“No,” Ashley admitted, her breaths coming in short gulps.
“Middle school and high school,” Carl said.
“Are his parents still alive?” How much of what he’d told her had been a lie?
“His father died on a gurney in a hospital elevator. On the way from the ER to the coronary care unit. Heart attack. Welton was alone with him on that elevator. As it turned out, Conrad, Sr. left everything to brother Stanley. Ultimately, his mother convinced Stanley to share the estate, and Stanley agreed to a fifty-fifty split until his wife stepped in to negate her husband’s generosity. Not long after that their mother committed suicide.”
“So much tragedy,” Ashley said, hurt and angry, but mostly she was frightened. Why had Conrad lied to her? And why had he gone to Cincinnati today?
The waiter appeared again. “Are you ready to order?” he asked, bowing slightly.
“Not quite ready,” Carl attempted a social smile. “Ashley, let’s take a look at the menu.”
The menu featured three lists of seafood and instructed diners to pick one item from each list. Knowing she’d be unable to eat, Ashley’s hands started to shake and she had to set the menu down.
“Uncle Carl, I’m not that hungry. Can you order for me?”
When the waiter returned, Carl ordered for both of them. She doubted whether she could eat a morsel, but didn’t want to make a scene.
A waiter appeared with bread choices, and when he left, Carl met her eyes. “Honey, I need to ask you this. Please don’t take offense. Has Welton ever hurt you? Threatened you?”
“No, it’s not that.” This would be a struggle to explain. “But I’ve been having, like, blackouts.”
“Blackouts?” Carl prompted.
“I know it sounds absurd. It’s like parts of my life are blanked out. I can’t remember things.” She shook her head. “It’s like what Alzheimer patients must go through.”
A searing suspicion then flashed through her head, jolting her. She grasped the table with both hands to stabilize herself. Could Conrad be drugging her? As a psychiatrist he had access to every type of antipsychotic and sedative medication. As a hypnotist, he would routinely use drugs to alter his patient’s state of consciousness. What if he had been giving her something like midazolam, a sedative used in surgical procedures, or propofol, an anesthetic that induced memory gaps? How easy it would be for him. And it would explain the blackouts. But why would he do that? All he had to do was ask, and she’d do anything to please him. Wasn’t that what love was all about?
She couldn’t share these paranoid suspicions with Uncle Carl. What she would do as soon as she got home was search the house for any trace of drugs or needles. Across the table, Uncle Carl kept his gaze on her and she felt compelled to explain. “Like sometimes when I wake up, I seem to be in a fog that covers my memory.”
As the waiter presented their first course, Ashley fiddled with her napkin. As soon as he left the table, she pushed her food away.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Carl said, leaning toward her, “but you need help dealing with this. Come stay for a while with Phyllis and me.”
“I’m so s-scared, Uncle Carl,” she managed to stutter.
Carl’s expression reflected deep concern. “And you’re going to marry him? You can’t do that until you get to the bottom of these memory lapses.”
Ashley twisted her engagement ring inscribed with their initials intertwined. Maybe Carl was right. Maybe she wouldn’t go through with the marriage this week. But what about her pregnancy?
Carl looked at her neglected plate and said apologetically, “Maybe a seafood restaurant was not the best choice tonight. Let me be honest with you, Ashley. I set up a meeting tomorrow morning with a law firm that specializes in marital-property law. Things like prenuptial agreements, but much more. I had wanted them to explain to you your options.”
“No prenuptials,” she said, her jaws clamping together.
“It’s not just about money,” Carl said, scrutinizing her. “It’s much more fundamental, but you need to hear from these experts. You’ll be surprised as to how many different ways there are to deal with such a situation.”
“No prenuptials.” she repeated. She started to grind her teeth. Once she’d mentioned something about whether she needed one to Conrad. He had erupted in anger. That’s all she could remember, but the mere mention of the word drove a pulse of fear though her body.
“Mam’selle? Did you not care for the food?” The waiter looked dis-approvingly at her untouched plate.
“The lady is a little unwell,” Carl offered. “Mine was delicious.” He looked back to Ashley. “So, let’s agree to meet with these attorneys in the morning. The timing is perfect since you’re staying in the city overnight. They can explain everything to you. Then I’ll take you back to Philadelphia tomorrow. In the meantime, let’s move to a more pleasant topic.”
After a feeble attempt to recap the foundation board meeting, Carl called for the waiter. “I think we’ll skip the next two courses,” he said, turning to Ashley, “unless you think you can eat something.”
Ashley nodded her assent, but then her eyes settled on the cheese cart, being presented at the next table.
“Maybe some cheese,” Carl said, and Ashley chose a simple cheddar. She had a child to consider now and she needed nourishment.
By the time they left the restaurant, Ashley felt more settled, and when Carl’s driver dropped her off at the Waldorf, she assured him that she’d be okay. Alone in the luxurious suite, Ashley tried to analyze what she had learned. She accepted that what Uncle Carl had told her was fact. But the vague accusations? That Conrad somehow had something to do with his wife’s death? And that of the woman’s cousin? And his own father? As the night wore on, a sense of panic began to build. Her heart started to race and she heard Conrad’s voice in her ears, very melodious, but she couldn’t make out the words. She began to admit to herself that she was afraid of Conrad. And that thought made her heart race even faster. What if only a bit of what Uncle Carl had implied was true?
Sitting up in bed, she turned on the bedside light. Picking up a notebook, she began to think more clearly and list her most urgent concerns on the page.
No. 1: Was she in love with Conrad? Or had he come into her life when she’d been just too vulnerable? Did he have some kind of sinister control over her? Was she afraid of him? Had he been giving her drugs?
No 2: Had Conrad had anything to do with the death of those other people? If so, her life and her baby’s life were in danger.
No 3: What about the baby? Would she have to marry Conrad for the baby’s sake? An ice pick jabbed at her heart. Or was it quite the opposite—she needed to protect her baby from him?
Her thoughts raced back and forth while she tried to find a solution. Finally, she got up and paced until light started to filter through the curtains. Exhausted, she heard Conrad’s voice. Faint at first, then loud enough for her to make out the words: “You will never leave me; if you try to leave me, I will find you; I will find you no matter where you go.”
As she watched the dawn of a beautiful morn, she began to feel a sense of clarity, a clarity that had eluded her for so many months. Standing at the window, drenched in a cold sweat, Ashley realized that she had let herself be controlled by Conrad Welton. Not a superficial or frivolous control, but a profound control, imprisoning her.
Ashley dressed slowly, wearing the same cranberry silk suit that she had worn the day before. She packed the few cosmetics she’d purchased and put them in her purse. The meeting with the lawyers was scheduled for nine a.m., and she had made up her mind to listen carefully to what they had to say. She wasn’t hungry, but she left early enough so that she could pick up a muffin and coffee in the financial district. And fruit and milk, too, she reminded herself, still in awe that she was pregnant.
In the cab from the Waldorf to lower Manhattan, she decided she would go home with Uncle Carl as he’d suggested. Maybe ask him
to help her get away from Conrad. But she had to stay in Philadelphia because of her residency. Could Uncle Carl deal with Conrad so she’d never have to face him again? Maybe.
“Here we are, ma’am.” The driver grunted as Ashley reached into her purse to pay the fare.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, considering herself lucky that she didn’t have to deal with the chaos of New York City on a regular basis. As she climbed out of the cab, she looked around for Tower One, World Trade Center. She needed the fifty-second floor, but she was twenty minutes early. Plenty of time to find a café, maybe a Starbucks. As she walked among the massive concrete flowerpots that lined the perimeter of the huge complex, she wasn’t even sure which building was Tower One and which was Tower Two. Uncle Carl would know once she met up with him.
The day had turned bright and sunny, and Ashley envied the energy and optimism on the faces surrounding her. Everybody walked with purpose as if they knew who they were and where they were going. But where to go for coffee? She checked her watch to see if she still had time. Fifteen minutes. Naturally, a law firm would have coffee, bagels, fruit for a nine o’clock meeting. Then her cell phone rang. Conrad? She almost had not turned it back on. She checked the number. Not Conrad, so she answered.
“Ashley? Uncle Carl here. Just called to tell you that I’m running a few minutes late so why don’t you go on up?”
“Okay—if I can find the right place. So far I haven’t figured out which building is which.”
“You’re there? Right?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to get started without you.”
“Tell the receptionist that I’ll be there by nine fifteen. The more I think of our discussion last night, the more important this morning is,” he said. “So have an extra cup of coffee and have them wait for me.”
“I didn’t sleep all night. Thinking about everything. Maybe I will stay with you and Aunt Phyllis.”
No response. Must have lost the signal. Ashley walked toward one of the tall towers, intending to go inside and ask security whether she was in the right place. People were converging from all directions. “Is this Tower One?” she asked a stranger.
Her answer was an affirmative nod so Ashley continued into the lobby. Now all she had to do was find the right bank of elevators.
She approached a security guard at his kiosk. “Excuse me, sir, could you tell me where—”
A deafening explosion and a tremor rocked the building. Lurching forward, Ashley grasped the edge of the kiosk to stay upright.
“A bomb! Holy shit! Ma’am, you better get the hell outta here.” The security guard shoved her aside in his rush for the door.
At first Ashley just stood there, stunned. The building kept shaking, glass and clumps of debris falling from the lobby ceiling. Then she saw flames pouring out of an elevator shaft. People streamed toward the doors. Some were screaming, many in languages she did not understand. Still, she hadn’t moved. For a second she wondered whether her mind was playing tricks on her? A nightmare? Is this what it was like to be going insane?
Then more blasts from above and people running. Wild-eyed, frightened. More explosions, not as loud as the first, and more glass breaking. Chunks of ceiling coming down like rain. She wondered if it could be an earthquake, not a bomb. The East Coast didn’t pay much attention to earthquake precautions. Get under a ledge or beam? She wasn’t sure. Whatever, she had to do something in case the whole building collapsed. She heard alarms inside and outside as she joined the throng of humanity pouring out the doors.
Outside, a crowd stared upward. Ashley half expected to see King Kong thumping his breast at the top of Tower One. What she saw was a huge hole in the upper part of the building. Bright orange flames and heavy plumes of black smoke poured out of the gash, rapidly contaminating the bright blue skies. She heard, “Hit by a plane. There’s a plane inside there. I saw it hit. Everybody get out of here.”
For the next several yards, she didn’t know how many, Ashley moved with the crowd. Away from the building, in short, halting steps. Periodically the crowd turned to gaze, everyone mesmerized by the gaping, pulsating hole. Sirens now screamed from all directions and firemen were starting to rush in, bisecting the crowd, pushing her and her fellow gapers to the fringe.
All Ashley could hope was that those trapped inside would be rescued. So many firemen rushing in, but what about those who had been in that awful burning gash? Her knees buckled, realizing that five minutes later she could have been in that exact place. Then she heard a thud, close to where she stood. Then another. She looked back up at the inferno at the most horrifying sights, people jumping from the high floors, free-falling. Men in suits. A woman with long dark hair. A man in jeans. Ashley started to head toward them, as if she could help, but a man pulled her back.
“Get out of here, lady,” he yelled. “Nothing any of us can do. They got thousands trapped up there.”
As her interceptor held her back with one hand, his other pointed upward at the focus of the crowd on the ground. Rather than screams, a collective breath was held as a jet plane slammed into the second building at a height a little lower than the first. Another fireball, another inferno. Air now more dense with smoke. Sirens everywhere. Firemen and police pouring in. Escorting victims out. Some stumbling, some on stretchers. While she stood, chunks of concrete and aluminum and glass burst out from the second building. Now everyone was running, covered with white ash like Halloween ghouls.
Ashley felt a shove from behind and lunged forward until a strong hand reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her in the direction of the others, away from the buildings. In the midst of explosions and flying debris, a car close by blew up, igniting in a fiery blast. An image seared Ashley’s brain of a girl—Crissy—blown up in a car at the cemetery. So that’s what it had been like.
In a violent motion, Ashley twisted the ring off her left finger. With a jerk she flung it as far as she could toward Tower One. Then, like everyone else, she ran.
“Chinatown, Brooklyn Bridge, Fulton Street Ferry,” the police shouted. “Get out. Move. Evacuate.”
Ashley fell in with the crush of people. By now she was covered all over in ash. Her heels were too high and she discarded her shoes. She struggled to keep up in her slim skirt, sure that she’d be trampled if she fell. But she needn’t have worried. The crowd was in control. Grim, stunned, but helping one another. She watched as two young men took an elderly gentleman by the arms and urged him along. All along the street, storefronts had opened up and were handing out bottles of water. A shoe store owner offered footwear, and she accepted a pair of sandals, the soles of her bare feet bloody from the shards of glass.
The ground shook. She was sure that this time all of NewYork City was under attack. For a moment the crowd halted and, as one, turned to stare. A collective gasp. A burning tower imploded in front of them. Thousands of people were dying at that very instant.
The cadre of marchers remained remarkably calm, grimly resuming their retreat in near silence. Ashley kept moving with the mass westward, toward the Hudson River until, amid a thunderous roll, the entire throng turned around again. The remaining tower, the first one hit, the one Ashley had stood in, collapsed into billows of smoke and debris. Lower Manhattan’s skyline was being erased, leaving in its place a mass grave.
Too much death to fathom. When the throng reached the river, Ashley took her place in the line waiting for a boat to New Jersey. After only a half hour, she climbed aboard a Circle Line tourist boat. The boat was jammed, but she found space on a bench by the outside rail. Still sirens, still billows of smoke, and now overhead, fighter jets circled Manhattan.
“Blood. Red Cross needs blood.” Ashley looked to a matronly woman with a clipboard. “Will you donate?” she asked the thin young girl who had squeezed in beside Ashley.
“I can’t,” the girl said. Ashley noticed how violently she was trembling. When she looked up her eyes were red and puffy, and there were tear tracks down her sooty cheeks. “I wo
uld, but I’m pregnant. Oh, God, I think Craig’s dead.”
“Sorry, miss,” said the woman as she moved to Ashley.
“I can’t,” Ashley said, unwilling to disclose her pregnancy, but wanting an excuse. “I’m sorry, but I’ve had hepatitis. I can’t donate blood,” she lied.
Ashley turned toward the girl next to her who looked no older than eighteen. She had long hair, but Ashley couldn’t guess the color underneath the soot. Her slacks and short-sleeved shirt were concrete gray, as was the skin on her arms.
“Are you okay?” Ashley asked.
“He doesn’t even know.” Fresh tears started to enlarge the sooty tracks.
“Your husband?” Ashley asked.
“No, my boyfriend. We always said that if I got pregnant, we’d get married. But Craig worked for Cantor Fitzgerald. He was in there. The North Tower—the one hundred third floor. What if—”
“I’m sure he got out,” Ashley said.
“We were going to meet for lunch. I was going to tell him today about the baby,” she said through bouts of sobs. “What am I going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Ashley said, answering both the girl’s question and her own.
For a moment they both looked up as a jet fighter swooped in closer.
“Where do you live?” Ashley asked once the roaring noise dissipated.
“New Brunswick. With my Aunt Bea.”
“I’m pregnant too,” Ashley blurted out. “I’m not married either.”
The girl grabbed Ashley’s hand. “My name is Julie Janinski. Why don’t you come home with me? Just for now.”
“But your aunt—”
“Aunt Bea? No problem. Honestly, she has a heart that won’t stop.”
Ashley considered her options. When she’d pulled off that ring, she’d set her course.
“Please. I could use some companionship. At least until the shock wears off. Please come home with me.” Julie began to tear up again. For a minute they both looked across the waterfront at a sky darkened by smoke and clouds of billowing debris.
The Test Page 17
