The Buck Stops Here Read online

  “The hospital?”

  “Eli was…having some medical problems.” I didn’t elaborate, thinking there was no need to cloud the issue with the fact that Eli had landed in the hospital after having been shot by a sniper. Tom and I had investigated Eli’s shooting and solved that mystery. “Tom and Eli were talking in Eli’s hospital room. I came in and overheard them, but they didn’t realize I was there because of a privacy curtain in the way.”

  “And what did you overhear?” George asked, leaning forward.

  I closed my eyes, remembering the conversation as if it had happened ten minutes ago, not ten days.

  “I want to marry her, Eli!” Tom exclaimed.

  “So ask her and be done with it,” Eli replied. “It’s that simple.”

  “It’s not that simple. She has to know. I have to tell her.”

  “You said it yourself, you can’t. The NSA has tied your hands.”

  “But if I don’t tell her, Eli, the secret will always be there between us. Even now, every time she looks at me with those trusting eyes, it just tears me apart. James may be the one behind bars, but all of our lives irrevocably were changed that day. Callie has the right to know the truth.”

  Piece by piece, I tried to relay that overheard conversation to my pastor. When I was finished, George squinted his eyes.

  “What did Tom want to tell you?”

  “I don’t know. There’s some secret, a big secret, that stands between us. Something that has to do with the NSA and—I’m very afraid—with my late husband.”

  Two

  George sat back, picked up a pencil, and began tapping it lightly on his desk.

  “Your late husband?” he asked finally. “Did he work for the NSA also?”

  “No! Bryan was an architect for a private firm in Virginia.”

  “Did Bryan know Tom?”

  “Not as far as I know. I never even heard of Tom Bennett until months after Bryan had died.”

  George sat back and rested the pencil against his chin, looking as confused as I felt.

  “The only ‘James’ I know is James Sparks,” I said, “the drunken boat driver who killed my husband. He is definitely behind bars. And my life was irrevocably changed the day he killed my husband. But what that has to do with Tom, I have absolutely no idea.”

  My words sat in the quiet between us. Finally, George cleared his throat and spoke.

  “James is a fairly common name. Maybe you’ve gone off on some tangent that doesn’t even exist.”

  I shook my head vehemently.

  “You had to have been there,” I said. “Somehow, I just know that’s who he was talking about. In my gut, I know.”

  “Did you confront Tom about what you had overheard? Did you ask him what was going on?”

  I nodded, my heart pounding as furiously as it had at that moment.

  “I stepped into the room and told them I had overheard what they were saying and that I wanted to know what the secret was. Tom just looked at me and said, ‘I’m sorry, Callie. You can’t ever know.’ Then he left. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “He disappeared?”

  “Well, not exactly. He left this note with one of the nurses.”

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to him. I had read it so many times I had it memorized.

  “‘Callie,’” George read, “‘I’m sorry. I love you, but this can never be. Please forgive me. Tom.’” He looked at me, his eyes wide.

  “With the note was some money,” I said. “According to the nurse, Tom said it was for taxi fare to the airport and a plane ticket home. I left later that day. I’ve been back here ever since.”

  “Didn’t you talk to Eli to try to find out what was going on?”

  “Yes, of course. But Eli was even more closedmouthed than Tom had been. He became very weepy, and he kept talking about forgiveness and love and how God calls us to His standard of forgiveness, not our own. I was so confused, so hurt, and so angry that I finally gave up and left. As I said, that was ten days ago.”

  “And you haven’t heard from Tom since?”

  “Only indirectly. He benched me.”

  “Benched you?”

  “At work. He sent word to the office manager that I wouldn’t be getting new cases anytime soon. Instead, he wanted me to spend my time putting together a summary of all of the cases I’ve handled since the foundation opened in a presentation form. I just finished putting them all together in PowerPoint yesterday.”

  “Interesting. Have you tried to contact him?”

  “A few times, but all I get is his voice mail. I’ve been doing what he asked me to do at work, but otherwise I feel like I’m in limbo.”

  I gestured out of the window at the silver car, which was now parked in a shady spot down the street. I explained I was also being tailed now, and that I had a gut feeling it was the NSA.

  “But why?” he asked, leaning forward to see where I was indicating.

  “Who knows? I think they’re just keeping tabs on me. But worse than everything is the uncertainty about my relationship with Tom. It can’t end here, like this. It just can’t.”

  He nodded.

  “You feel helpless.”

  “Of course I do,” I snapped. Then, realizing how I sounded, I softened my tone just a bit. “George, I love Tom. I don’t want to lose him, but I don’t even know what it is that stands between us.”

  “It seems to me there are some big issues at stake here.”

  “That’s why I’m so confused. Is anything real? Is anything truly the way I thought it was? Am I some kind of an idiot, some fool who fell for the first nice guy who came along, not realizing that he was somehow involved in the death of my husband? Then I start thinking, what about my husband? Was he involved in all this too? Did Bryan have things he had to keep from me, secrets I knew nothing about? How far back does this go?”

  George sat there quietly, letting my words fly.

  “What should I do?” I whispered finally, the question floating to the floor between us.

  George took off his glasses and polished them on his shirt pensively, not speaking until he had finished and placed them carefully back on his nose. I had seen him make the same gesture in church board meetings, and I knew it was his way of composing his thoughts.

  “I see now why you needed to talk to someone, Callie. Rest assured that your secrets are safe with me.”

  “Thank you, George. Can you help me? Can you give me some advice?”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “Well, from a purely practical standpoint,” he said, “it seems to me that at the very least Tom owes you a conversation. There may be secrets that by law he needs to keep, but he has no right to expect his budding relationship with you to simply die on the vine without some sort of explanation.”

  “I agree.”

  “Assuming that Tom does work for the NSA, maybe you just need to present your questions to him in a way that he might be able to answer without breaking any rules. ‘Did you know my husband Bryan?’ ‘Are you somehow connected with the man who killed him?’ Maybe Tom’s hands really are tied due to security reasons, but if you approach him in the right way, perhaps you can get the basic answers that you need in order to make some decisions. Given what you have told me about him and his feelings for you, I’m sure he doesn’t enjoy leaving you hanging.”

  “But if he won’t answer my calls, how can I ask him anything?”

  He shrugged.

  “Only you know that, Callie. You’re a very resourceful woman. Why haven’t you found a way yet?”

  I thought about that, going over the past ten days in my mind. Maybe I had been so frightened and confused that I hadn’t been thinking clearly.

  “You think I should seek him out? Hop on a plane to California and show up on his doorstep and force him to talk with me, face-to-face?”

  He looked at me with interest.

  “Your words, not mine.”<
br />
  This time I couldn’t resist the urge to stand and pace.

  “Why haven’t I done that already?” I asked, my navy pumps making soft thuds against the carpet as I walked. “I’m not the kind of person who just sits back and takes what comes without a fight.”

  “Maybe you’re scared of what you’ll learn. Maybe it’s safer to not know.”

  “Of course it’s safer not to know!” I cried. “But I can’t go on like this. I can’t live in limbo!”

  My words echoed in the quiet room. George didn’t respond, and in the silence, I understood that I had no choice. I needed answers.

  And I knew God would give me the strength to handle them when the time came.

  Returning to the chair, I took my seat, feeling a sudden calm settle over me. I would act. I wouldn’t just sit back and allow the situation to control me any longer.

  “Don’t be too quick to assume the relationship is over, Callie,” George said gently. “True love and prayer can overcome an awful lot of obstacles.”

  Tears filled my eyes.

  “I’ll go to him,” I whispered, reaching out for the box of tissues near me on the desk. “If I show up, Tom will have no choice but to talk to me. He owes me that much.”

  George nodded, waiting as I blew my nose and wiped away my tears. The answer was so simple! I felt relieved and also a little stupid. Show up at Tom’s door and force him to talk to me. Make my questions simple. Do not leave until I have some answers.

  Of course.

  “Thank you,” I said finally, pulling myself back together. As I did, it felt as if some of the weight I had brought into his office was now off my shoulders. “I guess I just needed a sounding board. I’m so glad I came here this morning.”

  “May I leave you with one thought as you go?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Ephesians 4:15: ‘Speaking the truth in love, we will in all things grow up in him who is the Head, that is, Christ.’ Just something to keep in mind, Callie.”

  He was right. Speak the truth in love. That was exactly what I needed to do, and what I needed for Tom to do. It was within my power to attempt to force a confrontation where I could ask Tom questions and get some answers. I would frame my questions in such a way that perhaps he could answer at least some of them. He owed me this.

  By the time I thanked George and left his office, I didn’t care if I was being watched or not. I went out into the prayer garden and sat on a bench by the sea with a pen and a pad of paper. My brain was too full, my mood too urgent to do anything other than sit there and write down the questions I was going to ask Tom. Within ten minutes my list nearly covered the page. Once it was finished, I sat and looked out at the water and wondered why I had tolerated Tom’s obsessive demands for privacy all of these years.

  Eli. Eli was the reason, of course. I trusted Eli with my life, and he was the one who told me that Tom was a good guy, on the up-and-up, and I could trust him without reservation. I had taken Eli at his word, but now that push had come to shove, Eli wasn’t giving me any explanation nor any good reason for the conversation I had overheard at the hospital between him and Tom. Because Eli was still recovering from his gunshot wound, I hadn’t pressed it, but I was still dismayed that this mentor of mine, whom I loved and trusted so much, could keep such secrets from me. It completely shook my trust in him and made me question our entire relationship.

  I patted the pocket where I kept my cell phone and thought about calling him and giving him one more chance to tell me what I needed to know. But then I thought about my last call to him, intercepted by his wife, Stella, who kindly asked me to give him a little space.

  “He’s very tormented right now,” she had said to me several nights ago, “and worried about you and Tom. But he needs to focus on getting better. Please don’t keep stirring this up, Callie, at least not until he’s feeling a little stronger.”

  Despite my anger and frustration with Eli, I was concerned about his health. I decided not to call. Instead, I concentrated on forming tangible plans for confronting Tom face-to-face about all that had transpired between us. I had planned to go into the office today, as I had every day for the last week, but now I realized I would do better just to head home. There, I could go online and make flight reservations, pack, deliver my dog to the sitter, and head to the airport. Considering the time difference, I could be at Tom’s door in California before the day was over. My heart pounded at the thought.

  I put away my list, returned to my car, and pulled out my cell phone. I needed to call the office and tell my friend and coworker Harriet that I was going out of town for a few days. Harriet knew nothing of what had transpired between Tom and me, of course, though she certainly had a sense that something was wrong. She had pushed and prodded every way that she knew for details, but I had merely told her that Tom and I had sort of “broken up” and that I didn’t feel like talking about it. Though she respected my privacy, I knew it had bothered her to see me so quiet and withdrawn. The last week at the office had been a bit strained, to say the least. It would probably be better for all concerned if I took off in pursuit of my confrontation as soon as possible.

  When I turned on the phone, I was surprised to see that I had six messages. They were all from the same number, the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation. I called back.

  “J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation,” our receptionist, Margaret, announced. When she heard my voice, she nearly started yelling into the phone.

  “Callie! Where are you? We’ve been trying to reach you all morning!”

  “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I forgot to turn on my phone.”

  “Well, hold on a minute,” she said. “Let me put you through to Harriet.”

  I heard a click and then, almost immediately, the voice of Harriet.

  “Oh, Callie, I’m so glad you called,” she said, sounding breathless and excited. “You’ll never guess what message was waiting for us this morning.”

  “What?” I asked, butterflies suddenly flitting around inside my stomach. “Who?”

  “It was Tom. He’s coming here today. He wants to meet with you at five o’clock!”

  Three

  By the time I reached the office, it was nearly one o’clock. That gave me four hours to prepare, which really meant four hours to pace and worry.

  I parked in a paid lot several blocks from the office, and then I walked along Embassy Row until I reached the nondescript door with the small brass plate that said “J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation.” Another of Tom’s secrets, I didn’t know what the “J.O.S.H.U.A.” stood for—and the few times I had asked, I had been told that it was personal, something I could never know.

  Pushing open the door, I stepped inside to see Margaret standing near her desk, a bottle of furniture polish in hand. Margaret was always obsessively neat, but now with Tom’s imminent arrival, the place was positively gleaming.

  “Oh, Callie, you scared me!” she said in her nasal voice. “I thought you were him.”

  She bustled toward my office, and I followed along behind.

  “I was waiting till you got here to dust your office. May I?”

  Without waiting for my assent, she swung open my door, turned on the light, and went to work on my desk with the spray polish. I hesitated and then took a detour into the conference room, glad that Harriet hadn’t seen me come into the building yet. I really just wanted some peace and quiet where I could pull my thoughts together.

  Tom was coming here. Today. At five o’clock.

  I didn’t know why, but my gut feeling was that he was coming to fire me, close down the foundation, and end our personal relationship permanently. Just thinking about it caused nerves to clench into a ball in the pit of my stomach.

  “Please, God, no,” I whispered, pulling out a chair to sit at the wide table.

  I bowed my head and prayed, not really forming words at first but simply letting my fear and concerns wash through me.

  “I don’t know what any of this is about or what I’
m supposed to do,” I whispered finally, “but I put it in Your hands.”

  Margaret came into the room just as I was opening my eyes.

  “There,” she said busily, spraying the table in front of me, not even noticing that I was simply sitting there. “Your office is sparkly and shiny. Once I’ve done this room, I’m finished.”

  “The place looks great, Margaret.”

  “Thanks! I’m just so excited. How about me? Do you think I look okay?”

  I forced myself to focus in on the woman in front of me. In her mid-forties, Margaret had salt-and-pepper hair in a short bowl cut, her features girlish despite the fine age lines around her eyes and mouth. She was wearing a simple dark brown suit with a white blouse and a Peter Pan collar.

  “You look lovely, as always,” I said, meaning it. Margaret was a sweetheart, sturdy and sensible and the perfect upbeat presence for the foundation’s front office.

  “Harriet ran home to change into some nicer clothes, but she should be back soon.”

  As if on cue, we both turned to see Harriet in the doorway. She was wearing a vivid green suit, her bright cheeks nearly as red as her hair. Her left hand was held up at her shoulder, her fingers hooked through the top of a hanging bag.

  “No!” she exclaimed, hurrying into the room. “No, no, no, no, no!”

  She came up to me and grabbed my hand.

  “It’s all wrong. You’re coming with me.”

  “What—”

  “No objections. Let’s go. I’ll call Antonio on the way and he can fit you in.”

  I let her lead me to the door, trying to place the name, when I realized that Antonio was Harriet’s hairdresser. I dug my heels into the ground, forcing her to stop.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Darlin’, you look worse than a blue tick hunting for a hound dog. Your hair’s all flat, your eyes are puffy, and you don’t have on a speck of makeup.”

  “So what?” I asked, offended.

  “So you’re gonna see Tom in four hours. Do you really want him to find you looking like this? You’ve been moping around for a week, but now that he’s on his way, you’ve just got to get it together. Haven’t I taught you anything?”