Leave Her Out: A Novel

by Daniel Davidsohn

  “Yeah. I remember… Well, it’s been good talking to you, Margaret.”

  “I’m so happy you called.”

  “Take care.”

  I turned and began walking slowly back to the house. It was like a numbness had overtaken my entire existence. They were watching me from outside and, I now knew, from the very guts of my own house. I turned my head and saw Vicky at the kitchen window, washing the dishes. She didn’t see me. I stared at her as I walked, and all I saw was a total stranger, an extension of that poisonous serpent Charles, fixing my drinks, listening to my feelings, my thoughts, the very guardian of my memoirs.

  The world was a sick place.

  Inside the house, I went straight to my bedroom. I heard Vicky yell something from the kitchen, but I couldn’t distinguish a word. I didn’t want to see her. I needed to think. What to do? And what about Stella—why had the two of them been talking behind my back?

  23

  UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY, ALLENWOOD

  USP Allenwood was a high-security federal prison in Pennsylvania. Four two-level housing units, within a double line of fencing sandwiching barbed wire, were home to inmates serving life sentences for drug trafficking, murder, and organized crime.

  Samuel Flynn didn’t belong in USP Allenwood. He was incredibly wealthy, hadn’t committed any murder, and hadn’t trafficked drugs. He committed a financial fraud for which he was given a ten-year sentence, but was on his way to serving just nine months because of his cooperation with prosecutors and his connections with powerful political figures in Washington. Samuel was doing time in USP Allenwood because this was part of his plan to go home earlier. He’d pulled strings to be sent to that high-security prison to reinforce the impression that the authorities were persecuting him. It was nothing more than an elaborate stunt. As a victim of the system, his lawyers assured him, he would soon be freed.

  Samuel was a week into his stint, and in that time the other inmates had been studying him, looking for a way to exploit the new guy. Every day, Samuel would go to the central dayroom where the inmates congregated when they were allowed outside their cells. He spent his time there reading a book and avoiding contact with others. But he knew that eventually he’d have to deal with them.

  Jack was an old head serving life for murder. He was a prison gang leader. The inmates respected him and followed his orders. Samuel, though, wasn’t showing him the due respect—this well-combed financier, sitting with his legs crossed as if he were in some fancy library reading a book with a cocktail. Jack told the gang it was time to teach Samuel his place in that prison.

  Samuel saw when the three men pulled up chairs and formed a semicircle in front of him. He looked over his book, but didn’t move an inch. Jack was in the middle, right in front of him, arms crossed, staring hungrily at this arrogant little fish. In this pond, Samuel was vulnerable, whether he accepted it or not.

  Any person with half a brain would have known to lower the book and face these men respectfully, to listen to whatever their requirements were and try to stay out of trouble. But Samuel did nothing. Until, after a minute of silence and staring, he stood up and stared right back at the three men with utter confidence.

  He then turned, pulled his chair a little closer to Jack’s, and sat back down. Next, Samuel looked up, and his eyes met with a prison guard’s. The guard nodded to him. The inmates around saw it. Samuel, a little smile on his face, turned to another heavily armed guard on the opposite side of the room. Nods were exchanged. Jack and his men saw that too. Samuel turned to Jack, let his smile widen, and turned completely on his chair to sit with his back to the three inmates.

  In a gesture of pure hubris, he slowly raised both arms, allowing himself to be completely exposed—head, neck, and arms vulnerable—inviting these hardened criminals to devour him. It was a challenge that could only be laid down by a totally deranged person. Or, someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

  Though tempted to slit the arrogant prick’s neck right there, Jack glanced at the guards again. Sure enough, they looked ready to act if anything went down. Jack leaned forward and spoke near Samuel’s ear.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’ll find out, motherfucker!”

  Samuel ended his little show and swung around on his chair. “You could say I’m a short-timer,” he told Jack.

  “In here? No way. But I can make that happen. Yeah. I can make your time much shorter. We don’t like people like you.”

  “That settles it, then. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Samuel closed his book, stood up, looked around like he owned the place—he didn’t, really—and walked away, feeling perfectly protected by his money and connections.

  Of all of Charles Dulles’s contributors, Samuel Flynn was one of the most worrying. He’d been using Charles to get to politicians for ages. In recent years, though, Samuel had become a burden. If the TND lawsuit ended with a victory for Loretta Johnson, contributors such as Samuel could well be exposed. And the last thing Charles Dulles wanted was a loose cannon like Samuel playing hardball with him.

  24

  ARCATA, CALIFORNIA

  I finally called my daughter. Quite frustrating. She wasn’t answering her phone.

  I called Mohe and checked Stella’s phone number with him. I had the correct number, so I asked Mohe to call her instead. He called me back two hours later to say he couldn’t reach her either, which was odd because she always answered his calls. We both tried again the following morning. Still nothing.

  We were getting worried.

  Mohe suggested that we get on a plane and visit her in Arcata. I asked him if that was part of the deal. If I recalled, Stella wanted me to call her first. Regardless, I decided to go.

  It seemed a blur between Glasgow and Arcata. It seemed bizarre to be standing outside my daughter’s home—a big house—and not know the person who lived inside it.

  Mohe looked at me.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  He pressed the doorbell button again and again. A deafening silence followed. Mohe kept trying while I listened hard for noises coming from inside. Steps. A voice. But there was nothing.

  “Maybe she’s in town,” Mohe said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Let’s try around the back.”

  I followed him as he walked around the house. Mohe was faster than me, and when I reached the backyard he was already up on the terrace. As I climbed the steps, I saw he was frowning as he examined a large glass door. I couldn’t see what was drawing his attention, but instants later he touched the door with two fingers and it swung open. He turned to me and we exchanged a look. It wasn’t a good sign.

  Together, we stepped inside the house.

  “Stella?” Mohe called.

  No answer.

  The first thing I noticed in the room we had entered, the living room, was a painting from my late wife’s art collection. Though I was a stranger in this house, part of my life was hanging on the walls.

  Mohe headed out of the room and I heard him trampling about the house. I remained in the living room, walking around slowly, like an intruder. I noticed that just like in my house in Glasgow, there were no family portraits. The only ones I found were of people I didn’t know.

  I saw a photo of Stella and picked it up. She was all dressed up in a tailleur. A woman. Beautiful. Powerful. Was that really my daughter? I placed the photo frame back on the table. There was a strange emotion in me; I couldn’t define it. And as I heard Mohe calling Stella’s name from a distant spot in the house, I comprehended the emotional distance between Stella and me. Was she just a voice from the past?

  I continued my tour of the living room, looking for one—just one—family portrait. What if she was just like me and kept a photo of us in some hidden corner of the house? That would do; I would be perfectly fine with it. So long as I existed to Stella.

  I sat on a chair, struggling with the reality that I was in my daughter’s house. Digesting the prospect
that she was no longer the spoiled little girl of my nightmares. I tried to find a place for myself in this new picture, but I couldn’t. How depressing.

  I heard footsteps coming in my direction and turned. Mohe slowed down when he saw the anguish on my face. “She’s not here, Tony.”

  I stood up as Mohe held out to me the twisted piece of metal he was holding. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “A photo frame.”

  I took it from him and there it was, the portrait I was hoping to find—Stella, Anya, and me. The glass was shattered.

  “Where did you find this?” I said.

  “In her bedroom. On the floor, you know.”

  I smiled with sad irony.

  “Tony,” said Mohe gently. “I’m not sure you understand. We need to call the police.”

  “The police?”

  “Stella didn’t simply leave the house open.”

  “Of course not,” I said. And finally, I let the understanding come. Something was very wrong.

  25

  EVERGREEN, COLORADO

  Stella had been standing by the window of the guest room for the best part of an hour. Outside, there was gloom, the silhouettes of trees and rocks, and an abundance of snow. Inside her mind, a storm of questions over intertwined relationships.

  The notion that Charles Dulles bore any resemblance to a family friend was immediately disregarded. She was, after all, being kept a hostage in a castle that was certainly built with corruption money. This alone prompted her not to give any credit to Charles’s justifications. Whatever they were, it didn’t give him the right to keep her here, and that was clear.

  And what of her father? Charles had warned her about shady sponsors from President Morris’s past; how much was her father involved with it? Her resolve to mend old wounds had been shaken to the core. Was it worth it?

  As she went through her recollections of life with her parents, she found most of the memories were good. In fact, until she became an angry teenager, she and her father had a great relationship—all that incredible time spent together around the world, enjoying the best of what life had to offer. They would talk about almost everything, and they got along so well. It was tender between them, even. Maybe that was what had led her to think she could reconnect with her father; that old concept of family.

  But now here she was, in trouble, after letting down her guard and deciding to accept him back into her life. Not rational thinking, she knew, but an unfortunate coincidence. As her eyes threatened to tear up, the lawyer in her brought her back to her senses, and her immediate reality.

  From her vantage point, Stella saw only one security agent outside. Beyond him was a small hill topped with rocks. It was the only part of the perimeter that wasn’t fenced, which led Stella to believe there was a drop beyond the rocks. She decided that her best chance of escape was up that hill, down the rocks at its edge, and into the cold winter night.

  She jumped when she heard someone knocking on her door. The door opened without her saying a word and the housekeeper came in.

  “We’re serving dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  The old lady affected embarrassment. “I understand, but I’m supposed to insist. Mr. Dulles wants to talk to you.”

  “Are you aware I’m being kept here against my will?”

  “No, I’m not.” This time the woman affected surprise.

  “Will you call the police for me?” Stella asked, practically mocking her.

  The housekeeper didn’t say a word.

  Stella walked up to her. “I need my phone back. Please?”

  “I, uh, I think you’d better come down and talk to Mr. Dulles.”

  Stella sighed. “I’ll be right down,” she said.

  The housekeeper nodded and left the room.

  Stella put on her red woolen winter coat and her boots, which had been laid out for her when she awoke here. She transferred everything precious from her purse—including the pepper spray, probably left there to convince her she’d have no need of it—into her coat pockets. Then she walked out of the room, down the stairs, and straight toward the main entrance.

  Charles came out of a room. She ignored him and walked resolutely toward the door.

  A security agent nearby got nervy. “Stop!” he yelled.

  Stella ignored him too. Moments later, she strode out of the house.

  The agent went to follow her, but Charles intervened. “Let her. She’s going nowhere. Not in this weather.”

  Charles and the security agent walked calmly outside to see how far Stella would go. She was heading for the part of the property she’d scoped out from her bedroom window. She approached another security agent. He looked to Charles, who signaled to let her walk past. She would certainly return when she learned there was no way to get off the property.

  In less than a minute, Stella reached the top of the hill and slowed down. She was now stepping carefully on the rocks. She checked behind her. Charles and his two agents were standing by the house and staring at her, annoyingly sure that this attempt to escape was laughable.

  At the edge of the rocks, Stella looked down. It wasn’t just a drop, it was a cliff. The snow below wasn’t so far down, though; maybe the cliff wasn’t impossibly high for a jump. But she could be wrong.

  She looked back at Charles. He and his men continued to be impassive. That could only mean they were sure she would return.

  Stella looked down the cliff again. Now, she was almost convinced that she was being foolish. There was a reason this part of the property required no fences; they weren’t needed. It was just too high, a natural protection. No one would attempt to climb the cliff or descend it without the proper equipment.

  Stella took a step backwards. When her leg sank into the snow and she had a hard time trying to find her balance again, a thought occurred to her. One born of sheer desperation. Maybe, just maybe, the snow at the bottom of the cliff was thick enough and soft enough to break her fall.

  By the time she realized the stupidity of her action, she was already in the air, diving into the darkness beyond the cliff.

  26

  GLASGOW, MONTANA

  Mohe had gone for a glass of water. He’d been in my kitchen, with Vicky, for quite some time. I couldn’t believe that was all due to his being thirsty. They were certainly talking behind my back.

  We returned from Arcata after telling the police department that my daughter was missing. As expected, they called the Secret Service and the FBI, and, despite my express request, someone decided that it would be a good idea to tell the press about Stella.

  The TV in my living room was on. I was looking toward the kitchen, trying to hear what they were saying, but it seemed that they were whispering. Then I heard an overwhelmingly dramatic host break the news:

  “The Arcata Police Department is requesting the public’s help to locate a missing person. Stella Morris, the only daughter of former President Anthony Morris, was last seen on Thursday. Her Arcata residence was found unsecured, and there were indications that a possible violent struggle took place there. Anyone with information on her whereabouts should call—”

  I turned off the TV and got up. Mohe and Vicky had come into the living room to follow the news. Ignoring them, I went to the window. Outside, I saw two Secret Service vehicles standing by. I had talked to them and the FBI for the entire evening. The truth was, I had no idea what had happened to Stella. It could be that someone had invaded her house and taken her, but other than the back door being unlocked and the family portrait broken, there was no evidence. Regardless, they were all over this now like vultures. I knew that Stella’s well-being was the least important part of this. All of them would be, in one way or another, blamed for the outcome. It was fear and reputation that drove them. What a world.

  Vicky returned to the kitchen after smiling at me warmly. She probably realized I’d been treating her slightly different lately, keeping a certain distance. It bothered me that she didn’t have th
e courage to ask me why. Just like a guilty person. She was laying low, not willing to draw attention.

  Mohe and I sat down.

  “So, have you and Vicky worked out Stella’s location?” I asked.

  “We wish,” Mohe said laconically.

  “Then what were you discussing?”

  Mohe sighed and looked me in the eye. “I was asking her about your health.”

  “Oh. What did you find out?”

  “Nothing. Vicky wasn’t aware of your condition.”

  “Was she worried?”

  “What do you think? Of course she was worried.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  Mohe frowned at me. “Look, Tony, you’re stressed. Of course you are. But all we can do right now is wait. We have the best people on this. Let them do their job, OK?”

  Trust them, he was saying. It seemed that everything revolved around trust these days. Personally, I didn’t like to trust.

  Mohe touched my shoulder and smiled. I believed he was trying to comfort me, I just didn’t know how much of that was due to genuine concern rather than social protocol. This full-throttle judging was killing me, but I just couldn’t help it.

  The doorbell rang, and Vicky answered it. It was the shrink. My blood boiled as I watched Dr. Deborah Hastings walk toward me with a pitiful expression on her face. Who in the world would believe I needed someone like Debby offering me fast food for thought?

  She offered her hand. I shook it.

  “I’m so sorry…,” she began.

  After that, I saw her lips moving for an intolerable amount of time, but I couldn’t discern the words. I found myself in some sort of mental bubble. Time was passing at a different speed. I was aware that the muscles in my jaw were working to make my lips smile in gratitude for whatever pearl she was sharing. I didn’t want to be rude, whatever her agenda. I’d learned never to be rude to people. They came back to you like infected beasts, trying to teach you the error of your ways.