by Pat Young
She couldn’t leave something like this unread. She opened the letter again and started to read.
Dear Stranger,
If you’re reading this, it’s because I’m dead.
I’ve been wondering who might find the memory card. (Ain’t that one sexy pair of heels? Great hiding place, don’t you think? Was pretty sure no woman could resist a peek.)
You’re unlikely to be a man, unless you have very small feet and a proclivity for cross-dressing, so that leaves only a few options.
You may be a female detective, or a cleaner or even a volunteer in a goodwill store. Whoever you are, please keep the Jimmy Choos, if they fit you, with my blessing. (That includes you, the cross-dresser!)
In return, I want you to do something for me. Check the calendar. If it says September 2001, the likelihood is my life ended on or around the eleventh. Probably in the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
Lucie clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling her own gasp. She reached for the arrow key that allowed her to scroll to the foot of the document. It was signed Yours, Charlotte.
Charlotte had predicted her own death. And not only that, she’d predicted the timing of her death. And got it right. Lucie’s stomach contracted with a lurch that made her feel sick.
Charlotte, this woman whose life had ensnared Lucie, had also predicted the tragedy that struck the North Tower. Perhaps not the detail, but certainly the possibility of lives lost. Lucie shivered. How could anyone have foreseen such an unlikely event as a plane crashing into the iconic landscape of her home city? It wasn’t possible.
The woman was crazy. And yet, she’d been right about her own death. Maybe not the place, but, when Lucie thought about it, Charlotte had probably been on her way to the towers, same as herself. Had the planes struck a bit later, Lucie would have been in the South Tower and Charlotte could have been in the North Tower, where she’d have died, just like this spooky letter predicted. Lucie scrolled to the top again, searching for a date. There it was: 9/10/2001. Charlotte had written this the day before 9/11.
Lucie pushed the laptop away, as if it was contaminated. She was too nauseous to read any further.
She had to tell someone about this, get some advice, some help. That would mean revealing her deceit and dishonesty, but she couldn’t keep something like this to herself. Lucie had never felt so alone in her life.
It was time for her to go and meet Rick but he’d have to wait. A letter from a dead woman was far too compelling to resist.
I don’t know why it’s important to me, since I’ll be dead if you’re reading this, but I’d like someone to know, even if you’re the only one in the whole wide world, that I’m not a bad person.
Oops, beginning to sound a bit maudlin, Charlotte. (I’m trying for a cool, ironic tone with a touch of black humour. Just so you know.)
This letter is like an insurance policy. Insurance – the only thing you ever purchase that you never, ever want to use. I mean, can you think of one other item that falls into the same category? ‘Okay,’ you’d say to yourself, ‘I must have that Mulberry bag, but I really hope I don’t ever get the opportunity to use it.’
That’s why I’m allowing myself to be flippant. I have to hope no one ever reads this, because the alternative is too horrific to contemplate. And not just for me. So it doesn’t matter how I write it. The important thing is that it gets written and that you read it, please.
I’m not a bad person, not really. I’m vain and I’m greedy. And probably selfish, but since I’m alone in the world, that’s possibly not surprising. Vain, greedy and selfish. That’s me.
I was also perfectly happy, working hard, focused on building my business empire, enjoying my success and the sweet, exotic fruits my labour brought me. Then I met the man who changed my life and caused my death.
Lucie thought of the one and only time she’d seen Charlotte, dead in the street, shrouded in white powder. How could her death have been caused by anyone? Surely she breathed in the dust? There was no time to use her inhaler. She suffocated. Or she collapsed and hit her head. She died. But she wasn’t murdered.
Hadn’t she said something about the likelihood of her death occurring in the North Tower? Lucie scrolled back up the page to confirm.
This was starting to read like the ramblings of a madwoman. The whole upbeat, detached tone was at odds with such a sombre message. It didn’t ring true.
Lucie knew she should leave it. And yet she couldn’t resist reading on.
At first he was just another charming colleague, a potential co-investor, a handsome man to be seen with at corporate events. I knew he was married. He never hid that fact from me. He frequently spoke of his wife and always with affection. He and I started to meet occasionally, in hotel rooms. It was fun. He was a caring, considerate lover.
I was satisfied. By him and our relationship. He knew Matthew was the only man I’d ever wanted to marry. Would have married. If President Bush had declared his ceasefire one day earlier.
He knew I wasn’t looking for a husband. He used to joke that I was already married to my business, and he was right. But then I began to yearn for more. I wanted what his wife had. And worse, I began to feel broody.
He didn’t lie to me. He said he’d been clear from the start. He loved his wife and would never leave her. Besides, she was the one with the money, so he couldn’t leave her or she’d make him penniless. I tried to persuade him that we could live on the proceeds of my business, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Swore he wouldn’t touch my money.
Then, suddenly, he changed his mind. He told me about a ‘once in a lifetime’ business opportunity that he’d heard about. He’d been given some insider information that would allow him to predict the market and buy options on shares. It sounded too good to be true so I demanded to know his source. He kept smiling and saying ‘classified’. He refused to tell me at first, just wanted me to sign a huge cheque and become his fellow investor. He promised me the millions we’d make would secure our future together. He predicted untold wealth, more than enough to guarantee his freedom and to ensure we’d live happily and luxuriously ever after. The only problem was, I’d have to wait a few weeks for him to leave his wife and to see a return on my investment.
Well, do I seem to you like the kinda gal who walks blindfold into anything, far less a million-dollar deal? (That should read millions, not million, by the way.) I didn’t build Gillespie, Manders and Moffat into a World Trade Center business by doing what others suggested. (FYI – there is no Manders or Moffat, I just liked the triple-barrelled sound of the name.)
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not averse to a bit of insider trading. My God, you have to take the breaks where you find them in the world of business and finance. I learned that lesson long ago.
No. I needed to know more. Where did he get the information on which he wished to bet megabucks, his and mine?
He wouldn’t tell.
And I wouldn’t invest until he did. I can be stubborn, but I can also be very persuasive, in ways that it wouldn’t be proper to go into here. Just let’s say, I knew what he liked and what his wife didn’t. (!)
So he told me. And I was shocked.
At first I said no. Under no circumstances. But he won me round. Like I said, I’m vain, very selfish and very, very greedy.
I withdrew the cash. He purchased the options and our bets were placed. The die was cast and we planned our future together, symbolised by two keys to the safe deposit box we co-rented to keep all the paperwork secure, not to mention secret. I wore mine on a silk ribbon, ‘close to my heart.’ And we waited for fate to play its part.
And right there, that was the problem. The waiting.
Remember I told you I’m not a bad woman? Well, I guess I just forgot that for a while. Got caught up in someone else’s dream and lost track of what’s right and wrong.
I told him I couldn’t go along with it. I couldn’t stand by and do nothing while people died. People I knew. People I e
mployed. People who trusted me for their livelihood. Suddenly I had not just their livelihoods, but their very lives in my hands. And I couldn’t do it.
I expected nuclear-sized fallout when I said the words, ‘I can’t sacrifice my workforce.’
He said nothing in response. Said nothing at all for a while. As if he were thinking carefully about what I’d said, considering my point of view, he closed his eyes. Then he whispered, ‘Thank God for that.’
I hugged him, kissed him, blessed him. This wonderful man that I loved.
‘So what are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to go in tomorrow morning and send everyone home. On paid vacation.’ The vacation bit hadn’t been part of my plan, I’d just thought it up. Originally I was going to hire decorators but that wasn’t the solution. One, it was too short notice and two, it meant bringing other innocents into the building. Paid vacation was a brainwave. Expensive, but inspired.
‘Can you afford that?’ he asked.
‘Maybe not now, but when our investment pays out, yes, of course I can.’
‘Then I’ll do the same,’ he declared, as if he were making a menu choice not a decision that would save many lives.
‘You will?’ I asked, wondering how I ever got lucky enough to find him.
‘Yes, I will. It’s been bothering me too. We’ve stayed away from work for the last couple days, but others have been in there, at risk. I keep seeing faces of guys I’ve known for years, dependable, loyal workers who’d die for me. Shoot, I’ve met their wives and kids. I even employ some of their kids. It’s been ripping my heart out, thinking of what might happen to those good people. And now you’ve come up with the solution, you sweet angel.’
He kissed my brow, as if he were bestowing a blessing on me, and we hatched our plan and made our arrangements. We would safeguard ourselves as much as possible by staying out of the North Tower until most workers would be at their desks. We’d go into the building about ten-thirty to let our respective workforces know that they should go home, on full pay. We were calling it preventative sick leave, a precautionary action to pre-empt an outbreak of Legionnaire’s Disease that had hit one of their colleagues and might be coming from the air conditioning on our floors. In other words, we were protecting our workers from potential harm, being good guys. We’d tell our folks about symptoms and advise them to see a doctor if they developed any.
Then we’d hightail it out of there and hope they did the same. He seemed to be very worried that our workers might tell others and there would be a stampede, but I thought that unlikely. Most people tend to look after Number One and apart from those with relatives working in the Tower, I was sure everyone would be out of there fast as kids from a schoolroom. ‘If I know New Yorkers,’ I said, ‘most of them will be straight out the door and off to see a doctor, symptoms or no symptoms.’
We laughed and agreed to meet for coffee afterwards near the bank. He said to be sure to wear my key, in case he forgot his, so we could retrieve the documentation we’d need. I dangled the key on its silken string and told him not to worry, I never took it off.
And I never did. Apart from that once, to open the box.
And now, dear Stranger, I have one more favour to ask of you. Will you please go to the safe at the back of my closet. The combination is in my sketchbook, worked into the drawing on the last page. Inside the safe you will find a little envelope. The contents are self-explanatory and the rest will soon become crystal clear.
Good luck and thank you.
Yours,
Charlotte.
PS I can’t tell you (obviously) how much I hope you never get to read this, my dear Stranger.
Lucie felt like she’d been hit by a runaway train. What the hell was this? And what should she do about it? Who was this guy? And if he and Charlotte were lovers, why hadn’t he come looking for her? Lucie remembered the arrangement Charlotte had made to meet her lover/business partner at the bank. Of course, he must have died in the North Tower, along with all the colleagues they’d planned to save.
Lucie scurried to Charlotte’s closet. If it had a safe, Charlotte had it well hidden. The only way to find it would be to move or remove every item of clothing, every bag and every shoebox. That would take hours.
What Lucie needed to do right now was get ready to go meet Rick, enjoy the company of another human being. Living alone could drive you mad. If she wasn’t careful she might end up as deranged as Charlotte.
She’d tell Rick about this over dinner. He was a man of the world. He would know what to do.
Lucie closed the file, removed the memory card and shut down the laptop. Then, not sure why she was hiding it, other than the fact that Charlotte had gone to great lengths to do the same, she put the little gadget back where she’d found it, in the shoebox.
53
The longer it took for her to arrive, the more irritated he felt. He was unused to being kept waiting, plus it had been difficult to get away tonight. Diane had seemed suspicious, probably because the pattern of his days had changed so drastically since the eleventh. Instead of heading off early each morning to beat the traffic and get into WTC by seven o’clock, he was sleeping later than usual then having a leisurely breakfast before dealing with important calls and doing some paperwork in his study. He imagined this would be what it felt like to be retired, not that he ever intended to retire. He agreed with whoever first observed that golf was a good walk spoiled and as for tennis, well, he couldn’t see the point. Any activity that involved hitting or kicking a ball seemed like the very definition of time wasted. He wouldn’t be seen dead with a putter or a tennis racket but he would die with the Financial Times in his hand. That was what his associates said of him. And they weren’t wrong.
A life without business deals would be no life at all. He loved the cut and thrust of business. That was his sport, and, played well, it could be as bloodthirsty as bullfighting.
Diane rarely asked where he was going or questioned his reasons for leaving her alone, but tonight she had been unusually demanding. The events of 9/11 had unsettled his wife. Like many of their friends, she felt that the security they’d always taken for granted had been undermined. The wealthy probably felt more threatened than the poor. He knew from childhood experience that poor folks didn’t have time to worry about threats to national security. Too busy worrying where their next meal was coming from. Or in the case of his momma, her next drink.
He had managed to erase most of the memories from the early part of his life and he had no idea why he was revisiting that terrible time tonight. For most kids the memory of being taken into an orphanage would be a traumatic event that left them damaged for life, but for him it had been a turning point. He’d been properly cared for, clothed, well-fed, and, for the first time in his young life, he’d been happy and contented. But even so, when the Millburns adopted him he’d felt like the luckiest kid alive. As well as a mom and dad he had acquired a big brother, one who doted on him and promised to always protect him. Having a family had given him the chance to make something of himself and he had risen to the challenge.
As a successful young entrepreneur he’d met Diane’s father through a business deal. Diane had been lined up to marry a young man who’d been her ‘beau’ almost since childhood, until she had fallen victim to the charm offensive of her father’s youngest business partner.
He looked at his watch for about the twentieth time, it seemed, and had decided to give up and go home to his wife when the maître d’ appeared at his table with his date in tow. The head waiter seated her and bowed obsequiously before snapping his fingers to summon the sommelier.
‘I am so sorry,’ said Mystery Girl, and puffed out her very pink cheeks. ‘I was running late and then I couldn’t get a cab.’
She was sweet and apologetic, making it difficult to feel angry with her, and those rose petal cheeks were so appealing he wanted to lean over the table and kiss her face.
‘Don’t worry. You’re here no
w.’ He turned to the waiter. ‘Champagne, please. My usual.’
‘They know you in here?’
‘I often have clients here for business lunches.’
She leaned forward and rested her chin on her upturned palm. ‘You never did tell me exactly what it is you do.’
He fought back the desire to boast and impress her. The less she knew about him the better. ‘I’m in finance.’
‘Have you thought any more about that job you said you might have for me?’
He winked at her and said, ‘Leave it with me.’
The champagne arrived and made it easy to change the subject. They clinked glasses and toasted ‘the future’. That was vague enough to be appropriate while subliminally suggesting a continuation of their relationship. ‘Charlotte’ repeated the toast with enthusiasm and drank most of the glass in one go. She replaced the slim-stemmed flute on the table and giggled apologetically.
‘Oops, bit thirsty after my rush to get here. Sorry.’
He raised his hand mere inches and a waiter appeared to refill her glass.
‘Don’t give it a second thought. I’m delighted to see you like champagne. It’s not to everyone’s taste.’
‘I love it. I’d forgotten how much. But I’d better warn you, the bubbles make me a bit silly sometimes.’
‘That sounds like fun.’
It also sounded like a godsend. He’d been racking his brains trying to work out how he could find a solution to the Charlotte problem before too much more time passed. He had to find out what this young woman was doing in Charlotte’s apartment before the situation got any trickier. Diane was in danger of suspecting him of having an affair and he was in danger of proving her right. Maybe it was the girl’s resemblance to Charlotte that turned him on or maybe it was the fact that she was like a new, improved version of Charlotte – younger, softer, fresher, and a good deal more naïve. Had it not been for the fact that he was playing the part of grieving widower, he’d have made a move on her long before now. The only woman he’d ever wasted this much champagne on in the past was Charlotte and that had turned out to be a good investment. Or at least it would, if the NYSE ever opened again.
