The Charity (49 page)

“I went through some old papers a long deceased aunt left behind and found the letter and the keys.” She produced a faded but functional identification card with her photograph and the name ‘Jess Winters’ on it. Thick make-up covered most of the purple bruises on her face. She was sensitive to being whispered about and watched the doors and the movement of the bank guards carefully. No one seemed alarmed.

“Mrs. Winters? So sorry to keep you waiting. My manager said these keys are fine. Please come right this way.” The bank clerk resumed her perky yet professional attitude. The slightly overweight clerk was dressed in a thickly woven wool skirt and crisply pressed white shirt. The open cardigan sweater was adorned with a cheap red and green enameled pin in the likeness of Christmas presents. She led Jessica to a small, private viewing room.

Taking one of the keys, the clerk returned to the musty room carrying a long metal box. “Your other key goes in the top to unlock it. If you need anything, just press this button.”

Jessica smiled at the woman as the door was closed behind her.

The box had obviously not been touched in many years. Her hand smoothed along the top of it as she thought about the last time it was touched by the hands of her family. Gathering her thoughts for a moment, she proceeded to work the key until the metal lid creaked open.

The box was filled with several large envelopes, small boxes and a velvet pouch lay carefully on top. Jessica gently fingered the pouch as memories of a similar one crept into her head. She felt the lump of the broach and remembered what it looked like before bringing it out into the light. Heavy interlocking circles of gold with fine details, called a triune knot, were graced with several amethysts and an emerald. It had been one of her mother’s and aunt’s favorite pieces, given to Margaret by her own mother.

Jessica remembered the story behind the symbol. The three knots were sometimes called a Celtic, or trinity, knot and symbolized the triune God. To the Irish, everything related to the Trinity—the three stages of womanhood: maid, mother, crone; the three elements: earth, fire, water; and Christianity embraced this knot to symbolize the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. To Bridget it symbolized eternity and eternal love, and she often wore it instead of her crucifix.

The broach began to warm in her hand. Jessica could almost hear the laughter of her mother as she traced the endless circles around with her finger. The pin was only worn on the happiest of occasions and held nothing but blessed memories.

Jessica looked through the other boxes before reading any papers inside. Her parent’s wedding portrait and rings were in one pouch. A large photo in a heavy silver frame, of Erin and Jessica when Erin was just a baby, emerged from a velvet bag. The frame was slightly tarnished, but the intricate details were easily seen. Jessica was surprised by the heft of it and ran her fingers over the engravings. Soon several Christmas ornaments littered the polished wooden table. Signs of Christmas were all around her, but she had forced the holiday from her mind. Now, seeing the silver and gold ornaments that once graced her own tree as a child, memories of the magical days flooded over her. She allowed herself a moment to bow her head and steep herself in the memories. No tears came. There would be time for that later.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled back her shoulders and prepared to review the documents. She had an idea what she might find. Or, rather, what she hoped she would find. Sifting through the contents of the envelopes methodically, she began to see her hopes fulfilled.

One yellowed envelope contained a notarized letter from her father, dated just prior to their accident. Jessica braced herself and began to read.

To Whom It May Concern,

Being of sound mind and body, I, James Kent Wyeth, do hereby set forth facts that I do not have control over. It is my wish that if something were to happen to me, that this letter be used as my statement in a court of law.

Attached to this letter is a series of documents relating to the handicapping and winning of many races my farm has participated in. My farm has enjoyed a great deal of success, and it is with great concern that I go on record that much of its success was obtained outside of the rules of the track and society. For many years I was unaware of the private dealings of my lead trainer, Gus Adams. For too long I let myself believe that the success was truly of my own making. By reviewing the records of the attached races, you will see higher odds against the favorites and a consistent string of wins at the betting window by several named track veterans. Any horse associated with my farm also enjoyed substantial increases in value of syndication or stud fees. Huge sums of money have been made on my blindness. For that, I am deeply embarrassed.

I thought this was a contained affair. I thought my troubles began and ended with Gus. I was foolish enough to believe that just by speaking with Gus and telling him I would no longer tolerate the use of my farm for his purposes, that such would be the end of it. Instead, the nightmare started. I quickly learned that any action on my part would have killed my family. The attached hospital records show how they damaged my infant daughter in an ‘unfortunate but common form of respiratory arrest that led to a cerebral hypoxic-anoxic event.’ Somehow those bastards stopped Erin’s breathing long enough to cause severe brain damage. It was all constructed to intimidate me and to keep me from interfering with their plans. The pain and hatred I have felt for the men behind these actions is overwhelming, and I cautiously gathered evidence against them.

Today our horse, Dark Irish, won the MassCap and broke down immediately after the race. Dark is not the only Wyeth Worldwind Farm horse to fall during a race, but he is the most visible one. He had pre-existing injuries that were not allowed to heal properly. He was raced while doped up on a potent cocktail of corticosteroids for inflammation, and phenylbutazone, or “bute”, and Flunixin for pain. Other records attached will show receipts for many other drugs I have found at my farm, including stimulants, steroids, chemotherapy drugs and even cobra venom. Thank God the jockey wasn’t hurt but I know the questions that will be asked should ruin us. Dark’s odds paid out a disproportionate purse to us leaving little other money to pay those horses that placed farther back in the pack. My farm has won a minus purse too many times. This win should call into question every other win our horses have had. I can only hope that it does.

The attached records will show that, over the past few months, I have taken actions that will prevent the use of my family and my farm for any more illegal purposes. I have varied the schedules of training of the horses and had track officials witness breezing runs of my thoroughbreds so that they can determine the correct odds for each race. I have hired independent veterinarians to examine my horses for injuries and drug test them. I have changed jockeys at the last minute and given instructions to hold back in the pack to lose.

All of these efforts were intended to keep one man from ruining my horses and my reputation. I had to learn the hard way that Gus was only one man involved with an army of others. I’ve foolishly sought help from people who were not there to help me. They were making money from my stupidity.

But it wasn’t only the horses that were sacrificed. I have felt almost powerless to prevent the use of my farm for the illicit money laundering of a group I believe refers to itself as ‘The Charity.’ Today while I was at my bank I notified them of money transfers of funds I had no knowledge of and other actions. I feel I am placing myself and my family in extreme danger, but I truly know of no other alternative. Track officials are close to indicting me for the fixing of the races. If this were to happen, I would lose the only way I know how to support my family and I would lose all usefulness to this Charity. For the former point, pride states I must fight to right the wrongs I have let happen. For the latter point, I know I will be killed.

At the reading of this letter, I am dead. I blame myself for being blind to the roots of my success and hope that the actions to protect my family will, in fact, keep them alive.

Margaret, my love, if you read this you must know the anguish I have felt over Erin. I forever blame myself for her and I am sorry. Whatever other ties Gus has to us, he can no longer be associated with the business of this farm. I have to keep Gus away from Jessica. Gus openly treats her as his own daughter. No man who can do what he has done to us can be trusted with anything.

As God is my Witness,

James Kent Wyeth

Minutes ticked by without Jessica moving. Mechanically, she reached for and reviewed the attached forms and paperwork. It was all there. Records of who bet on what horse and won. Injury reports. All of the backup information on how a horse was destined to win or lose that day. Drug levels. Correlations of injuries to odds setting and the winning of races that should not have been won. Names.

The last document caused the thick shell of armor surrounding her emotions to fail. It was the hospital records showing the injury to Erin’s infant brain resulting from a sudden and unexplained loss of oxygen.

“You bastard!” she whispered in disgust. “You’ll rot your days in jail for what you did.” She rubbed away the vision of Sarge’s face with cold fingers.

The thick envelopes were placed deep into the inside pocket of her coat; the jewelry, picture and Christmas ornaments returned to the box. She pressed the buzzer and waited in silence.

A few minutes went by, and she pressed the red button again, this time leaning on it for nearly a minute. The clerk finally appeared at the door. She had lost a considerable amount of her perkiness.

“Are you all finished? So soon?” The woman was looking at Jessica with widened eyes. It was only an afterthought that she remembered to return the box to its locked cubical.

Jessica’s eyes narrowed and watched the demeanor of the woman carefully. Why the change? “Yes. Thank you. I’ve left everything there for now. It was like a little time capsule. It seemed for a moment as though someone reappeared from the dead and I could almost touch them... like a ghost. Do you know what I mean?”

The clerk’s hands shook so violently that she dropped her large ring of keys. “Oh? Um. No. No. Not at all. I have never experienced such a thing.” Her eyes darted around the room. She wanted to stare at Jessica, but forced herself to keep looking away, not wanting to stare into the eyes of a murderer.

Jessica watched, transfixed. Damn it. The news broke. She smiled. “You have been very helpful. Thank you.” She tried to exit the room.

The shaking woman fumbled her way into her path. “Oh! Um! Please, don’t you need to sign some papers or something?” She caught herself. “I mean... I need you to sign some papers. Wait here, and I’ll bring them to you.”

Jessica brushed past the quavering banker. “You are so kind. No. I’ve got to get going. Thank you.” She stopped and turned. “I almost forgot! Do you see my key anywhere on the floor? I think I dropped it.” The banker automatically turned to look for her customer’s lost key. Jessica shut the door and braced a chair against it.

She walked up the stairs and into the bank lobby. The manager was in deep discussion with the security guard. Glancing at the clock, she saw that she had been there one hour. She knew any news about her had not been released before she entered the bank. Chances were they were still trying to figure out if they should or even could detain her. Jessica was lucky that the safe deposit boxes’ records were old and not readily available which made verifying who she was that much more difficult. It gave her needed seconds to leave.

The security guard raised his head and looked in the direction of the stairs. He missed her by a split second. She shoved her hair under her hat and pulled the brim down over her eyes. She walked out of the bank quickly, forcing herself not to appear in any way rushed or bothered. She hoped the guard assumed she was still downstairs with the luckless clerk. Jessica briskly walked two blocks over before she began to run. It was several blocks later that she hopped on a bus and made her way to a back seat.

The air in the bus was almost too hot, making rivulets of condensation run down the windows. Jessica took her warm fingers and smudged a small clear circle on the steamed glass. Several police cars with lights and sirens wailing raced back up the street. There was no way she could return to Shea’s camp now. She had walked a long distance to the closest town and taken a cab into Salem exposing herself to too many eyes in the process. The cabby would report her, and the area would be combed with both police and glory seekers. Everyone in the greater Boston area would be looking for her. It would be safer if she left the state. But first, she had to get the contents of the safe deposit box to Shea. He was wrong about her father being willfully involved in the schemes. He wanted out, and she had to prove his innocence to Shea.

She rode the bus for half an hour or more while deciding what to do. It was getting late in the day, and the sun was setting. The weather promised to be unwelcoming, with thick clouds adding to the rapidly building darkness. With her face on every television and newspaper in the area, it would be impossible to hide. Cold fingers of panic began to lace themselves around her heart.

The situation was closing in on her ability to think. If she went to Shea’s office, either the police or members of the Charity would be there. According to what Sarge had said, the Charity had members sprinkled throughout the police force and the courts. She knew what Shea said was true. If she was arrested and thrown in jail, she’d be dead within days, probably just hours.

At least on the streets she was alive. Jessica decided to stick to her old tactics. They had worked in getting her this far. She hoped that they would be effective a little while longer.