Another shot was fired, then another.
“Grace!”
Grace turned. Mitch Connors was running through the drawing room toward the garden, his blond hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, his gun drawn. “Stop!” But she couldn’t stop. John Merrivale had run into the house. Grace swung back to face Lenny but he was gone, too. No! Then she saw him, crawling toward the summerhouse on his hands and knees, a thick trail of blood staining the ground behind him. Grace took aim again. She raised her arm to shoot, but Mitch Connors ran past her, throwing his arms wide to make a human shield between Grace and Lenny.
“It’s over, sweetheart. Stop, please. Put the gun down.”
Grace screamed, “Get out of my way, Mitch. MOVE!”
“No. This isn’t right, Grace. I know you want justice, but this isn’t the way.”
Lenny was getting away. She couldn’t bear it.
“Move, Mitch, I swear to God! I’ll shoot.”
She heard a commotion inside the house. Doors slamming. Men running. Through Mitch’s legs she saw Lenny had almost reached the safety of the summerhouse. Out of the corner of her eye she saw John Merrivale running out of the house screaming, waving a shotgun. The footsteps behind her grew louder. “Police! Drop your weapons!” It was now or never.
Grace fired her gun for the last time. She watched in horror as Mitch pirouetted on the grass, the bullet tearing through his flesh. Mitch! She screamed but no sound came out. The razors were tearing at her, too, her side, her arms, her legs. She was on the grass, bleeding. Sound faded. Grace opened her eyes to a silent ballet of running feet. Mitch was still, slumped on the lawn. She looked for Lenny but she couldn’t see him, only the red haze of her own blood, blotting out the sun and the sky and the trees, falling, falling, heavy like thick velvet on the theater stage: her final curtain.
THIRTY-NINE
NEW YORK, ONE MONTH LATER
THE WOMAN IN THE HOSPITAL WAITING room whispered to her daughter.
“Is it her?”
The daughter shook her head. “I don’t think so.” Normally she wouldn’t have been so hesitant. She was a great one for all the gossip magazines and prided herself on being able to spot a celebrity from fifty yards. Sunglasses and head scarves didn’t fool her. But in this case…The woman did look a bit like her. A lot like her, if you broke down her face feature by feature. The cupid’s-bow lips, the childlike dimple in the chin, the wide-set eyes and the delicate line of the nose. Yet somehow, put them all together, and her face looked…less. Less beautiful, less striking, less special. Combine this effect with the woman’s drab clothes, the gray wool skirt and simple white blouse, and…no. No, it wasn’t her.
“Mrs. Richards?”
The girl’s mother looked up. “Yes?”
“You can go in now. Your husband’s awake.”
Mother and daughter filed out of the waiting room. As they passed the look-alike woman, both stole surreptitious glances. Close up she looked even smaller. It was almost as if she projected anonymity, the same way that other people, stars, gave off charisma or sex appeal. “Poor thing,” said the mother. “She’s like a little mouse. I wonder who she’s visiting?”
GRACE WAS GLAD WHEN THE WOMEN LEFT. It was still only seven in the morning. She’d expected, and hoped, to find the waiting room empty. It was getting harder to be around people. Any people. Soon she would leave America for good. Find somewhere peaceful, a retreat where nobody knew or cared about her past. A monastery perhaps, in Spain or Greece, if they’d have her. They’ll have me. That’s what they do, isn’t it? Offer sanctuary to sinners, to criminals and the poor. I qualify on all three counts. According to her new lawyer, she’d be entitled to federal compensation eventually. “It could be a considerable sum of money. Not as much as you’ve been used to, perhaps, but certainly seven figures.”
Grace wasn’t interested. Whatever the government gave her, she would send directly to Karen Willis and Cora Budds. She owed them her freedom, a debt that no amount of money could hope to repay. Besides, Grace had no use for money. All she wanted was to get away. But she couldn’t leave yet. Not till she knew he was all right. Not till she had a chance to explain.
She touched the scar on her arm, from where the bullet had sliced into her. She had four similar scars, all on her right side, on her leg, hip and shoulder. Lucky to be alive, that’s what the doctors said. And Grace had smiled and wondered, Am I? Am I lucky? It was amazing how quickly the body could heal. But the spirit was not so resilient.
Without Lenny, Grace Brookstein no longer knew what she was living for.
THE STORY OF THE SHOOT-OUT AT Le Cocon, and the sensational killing of John Merrivale and capture of Lenny Brookstein, had gripped the entire world. The Madagascan authorities made a token effort to prevent the Americans from flying Lenny back to the United States, but a personal phone call from the president, along with some promises of substantial U.S. investment in various Madagascan infrastructure projects, swiftly changed their minds.
Harry Bain briefed the local press. “Mr. Brookstein is returning to his home country of his own free will for urgent medical treatment. Once he recovers—if he recovers—his future will be determined by the U.S. Justice Department.” It was Bain who’d gotten hold of the local police and sent reinforcements to Le Cocon that day. Once he finally heard Mitch’s messages, he got right on the phone to the chief of police in Antananarivo and filled him in on everything.
“It would have helped if you’d been honest with us about your presence in Madagascar in the first place,” the police chief said stiffly. “We could have helped.” Harry Bain had had to grovel to get him to agree to send men up to the estate. But thank God he had. By the time they got there, Lenny Brookstein had been shot in the stomach and groin. Had Grace aimed a little higher, she would have severed his coronary artery and robbed America of its most sensationalistic and shocking trial since…well, since her own. As it was, after extensive surgery, Lenny survived. Before he knew where he was, the FBI had him heavily sedated and shipped back home on a military plane. It was over before you could say “human-rights violation,” never mind “miscarriage of justice.”
For two weeks it was unclear whether Mitch Connors would be so lucky. His life hung in the balance. Grace was terrified that it was a stray bullet of hers that had lodged itself in Mitch’s spine, but the cops assured her it was John Merrivale who had almost killed him. When the police showed up, they screamed at him to drop his weapon but John continued firing indiscriminately, at Grace and at them. They’d had no choice but to take him out.
At first Grace was happy when she heard John was dead. But as the weeks passed, her happiness faded. What did it matter? What did any of it matter: John’s death, Lenny’s trial (for fraud and murder) and sentence of death by lethal injection, her own presidential pardon? None of it was going to bring her old life back, or help the people who’d been ruined by Quorum. None of it was going to make Mitch Connors get well, or bring Maria Preston, or Andrew, or that poor homeless soul from Nantucket back to life. The whole thing was so utterly, utterly pointless. Justice had become a mere word, letters on a page, empty of meaning. There could be no justice, no closure, no satisfying ending. The whole thing was a farce, a game. Grace herself had been pardoned, not because she was innocent, but because it was too much of an embarrassment for the authorities to admit she’d escaped from custody twice, and that it was she, not they, who had found Lenny and uncovered the truth about the Quorum fraud.
“I am convinced that Mrs. Brookstein was as much a victim of her husband’s duplicity as the millions of others who suffered at his hands,” said the president. And America applauded. “Of course she was. Poor thing.” They had their villain now, their pound of flesh. Lenny Brookstein was being sent to Super Max in Colorado, the toughest prison in the land, home to the most dangerous Islamic terrorists and deranged child killers. The play was in its third act, and suddenly there was a vacancy for a convincing tragic heroine. Who better to fill it
than Grace? After all, the show must go on.
A nurse tapped Grace on the shoulder.
“Good news. He’s awake. Would you like to go in?”
MITCH LOOKED PALE AND THIN. HORRIBLY THIN. Grace tried not to look shocked. He must have lost forty pounds. When he saw her, he smiled.
“Hello, stranger.”
“Hello.”
There was so much to say, but in that moment Grace couldn’t think of a single word. Instead she took Mitch’s hand in hers and gently stroked it.
“They told me you testified against Lenny at the trial.”
“Yes. I didn’t have to go in person. They let me give a statement.”
“He got the death penalty?”
She nodded.
“So your testimony must have helped.”
“I doubt it. He admitted everything anyway. Once they knew about the murder, the die was cast. I think he wanted people to know how clever he’d been. He didn’t seem upset at the trial. It was almost as if he were enjoying himself.”
Mitch shook his head in disbelief. “He still doesn’t see himself as guilty, does he?”
“Not in the least.” She paused. “They’re executing him today, you know. He waived all his rights to appeal.”
For a few minutes they were both silent. Then Mitch said, “I know this is going to sound like a ridiculous question. But do you still have any feelings for him? Knowing, you know, that he’s going to die. Does it upset you?”
“Not really.” Grace looked thoughtful. “It’s not so much that I have no feelings for him. It’s more that I have no feelings, period. I’m numb.”
Mitch squeezed her hand. “It takes time, that’s all. You’ve been through so much.”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know if I want to feel anymore. I want peace.”
She stared out the window. It was late May, and spring was in its last glorious flush, the trees on the sidewalk exploding with blossoms, the blue skies alive with birdsong and joy. Grace thought, I’m happy that life goes on, that it’s beautiful. But I can’t be part of it anymore.
“Do you know who called me the other day?”
Mitch shook his head. “Who?”
“Honor. The FBI told her about Jack and Jasmine. He’s decided not to seek another term as senator. They’re getting a divorce.”
“She called you to tell you this?”
Grace laughed. “I know. As if we could pick up where we left off. That’s actually what she said to me. ‘Can’t we be sisters again?’ Connie and Mike moved to Europe, so I guess she feels alone. Lenny said something similar actually, in the garden at Le Cocon. He thought I was going to stay there with him and John. That the three of us could hide out in Madagascar together and live happily ever after. ‘Like old times,’ that’s what he said.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mitch’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything. I shot him.” Grace grinned, and Mitch remembered everything he loved about her. She thinks she’s dead inside but she’s not. She’s just hibernating.
Grace stood up and moved toward the window. Mitch watched her, her graceful dancer’s walk, the fluid ballet of her limbs. While he was the cop and she was the fugitive, he’d forced himself to keep a lid on his feelings. Now that it was all over, he could no longer hold them back. Longing hit him like a punch to the stomach.
I love her.
I want her.
I can make her happy.
“What?” Grace turned around and stared at him accusingly.
Mitch blushed. Had he spoken aloud? He must have. He propped himself up higher on the pillows. “I’m in love with you, Grace. I’m sorry if that complicates things. But I am.”
Grace’s face softened. She was fond of Mitch, after all. And he had risked his life to try to save hers. There was no reason to be angry with him. But love? No. She couldn’t love again. Not after Lenny. Love was a fantasy. It didn’t exist.
Mitch said, “I think we should get married.”
Grace laughed out loud. “Married?”
“Yes. Why not?”
Why not? Grace thought about Lenny. About their beautiful wedding on Nantucket, her happiness as a young bride, her hopes and dreams. They hadn’t just been crushed. They’d been incinerated, annihilated, scorched to dust and ashes along with the trusting, happy girl she had once been.
By nightfall, Lenny would be dead.
Grace could no more marry again than fly to the moon.
“I will never get married again, Mitch. Never.”
Hearing her say the words, Mitch knew she meant them.
“I’m leaving.”
Mitch felt his stomach lurch. Panic gripped him. “Leaving? What do you mean leaving? Leaving where? Leaving the room?”
“Leaving the country.”
“No you’re not. You can’t!”
“I have to.”
“But why? Where would you go?”
Leaning forward, Grace kissed him, just once, on the lips. It was a short kiss, not sexual, but loving, almost maternal. It made Mitch want to cry.
“I don’t know where I’ll go. Somewhere quiet and remote. Somewhere where I can live simply and in peace.”
“This is bullshit. You can live simply with me.” He took her face in his hands, willing her to listen to him, to love him, to let herself believe he loved her. “I can do simple. You want simple, you should see my apartment. It’s so simple they repossessed my furniture.”
Despite herself, Grace smiled. It was a tiny chink in her armor. Mitch jumped on it.
“You like that? Hell, if simple’s what you’re into, I’m your guy. I can even do flat broke. Cold Domino’s pizza for breakfast? You got it. With a little more effort I can probably get them to cut off the electricity. We could sit in the dark under a blanket and hum.”
“Stop it.” Grace giggled.
Mitch brought her hand to his lips, kissing each of her fingers in turn. “I tell you what. I’ll forget about marriage if you forget about leaving the country. Just…say you’ll have dinner with me when they let me out of here.”
Grace hesitated.
“C’mon! One lousy dinner. You owe me that much at least.”
It was true. She did owe him.
“All right. One dinner. But I can’t promise you anything.”
FORTY
LENNY BROOKSTEIN LOOKED AT THE STRAPS on the bed and felt his insides liquefy with fear. He told himself it wasn’t death that frightened him. It was dying like this, on someone else’s terms. But now that he was actually here, he realized what a self-delusion that was. I don’t want to die. I want to live.
“No!” He panicked, trying to back out of the room. “I…I can’t do it! Help me!”
Strong, young male hands restrained him. “Easy.”
He forced himself to calm down. The room was clean and white and sanitized, like a hospital. The three men inside it looked like doctors, with their blue scrubs and face masks and their clear plastic gloves. But they weren’t here to heal him.
After all the years of struggle, in the end it had come to this. He would have appealed his sentence had there been even the slimmest hope of success, but Lenny was shrewd enough to know that there wasn’t and too proud to play a game he could not win. Besides, what were ten more years of life in jail worth to him? He’d already lost ten pounds and he’d only been here a matter of weeks. You wouldn’t give the food at Super Max to a dog.
Two of the doctors started to help him up onto the gurney but he shook them off angrily.
“I’ll do it.”
He lay down on the gurney. The doctors fastened the straps. Lenny was embarrassed to find his legs were shaking. He had once controlled a business empire worth more than the gross national product of some countries. Now he was not even master of his own body.
He turned his head and saw the prison rabbi standing awkwardly in the corner of the room. “What’s he doing here? I said I didn’t want anyone.”
The rabbi stepped forward. “They’re going to sedate you in a moment, Lenny. I wanted to give you a chance to pray with me. Or if there’s anything you feel you’d like to say?”
“No.”
“It’s not too late to repent of your sins. The Lord’s forgiveness is infinite.”
Lenny closed his eyes. “I have nothing to say.”
He felt the sharp prick of the IV in his arm. For a second the terror welled up again. He wanted to vomit, but his stomach was empty. His bowels, too, thank God. A few seconds later, the sedatives began to do their work. Lenny felt his heart rate slow, and a warm, sleepy feeling creep over him.
He thought about his mother. She was wearing the one pretty dress she owned, a floral, Liberty print, and she was dancing around the kitchen, and his father was drunk again and yelling at her, “Rachel, get in here!” and then he staggered in and hit his mother and Lenny wanted to kill him…
He thought about the Quorum Ball. It was 1998 and he was untouchable, a god, watching Wall Street’s lesser mortals compete with one another just to be near him, to touch his clothes or hear him speak. He wished his mother could have been there…
He thought about Grace, her trusting, innocent face, her glorious, naked body that had once been his delight. She was talking to him, singing in that sweet child’s voice of hers: I don’t want children, Lenny. I’m so happy as we are. There’s nothing missing, and he opened his mouth to tell her he loved her, and there was nothing missing for him either, but then her face changed and she was old and sad and angry and she was pointing a gun at him, not just pointing but firing, over and over and over, bang, bang, bang, and John Merrivale was screaming NO! but the shots kept coming…
He was on the boat, exhausted, the axe still in his hand. He tried to stand but he couldn’t; he was slipping everywhere. The deck was slick with blood and water from the storm and the boat was lurching, rocking wildly, and he was sure he was going to go overboard. And he looked up and there was the chopper, fighting against the wind like a giant insect, and Graydon lowered the rope and he was climbing, hanging on for dear life, pulling himself up, up into the heavens, and Graydon was gone but his mother was there again, Come on, Len, you can do it, darling. You can do anything you want to… and he cried out, “I’m coming, Ma! I’m coming! Wait for me!” and her arms were around him and he had never felt happier in his life.