The Buck Stops Here

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “So how long are you in town?” I asked Tom once I hung up the phone. Considering the situation, my question sounded rather inane.

  “I’m not,” he replied. “Soon as we leave here, I’m heading to the airport and back to California.”

  “Tonight?”

  He shrugged.

  “I’ve got lots going on.”

  The three of us walked through the quiet streets, the two men escorting me cautiously despite the fact that we were in a relatively safe section of D.C. Just as Tom had assured me, I did not see any signs of a tail.

  “Tom, why did you have me put together that presentation about the foundation? Was it for Kimball?”

  “No,” he said, “I just wanted a summary, something showing what we have accomplished. What we can accomplish. Together.”

  So that was it. Tom had thought if I spent my time assembling a report that summarized our efforts, it would somehow sway me to look past our current problems and at the bigger picture. In a way, his plan had worked. As I considered our future as a couple, I also had to question my future with the foundation, and I felt a profound regret at the possibility that my job there might have to come to an end.

  As I thought about my job, I wondered what my next step should be.

  Could I really pursue this case? And if I did, should I take a leave of absence while doing so? We reached the lot where I had parked my car, and as if in answer to my question, Tom produced a manila envelope from his briefcase and held it out to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked, taking it from him.

  “Your next charity. I’d like you to look into it.”

  Hoping this was his way of passing along some clues, I took a glance inside despite being under Kimball’s watchful eye. Sadly, it was just another charity investigation. My heart sank. Did he really think we could go on as before, business as usual? “Tom, I don’t—”

  “Please?” he said. “I just thought it might help to have a new case to work on. Keep your mind off of things.” His eyes were trained on mine, but I looked away.

  “At this point, I’m not sure what I’m going to do about anything.”

  “I understand.”

  I took my keys from my purse and clicked the button that would unlock my car. Tom reached inside, pulled the parking tag from my dashboard, and turned to Kimball.

  “We’ll be right back,” Tom said, and then he took my elbow and led me toward the payment booth. As we walked toward it, I felt his hand slip into my jacket pocket, leaving a weight behind.

  “I’m giving you a special cell phone,” he whispered. “Try not to contact me, but if you have to, that’s the phone to use.”

  I nodded, not quite understanding, though I assumed it had some sort of scrambler on it. At the booth I let Tom pay my parking fee, knowing that arguing with him was pointless.

  As he walked me back to my car, he thanked me for meeting with him. I didn’t reply, not sure enough of myself or how I felt at the moment. Mostly, I was angry and confused. And scared. But when it came time to part, I was reluctant to let him go without speaking my mind just a little further.

  “Tom, do you know how much pain you’ve caused me in the last ten days?”

  Kimball was standing behind my car, but as we approached he moved away from it toward the sidewalk.

  “I know,” Tom said. “I know.”

  “You left me there, Tom. You left me stranded in the hospital,” I said. “You didn’t explain, didn’t even say goodbye. You were just gone.”

  “I was confused. I had to think.”

  “And what has all this thinking done for you?”

  He glanced over toward the lawyer, who was waiting at a discreet distance. Then Tom turned his eyes back to me, the expression on his face intense. It was time to say goodbye.

  “I love you, Callie,” he said, taking my hands in his. “But I’ve done everything I can. The ball’s in your court now.”

  He leaned in to kiss me, but I tilted my face downward so, instead, he gently placed his lips against my forehead.

  I closed my eyes. Underneath all of the anger and pain in my heart there remained one solid, steadfast thing that could not be extinguished no matter what had recently transpired or what had happened in the past: my love for him.

  The only question that remained now was how hard I might have to fight for it.

  Six

  Almost without thinking, I made the choice not to go home. I called Harriet’s machine at her house and left a message not to be worried but that I was heading out of town on a new investigation—implying, of course, that it was a charity investigation. I said I would be in touch. After that, I called my neighbor and frequent dogsitter, Lindsey, and asked her to pick up my dog, Sal, and take good care of her for me. Then I followed the signs to I-95 south, set my cruise control, and sped forward toward my past.

  The night was dark, with clouds covering a half moon and the stars. I drove into the darkness, the city receding behind me, the black folding around me like velvet. My mind was a blur, a confused swirl of emotions. Though this sudden departure wasn’t the most logical way to proceed, I knew I couldn’t simply go home to my little cottage on the Chesapeake. I needed to move forward, to do something. Two hours down the road, I crossed into Richmond, feeling the weight of this decision bearing down on me. After a quick rest stop, I continued onward. If there was anyone tailing me now, I sure didn’t see them.

  It was after midnight by the time I reached Melville, Virginia, so I took an exit that was lined with motels. I pulled into the first decent-looking one I could find, went inside, and got a room. I asked for some basic toiletries, and the clerk gave me a free toothbrush, shampoo, hand lotion, and a shower cap.

  Once I was in my room, I again had to admit how dumb it had been to go off half-cocked like this and make this trip without any preparation. I had no extra clothes, no makeup, and nothing to sleep in. Still, after the tense day and the long drive, I was exhausted. I used the flimsy little toothbrush to clean my teeth, got undressed, and climbed under the sheets. I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

  I dreamed of water—smooth, black, glassy water—the black slowly turning to red, the red of Bryan’s blood. In my dream, his body was dead but his face was still moving, his lips screaming a silent yell. When I woke up, I was covered in sweat.

  I sat up, heart pounding. This was a dream I hadn’t had in over a year. According to the clock, it was nearly 4:00 A.M., far too early to get up and face the day. I climbed from the bed, turned on the noisy air conditioner, got back under the covers, and forced myself back to sleep. When I opened my eyes again, it was morning and the room was freezing.

  There was a complimentary breakfast buffet in the lobby when I went to check out, so I ate first, taking an empty table by the window and reading a newspaper that someone else had left behind. Mostly, I just flipped through the pages looking at pictures, my mind far too full to take in anything beyond that. At 9:30 I filled a plastic cup with coffee, took care of things at the front desk, and then went outside and got in my car.

  First things first, I wanted to get out of my suit. Pulling from the parking lot I drove up the road until I found a discount store. Once inside, I hit several departments, filling my cart with toiletries, some comfortable-looking clothes, sneakers, and some basic office supplies. I also selected a pair of binoculars and a camera, a good digital one, and put everything on my credit card. Before leaving the store, I ducked into the bathroom and changed into a shirt and jeans I had just bought, clippling off the tags as soon as I was sure they fit.

  I was much more comfortable by the time I got back in the car. At the nearest gas station I filled up my tank and bought a county map. Though I had a specific destination in mind and could have used my GPS, it was helpful to see the big picture.

  Staring at the map, it struck me how normal it was, with simple lines crisscrossing the paper and a squiggle of blue for the river. I plotted my course and then took back roads ou
t of town, catching glimpses of the water through the trees as I drove. Somehow, I hadn’t thought I’d ever come here again.

  About a half hour later, when I reached the town of Riverside, Virginia, a surge of emotion overtook me. Something about it seemed so familiar and yet so foreign all at the same time. It was almost as though the town were two places to me: Before the accident, it had been a cozy little borough where we visited a souvenir shop and strolled to an ice cream parlor and asked for directions to the campground. After the accident, however, it had become merely the site of the police station and the hospital and the morgue where my husband’s dead body was processed.

  Now it certainly seemed as if life had continued along here as usual. I drove through tree-lined streets, noting little shops, wide planters filled with petunias, and a small group of senior citizens standing near a bridge, taking a photo.

  I passed through town and out the other side, driving on about two miles before I began looking for the turn. I missed it the first time, realizing that I had overshot it when I reached the intersection with the highway. I made a U-turn in the middle of the empty road and tried again, finally spotting the break in the trees and the little sign for the campground. The blacktop soon turned to gravel as I drove toward the river, trees hanging so low in some places that their leaves brushed the top of my car. When I pulled up to the little hut at the entrance to the campground, a woman in a tank top and cutoffs emerged and slowly ambled to my window.

  “Camping or day use?” she drawled, looking bored as she smacked her gum.

  “Day use,” I said. “Just for an hour or so, really.”

  “Still have to pay the full day fee, even if you only stay a little while.”

  “Fine. How much?”

  “Six dollars.”

  I pulled out singles from my purse and handed them to her.

  “Have a good time,” she said, stepping away from the car.

  My heart was pounding as I followed the winding one-way drive past the picnic area and the boat launch and on into the camping area. Among about 30 numbered spots, only a few were taken; a Tuesday early in the month of May wasn’t exactly high-use season for Virginia campgrounds. Beyond the main area was a small spur with the five best spots, isolated little plots among the trees right along the river. Ours had been number 22, a shaded stretch of grass with a picnic table, a fire pit, and a little dock where we tied up the boat. Fortunately, for now the whole section was empty.

  I parked the car and got out, my shoes crunching on gravel. I shut the door and walked to the picnic table, inhaling the distinctive scent of Virginia woods.

  Camping. Bryan and I had come here almost four years ago for a simple camping trip, along with my brother and a few friends. We had taken up three spots—the girls in one tent, the guys in another, and Bryan and me in ours. As the only married people in the group, Bryan and I were always sort of “parental” figures—making everyone quiet down after dark, handling most of the food preparation. The boat was my brother Michael’s, new to him though he had bought it used, a Sea Ray with an inboard motor that seated all eight of us. When we started doing some water-skiing, however, we took turns going out on the boat in groups of three so it wouldn’t be weighed down with all of us. When it was our turn, the three that went out were Michael, Bryan, and me.

  Now I stepped past the fire pit, black with the ashes of past fires. I wondered if somewhere down deep in the ground, inside the circle, were our ashes—still there, the remains of the fire we had enjoyed on Bryan’s last night alive. We roasted hot dogs and marshmallows and sang stupid songs and then played Pictionary until it was quite late. The next morning Bryan had gotten up first and made scrambled eggs, bacon, and fire-cooked toast for everybody. When I emerged from the tent in shorts and a sweatshirt, I found him setting everything out on the picnic table, and I had wrapped my arms around him in the cool Virginia morning and told him that I loved him. I would always be grateful I had thought to tell him that I loved him that morning. More than that, I would go back in my mind, again and again, to the way he put his arms around me, kissed the top of my head, and said “I love you, Callie,” back to me.

  Gingerly now I tiptoed among the roots of a weeping willow tree, making my way to the little dock. I walked to the end of the boards and then sat cross-legged, hands on my knees, looking out at the beauty of the water. And it was beautiful here, despite all that had happened, despite the cost it had exacted from me. We had never been to this river before that trip, but it was only a three-hour drive from home and my friend Judi had seen it on the internet and thought it looked nice. She wrote me a letter over a year later, saying she still lost sleep over the fact that this place, this location, had been her idea.

  A bird flew out from a nearby bush, startling me. As I watched it take to the sky, I forced myself to go back to that day, to the events that led to my husband’s death. It had all been so normal, so run-of-the-mill. We had boarded the boat and taken turns, Bryan driving as Michael skied, then Michael driving as I skied, with Bryan as the spotter. I remembered a moment when I was gliding over the water, handle firm in my grip, legs taut and strong, a moment when I had a surge of pure elation, a flash of extreme happiness.

  When my legs grew tired, I had given the signal and Michael slowed. Letting go of the rope, I angled down into the water, and by the time they had turned around to come and get me, I had removed the skis and was waiting to trade places with Bryan.

  “Why don’t you take it a little further up river,” he had said to Michael as he lowered himself into the water. “I want to see what’s beyond that bridge.”

  Soon we were off, Michael at the wheel, me facing backward to keep an eye on Bryan, and Bryan at the end of the rope on the water skis. He didn’t have very good form—my brother and I were both much more graceful skiers—but there was something so energetic and daring in his technique that he was really fun to watch. He loved to jump the wake and speed forward way out to the side, and this river was so wide in spots that he was able to do that quite a bit. When we neared the bridge, Michael had to slow way down but Bryan kept up, hanging onto the rope directly behind the boat as we went under and then picked up speed again.

  Beyond the bridge, the river narrowed a bit—a little at first, and then a lot. We had spent the morning going up and down the same piece of shoreline in front of the camp, so it was fun to see a different part for a change. Behind us Bryan was having a blast, jumping the wake and then jumping back in again. We were taking a wide curve when a sudden jolt made him lose his balance and drop the rope, spilling into the river.

  “He’s down,” I called to Michael over the roar of the engine, and immediately he pulled back the throttle so that he could slow down and turn around.

  The river was narrow at the bend, and Michael had to be careful not to get too close to the sides as he made a 180 on the water. It took a little bit longer than usual, and in the distance, I watched my husband to see if he was ready to stop or if he wanted to ski some more. I saw him holding the skis in his hands rather than putting them back on his feet, a sure sign he was tired and ready to quit. As we completed our turn, we heard the roar of a very loud engine that sounded as though it was coming our way. Then suddenly it was there, rounding the corner, a long, pointed cigarette boat, flying across the top of the waves at 50-plus miles an hour.

  The driver never saw Bryan in the water, never even realized that there was a swimmer in his path. In a moment that was seared into my brain like a firebrand, I could still see how it was right before impact: the sun was warm and the sound was loud and the air smelled like suntan lotion and outboard motor exhaust and Bryan had not a moment to get out of the way.

  The sound of his death was like the sound of fiberglass hitting lumber, and I remember thinking it was the sound of the skis being struck by the motor, that Bryan must have simply left them there on the surface and then ducked way down under the water, somehow propelling himself to the bottom of the river until the speedboat
had passed. But an instant later the speedboat was gone, the skis were still intact, floating on the water, and Bryan was face down a good 40 feet away, the dark water turning red all around him.

  “Oh, oh no,” Michael had cried, pulling our boat up even with Bryan’s body and then jumping overboard to lift him onto the steps. Between the two of us, we were able to drag him on board, and suddenly there were other boats around, someone yelling, someone else taking off after the speedboat.

  I sat on the floor of Michael’s Sea Ray and cradled my husband in my arms. He was bleeding everywhere, which at the time I knew meant that at least he was still alive, at least his heart was still pumping. But his heart didn’t pump for very long. He died in my arms of massive blood loss and internal injuries. They told me later that I screamed nonstop for half an hour.

  I didn’t remember that. I remembered pretending it hadn’t happened, pretending that I had rewound my watch and taken time backward. Just a few minutes would have been enough to alter the entire sequence of events. When the ambulance came, they had to pry me off my dead husband. Hours later I realized I was still clutching strands of his hair in my hand.

  There wasn’t much after his death that I remembered. Somehow, time continued to progress: the man in the speedboat was caught, the police came, the ambulance took Bryan’s body away. I think we stayed locally for a day or two, our families racing there to take charge of the situation and take care of me. My father cried, unashamed, great streaming tears down his weathered cheeks like twin rivers of sorrow. Someone gave me some pills that helped me sleep. Somehow, eventually, I ended up back in our little house in Blacksburg. I didn’t have a lucid thought for at least a week.

  The funeral was private, just the family, despite the fact that the whole town wanted to come. Two days later, however, Bryan’s family arranged a memorial service at the church, where I was put into a receiving line like a bride at a reception. At one point, my mother had to usher me out because I started laughing and couldn’t stop. I had a vague recollection of what was funny, something someone said about God taking Bryan home because He “needed another angel up in heaven.” People were so ignorant in their attempts to soothe me that I wanted to kill them.