They even harmonized on one song over and over—“My
Jordan
lies
over the ocean, my
Jordan
lies
over the sea, my
Jordan
lies ALL over the
ocean, can’t bring back ol’
Jordan
to
me!”

They
started singing more stupid songs, and the drunken laughter went on all night.
With each one I began to piece together what must have happened. If only I’d
had a tape recorder.

Eventually
they passed out. Fell sound asleep right there sprawled all over the kitchen
table. My mind was racing in a thousand directions. And then I remembered
something. The television coverage of Christopher Jordan’s death. The remnants
of his yacht. Even though it had been years ago, long before I knew Elliot, I
could still see those images in my mind. Scenes filmed at his funeral. His wife
and children consumed by their grief. The twenty-one gun salute. Taps.

And
then I remembered seeing the new Chairman of the
House
Ways
and Means Committee—none other than Elliot Thomas—the
bereaving Congressman, at times too choked up to continue as he eulogized the
“beloved statesman and American hero.” And it all started to make sense to me.

So why
didn’t I go to the authorities? Why didn’t I turn them in? After all, this was
the murder of a prominent congressman of the
United
States
. Why didn’t I tell someone?

For
several reasons, and all of them selfish, I’m sorry to say. I had only been
married to Amelia for a year, but I already knew how much power Elliot Thomas
carried. To be perfectly honest, he scared me to death. Still does. And I was
primarily concerned with how it would affect
me
. I wasn’t about to risk
having my reputation tainted with this story if Elliot was brought down. I
wanted to be known as a Major League baseball player—not forever remembered as
the man who blew the whistle on a dirty politician. It’s no secret that
athletic accomplishments are quickly forgotten when scandal enters the picture.

I knew
I had to keep my mouth shut. And in a perverted way of thinking, I realized I
could always use the information if Elliot ever crossed me. That may sound
rather calloused, but at that point in my life, it was the way my mind worked.

However,
I did a little investigation on my own over those next few months. An odd guy
named Bo would show up at the country club from time to time when Elliot and
Duke were around. Eventually, I began to put two and two together, so I hired a
private investigator to check him out. I have in my possession a complete
background document on him—along with some rather incriminating evidence—phone
records, flight logs, receipts, photographs. This information clearly links
Mitch Creason—aka “Beauregard” aka “Bo”—to Elliot Thomas, implicating the
congressman in the murder of Christopher Jordan.

Now,
the tables have all been turned. It’s time to use my secret files. Elliot isn’t
the only one who knows how to use blackmail. I have no other choice. This guy
plays in a ballpark that’s way out of my league. He knows no limits whatsoever.
I am fully aware of that and always have been since that weekend in the
backwoods of
Texas
.

My
whole life is my company now. Elliot may have helped me with the start up, but
it was
my
blood, sweat and tears that made
The
Sports Page
what it is today. I refuse to stand by and watch him steal it
from me.

— Michael
Dean

Michael hit the return key several times,
leaving a short break in the text before adding a final personal note.

Grady,

Elliot
gave me 24 hours to give him an answer. The clock is ticking. This is literally
a matter of life and death for me. Once I have confronted Elliot with this
information, I can only imagine what his reaction will be.  I believe it could
be deadly.

As I
instructed you before, please make sure this document goes to the Attorney
General’s office ASAP. Before you make that contact, I need you to go to
Houston
and
pick up the file of evidence. You can find it in Locker 486 in the men’s locker
room at The Page. The combination is
21-6-15
.
Please turn this evidence over to the Attorney General along with this
document.

I
apologize for having to involve you in this mess, Grady. But with the stakes so
high, I knew you were the only one I could trust. You’re the best, Brewster.

—M

Checking once more to make sure the letter was
saved, he entered the appropriate commands then saved it to a flash drive which
he removed and placed it in a small envelope. He scrawled Grady’s name on the
front.

Michael sat back in his seat and closed his
eyes. He released a long, exhausted sigh. The well-kept secret had taken its
toll on him, much to his surprise. Having the sordid details finally off his
chest—even if only in writing—proved a remarkable relief.

He leaned his seat back hoping to take a short
nap just as the flight attendant announced the plane would be landing in ten
minutes. Michael pushed the button, returning his seat to its upright position,
but his eyes remained closed.