Authors: Daphna Edwards Ziman
“Easy, Gillis,” shouted one. “Drop the gun.”
“You’re a pathetic coward,” whispered Kelly, her arms up, “and your life is nothing!”
Gillis’s gun exploded. Instantly the guards fired back, and Gillis flew backward in a bloody spray. The lead guard barked orders. Men ran in and out in a chaotically choreographed dance. Everyone seemed to know what to do, and each stuck to his duty.
Kelly didn’t look back. She raced out with one of the guards heading for the paramedics, following him to the administration building and ducking down a side hall, out a side door. Her stolen guard’s uniform was never found in the Dumpster of the Wal-Mart in the next town. She never learned whether the investigators had checked to see whether the gun Gillis fired was loaded with real bullets or blanks.
The news fed the TV outlets for weeks. A captain of industry killed behind bars. The mystery of an unidentified guard who could not be found. Talking heads suggested that the guards were overworked. Congress called for prison reform. The FBI suspected Mafia connections. Only Jake, watching the bank of TVs in his office, knew what had really happened.
He didn’t know how she had done it, but he knew why. And yet none of what he understood—or thought he understood—about Kelly provided the least little clue as to where she was now.
THE OCEAN WAS BLACK, AND THE SKY HAD GONE lavender. The sun, a red ball, was sinking into the sea, taking a few orange clouds with it. Jake watched the pageant from his apartment window, a glass in one hand, his saxophone in the other. A handful of stars were starting to come out. The sky took on its reddish Los Angeles glow. He blinked and the sun was gone.
Jake took a long swallow of his tequila and turned away from the window. The letter lay on the coffee table, its ends sticking up, as if it were trying to refold itself and slide back into the envelope. The envelope with no return address. The envelope postmarked Miami, even though the letter itself said she wasn’t there.
Jake drained his glass and picked up the single sheet of blue paper.
Dearest Jake
,
You know by now why I had to go. What happened was supposed to free me, but it didn’t. Please know, though, I’m safe, and so are Kevin and Libby.
I inherited a large sum of money from Gillis, but gave most of it away to homeless and foster kids. I kept enough. I can always sing if I have to—maybe you should give up the law and play music full time. Just a thought.
This will be postmarked Miami, but that’s not where I am. It’s probably best if you don’t come looking.
I remember every moment of our time together. I will always love you. I will always love Porter. I will never forget all you did for me.
Forever yours
,
Kelly
Jake watched the letter flutter back down to the table. He refilled his glass but didn’t take a sip. Instead he shuffled over to the fireplace and poked some kindling around. He held the lighter to the wood chips, but they wouldn’t catch. Exasperated, he grabbed the envelope, touched the corner of it to the lighter flame, and dropped it into the fireplace. He watched it curl and shrivel, but before collapsing into ash, it caught the kindling. Smoke twined up the chimney from a small, glowing spot on the wood, and he gently blew on it. The flame grew larger and larger, and to his surprise, he had a fire. He carefully arranged a log on the grate and walked over to the bookcase.
From
The Sibley Guide to Birds
he withdrew the picture he had
hidden there. He stared at it for a moment, the unsmiling Kelly flanked by the stern Gordons. He imagined Kelly, just a child, stuck in that house full of unwanted kids, trapped by her foster parents’ abuse. He thought about the risks he took for her by concealing evidence, and he knew he would do it all again in a heartbeat. In a swift motion, he fed the photograph to the fire, blowing on his sax while the paper incinerated and the image turned first to gel and then black smoke.
Jake knew better than to presume he knew anything about Kelly’s plans for the future. He knew that her children would always come first and she would always do whatever she had to do in order to protect them. Her intelligence went even deeper than he’d suspected, and she was far braver than he’d known.
From early on Kelly had been a step ahead of everyone. With his help—him risking everything for her—she had gracefully sidestepped a trial after the bank scam. She’d gotten just about everyone who’d come in contact with her to bend the law for her. And here he was, destroying evidence for her, after having concealed it for months—all against the law.
Jake had decided to believe Kelly really did love him. Had he done enough for her? At least as much as Porter would have done? What if Porter had lived? Gillis would have been a reality in Kelly’s life whether it was Porter who loved her or Jake. Was Jake’s love for Kelly independent of his love for Porter … or was it part of the same ache? Would he have fallen in love with Kelly no matter the circumstances, no matter what? That was the question that lingered long after any other, and Jake had blown a hurricane of notes through his saxophone, pondering it. Either way, the answer was one he didn’t think he’d ever know.
Jake was spent by the time the fire started to die, and he laid down his instrument. The letter still sat on the coffee table. Jake
picked it up and started to read it again, before tossing it, too, on the embers. The paper landed at a slant and started to slip off the grate. Jake stopped it with the poker and pushed it impatiently back. A tiny firework of sparks shot out and showered into ash. At last it curled into flame. As Jake watched, his BlackBerry signaled a message. He ignored it, thinking through the words of her letter once again. They were heartfelt, he knew that, but they were utilitarian, almost anonymous in their sentiments. They could have been written to anyone. The letter fluttered and disintegrated. It was gone.
Jake put his hand around his drink and took a sip. Absently, he pulled his BlackBerry toward him and glanced at the waiting message. The subject line read:
The status of your account.
It had been sent from an address in the Cayman Islands. Jake moved to delete it, then paused. On a hunch, he opened it.
Your account is delinquent. Please contact us immediately regarding the state of your affairs. Sincerely yours, N. S. Brooks, CEO Wave Bank, Grand Cayman.
Jake laughed aloud. “Natalie St. Clair Brooks. CEO of a bank. And married without a license.”
He e-mailed back immediately:
Situation dire. Account languishing. Need your help. Also must discuss issue of marriage without a license. Must rectify immediately
.
Her reply was instant:
We lack only you. Come
.
In one fell swoop, Kelly had allayed all of Jake’s anxieties and doubts, and he let out a whoop of elation as he punched in the number on his cell phone.
“Get me on the next flight to Grand Cayman … No, not a round-trip ticket. This time it’s going to be one way.”