by David Wind
When he came down from the chair, he bent and picked Latham up. The pain in his back and face was incredible, but he didn’t care. He carried Chuck to where Arnie Savak lay and placed him next to Savak.
Tears tracked down his cheeks as he gazed at his friends, wishing that somehow he could turn back the clock and bring them to life again. He wanted to pretend he didn’t know how something like this could have happened, and how he lost many of the people he loved so deeply. But he knew it was an unnecessary war, a lust for power, and the insanity born of revenge and hatred that were responsible for their deaths.
Together, Arnie, Chuck, and he had survived horrors people could not even imagine, much less live through. Together, they had been an invincible force that might have changed the course of history for the better. Now, only two were together; and, Steven was truly alone for the first time in his life.
His vision blurred and his throat constricted. He’d lost his family tonight, and he’d lost the last vestiges of the idealism that he had somehow maintained through all the years. All that remained for him was Ellie, and he didn’t know if she would ever remember who he was.
Steven felt the walls of the cabin closing in on him. He turned, pushed through the crowd of police and government agents, and stepped outside.
He took several deep breaths of the cold winter air. The grief that had begun to build inside the cabin finally came. Steven ignored his sadness and tears as he started toward the sheriff’s car.
Banacek was at his side before he reached the car. “After you do whatever legal things are necessary, I want to bury Arnie, Chuck, and Helene. Will you arrange that?”
“I’ll handle it,” Banacek said, nodding. “After I get you to the hospital.”
When they reached Banacek’s car, Steven leaned against it, wiped his face, and stared up at the cloudless night sky. “At least it’s over,” he said.
Banacek looked curiously at Steven. “Until the next time someone thinks they have the answer to the world’s problems.”
“Not if I can help it,” Steven said, his gaze straying passed Banacek’s shoulder, to the people now milling in front of the cabin. He didn’t like most of the people there. But he didn’t hate them either. Then he saw Carla and Ken Ryan, the new field supervisor, break away from the group.
As he watched them approach, he said, “How did you find us?”
Banacek lighted a cigarette. “It was a hunch. I used to hunt in this area, before the Parks Department banned hunting on Big Hand. I found the cabin about ten years ago. You boys left personal stuff, books and such.”
“I guess it was fortunate we did,” Steven commented when Carla and Ryan stopped abreast of them.
Standing just out of Steven’s reach, Ryan said, “Mr. Morrisy, Director Axelrod would like you to come back to Washington with us. He would like to speak with you about what happened.”
Steven grunted. “When I’m ready to be debriefed, I’ll be there.”
“Mr. Morris—”
Steven cut him off. “You tell the director when I’ve taken care of some personal matters I’ll be in to see him. If that isn’t good enough, suggest he come here to see me.”
Ryan exhaled slowly. “You’re making a mistake, but I’ll give him the message.”
As Ryan moved back, Carla stepped close to Steven. Her face was soft. Her eyes reflected emotions he wasn’t sure he wanted to see. “I want to stay with you.”
Steven closed his eyes, briefly. When he opened them, he shook his head slowly. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. “Go back to Washington, Carla. I have things to do here. And I need to be alone right now.”
“And Ellie?”
“She’s part of those things. A very important part.”
“Steven...”
He smiled tentatively. “It will be okay, Carla.”
Epilogue
“The planning was incredible,” Steven said as he stood and began to pace. “The manipulation between the Chinese government and the Soviet government was just as phenomenal. The shame of it was that if he hadn’t been insane, he might have been the one person who could have led this country down a peaceful road.”
Steven paused. He went to the edge of the flagstone patio and gazed at the surrounding mountains. The day was a picture perfect vision of late spring. The sky was clear and blue. Only a single distant and hazy white cottony cloud was in the sky. The vista of the Shenandoah was soft and green.
Steven turned back. “He was psychotic. Driven insane by the way they used him…used us. He believed in the war and in his country. After he learned the real reason behind our mission in Nam, he came to believe the people who run our country betrayed him. Still, even then, he might have been able to live with what had happened, if all of us, from Raden to me, had broken and given the enemy the information we were supposed to. But Raden had been able to commit suicide, Cole died from the torture, and I never broke.
“My ability to withstand the interrogation made Savak believe he was weak and combined with what he perceived as the betrayal by his country, it destroyed the Arnold Savak I grew up with and turned him psychotic.”
Steven returned to the chair he had been occupying, and sat. “Arnie was a political genius. If he had been sane, and Pritman elected, Arnie would have made certain that Pritman carried the country forward in a way which could never be stopped.”
Steven gazed into the light blue eyes of the woman sitting next to him. She picked up the top sheet of paper from the thick pile on her lap, and read from it. “‘So, a combination of unpreventable circumstances conspired to rob Arnold Savak of his sanity, and the country of a man who would have been its best political mind.’”
Ellie lowered the paper and stared over Steven’s shoulder. “It’s so beautiful here,” she said. “I think I was here before. I’m not sure, but I have that feeling. Was I?” she asked, turning to the third person on the patio.
Carla Statler nodded. “Once, four years ago. You had been hurt in an automobile accident. You were here for three weeks.”
Watching Ellie and Carla, Steven swallowed hard. He hid the sadness which had been his constant companion, since she’d come out of the coma, ten weeks before.
As everyone had predicted, Ellie’s long-term memory was lost. She hadn’t known who she was, or who Steven was. Steven had spent every day of the first month Ellie had been conscious, working with her, feeding her his perfect memories of her life with him.
Four weeks after she’d regained consciousness and six weeks ago, the Secret Service moved Ellie to the Shenandoah Valley facility. An old mansion the Secret Service converted into a convalescent home and hospital for its field agents. Like the safe houses they operated, this hospital was a place where an agent could rest and recuperate without fear of discovery.
Steven had not been permitted to come with Ellie when they’d transferred her. But, with the help of a recovering Paul Grange, he had been allowed to visit on weekends and continue to help Ellie with her memories. During the weekdays, Ellie would undergo physical and psychological therapy.
Then, yesterday, Carla Statler had appeared at his Washington townhouse, telling him Ellie had asked for him.
When he and Carla arrived at the hospital, Ellie had greeted them in the lobby and brought them to her room. There, Ellie had said she wanted to hear the full story of what had happened on the Pritman investigation.
Instead of saying anything, Steven had opened his attaché case, and handed Ellie a thick manila envelope. “When you finish reading this, I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”
He’d left her with the papers yesterday, and had returned two hours ago. They’d been talking ever since.
Ellie put the end sheet on top of the others. “I still can’t believe how close we both came to dying,” she said to Steven. “Nor can I believe how anyone could have thought you were a spy.”
“Savak had worked that out with precision,” Carla said. “It was only after I’d...I’d spent some
time with Steven, that I knew he couldn’t be the mole.”
Hearing the strained tone of her voice, Steven glanced at Carla. Her face was unemotional, and her eyes distant. She stood suddenly and smiled at Ellie. “Excuse me; I have some things to do.”
When she was gone, Ellie stood and went over to Steven. She gazed up at him, her eyes searching his face. “Sometimes I feel as though I can almost remember. I get feelings that I’ve said or done the same things before. But when I try to remember, all I find is emptiness. I… It’s so damned hard Steven.”
Steven put his arms around her and drew her close. He held her for a moment, trying to comfort her, but she pushed away from him.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
“It’s all right.” To cover his hurt, he went to the wrought iron and glass table. He picked up the manuscript and put it in his attaché case.
While his back was still to her, she said, “Steven, I keep thinking about us. About how much you said we loved each other.”
Steven turned quickly and took a step toward her. She was wringing her hands nervously. Her face was sad. “I…“
“Ellie—”
“—Please let me finish.”
Steven stopped. He stared at her, wanting to go to her, to hold her and to love her. Instead of moving, he just nodded.
“When I came out of the coma, I didn’t know who I was. Then I learned I would never have the answer to that question. In the last weeks, with you and Carla telling me about myself, I’ve come to see how much you loved me.”
“Not loved,” Steven said quickly.
“Yes. Steven, I’m not the Eleanor Rogers you fell in love with. I never will be again. I have to go out and find a life for myself. I have to develop a personality and learn about the world, much as a child does and it’s going to take years of work. I have to do this by myself. Not you, nor Carla, nor the agency can help me. Only I can do it.”
Ellie paused for a breath. When she spoke again, her voice was low and emotional. “I know I’m hurting you, and I know you understand.”
The problem was, Steven told himself, he did understand. He realized also, that he was trying to hold onto the Ellie of his past, much in the same way he had forced himself to keep the war in Nam out of his mind for all those years.
“Who knows,” Ellie said with a forced smile, “maybe once I’ve gotten a foothold on a new life, we’ll meet again.”
“Who knows,” he agreed, giving voice to the lie that they both knew they were speaking.
Steven stood still as Ellie’s eyes roamed his face. “There is something I need you to do for me, and for the Ellie who loved you. You must get what you’ve written to a good newspaper and make sure they publish it. I understand it has to wait until after the elections, but when they’re over, make sure the world knows what almost happened.”
“I had planned to, no matter what,” he said. Then he reached his hand out, palm up, and waited.
Ellie’s eyes flicked from his eyes to his hand and back again. Slowly, she put her hand in his. He covered it, and squeezed gently. He wanted to kiss her; instead, he released her hand.
“Goodbye Steven.”
“Goodbye Ellie.”
He walked from the patio without looking back. When he was halfway to the parking lot, Carla joined him.
“Are you all right?” she asked matching strides with him.
“No.”
They walked the remaining distance in silence. When they reached his car, Carla said, “It’s so strange to think of Ellie starting all over again. Would you like to do the same? Have a new life?”
He looked at her openly. “I am. I’m going back into private practice.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re leaving Pritman’s staff?”
“I resigned two days ago.”
“But you’re staying in Washington.”
“I’m going back to Greyton.”
Her features shifted. “Then I won’t see you again?”
Steven shook his head. “Not unless you come to Greyton.”
Carla stared at him for several long seconds. Then she looked down at the attaché case in his scarred left hand. “They know about that. They won’t let you publish it.”
He smiled wearily. “Arnie was right, you know. What was wrong, were his methods and insanity. His original desire to bring about change was right. And if those changes are ever going to be made, without the mistakes being repeated, the story has to be told.”
Carla lifted her hand to his cheek. She traced the raised edge of the jagged scar before lowering her hand. “Steven, we both know things don’t really work that way. They will not allow you to publish it. All they’ll see is a manifesto condemning our system of government.”
“Not condemning, explaining the mistakes. Are you going to stop me Carla?”
She met his hard stare. “Not me Steven, I.... You know how I feel. Someone will. If not my agency, the CIA, or the Bureau. Steven, you show them as dupes and fools. They can’t allow themselves to be mocked anymore.”
“We were stopped from telling our story when we came back from the war. This time they won’t stop me. The story is already out of my hands. It has been for weeks.”
“Steven, I.... Be careful. They have long memories.”
“So do I,” he said as he opened the car door.
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ANGELS IN MOURNING
By: David Wind
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and events are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places or incidents are coincidental and not intended by the author.
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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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All rights reserved.
Copyright © David Wind.
Dedication
To Bonnie who always believes, Mark Fagelman for never letting up, and to Alan Schwartz, who added the final push.
Acknowledgements
For their help, support, information and encouragement, I would like to thank Sergeant Chris Jenkins, NYPD; the Saturday morning golf gang for their humor and critiques, Howard Richman, Joey Manber, Rich Herman, Mike Kitt & Alan S, once again; Mike Kaufman for reading, Steve Price for listening and a special thank you to Mara Barney for all her help.
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Prologue
Twelve Years Prior
Excerpt from an Interview of Gabriel Storm by Joe Hawks,
Published in the April issue of In New York Magazine.
The killing was clean: if you can call murder clean—a single bullet to the chest of a beautiful woman with a Colt .45. What led to this night of murder, why it happened, and who did it, had all the earmarks of a daytime soap opera. While there is no recreating the actions of that night, only speculation and hearsay, the degree of circumstantial evidence was compelling enough for a jury to convict Gabriel Storm to thirty years to life for the murder of Elaine Hall.
Storm, the assistant director of Passion Alley, and one of the youngest directors on Broadway, was said to be in line for the new Samuel Jorgensen play. But on sentencing day Manhattan District Attorney, Jonathan Bridger, a jury of twelve and Judge Martin Simonson put Storm’s career on ice.
This story began one night in October when Storm returned home, where, it is said, he murdered his fiancée, Elaine Hall. She was the newest leading lady in the latest iteration of Phantom and like him, was at the start of what promised to be an outstanding career.
What could have made Storm do it? Police said he learned Hall had been seeing other men and murdered her in a jealous rage. Storm maintained that he came home to find her dead. Jealousy had no place in their relationship, he told this reporter, because her dating was paparazzi fodder—publicity to ge
nerate box office buzz.
Storm gave me the following exclusive interview two days before his sentencing. The interview is verbatim, with no editorial input or changes.
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JH: Gabriel, you’ve been steadfast in refusing any interviews since the night of your fiancée’s death. Why now?”
GS: Because the trial is over. My attorney and I decided not to speak publicly until the trial ended. It’s over now, and I want the truth to be told, whether I’m believed or not.
JH: You’ve persisted in claiming your innocence. During the trial, you took the stand, faced all the questions head on and maintained your innocence. Even now, with the guilty verdict handed down by the jury you persist. Were you shocked by the decision?
GS: No. They listened to what the prosecutor presented. Every fact he presented suggested I could have been the one who did it. But there was no hard proof, just circumstantial evidence.
JH: Yet there was so much of it. How can you claim it was coincidence pointing to you as the murderer?
GS: Not coincidence. Just… look, I screwed up and came home late. It was the six-month anniversary of our engagement. We had planned a small celebration. After the show, I went with the crew to Antoine’s, where we dissected the performance—it was something we did almost every night. We wanted the play to be the best on the street. I lost track of time. When I realized I was late, I went home.
JH: You said you left the restaurant at eleven-thirty that night.
GS: Yes. It took me ten minutes to walk to our apartment. When I got there, I gave our signal, a double ring on the buzzer, to let her know I was on my way up. It took me a minute or so to get to the apartment. When I put the key in, the door swung open.
JH: Didn’t that worry you?
GS: No. I figured she’d opened the door and then went into the bedroom. I knew she would have a split of champagne waiting.
