“Charlie knows what happened. And if I have to track Randall Block to the limits of civilization he will clear this up before he dies, or I do.”
“What does Charlie want you to do?”
“Nothing. Charlie’s main concern is getting the feds to pay up speedily. Losing clients are notoriously less happy about paying their bills than winning clients.”
“So Charlie thinks it will be over shortly too.”
“Unless a new world order is established while we sleep and we wake up tomorrow with Randall Block as President.”
“Now there’s a thought to fill your heart with joy.”
Marisa closed her eyes. “I wish I had never come here,” she said plaintively.
“Soon we’ll be back home and you can forget it.”
“I can never forget it,” Marisa whispered.
“The pain will fade with time. It always does.”
“I’ll never meet anybody else like him, Tracy. I know I’ll miss him for the rest of my life.”
“You’re young. You’ll meet somebody else.”
Marisa closed her eyes.
“Please don’t say things like that. You sound like you’re comforting me about not being asked to the senior prom.”
“I didn’t mean to trivialize it. I know you’re hurting. I just don’t know what to do to make you feel better.”
“There’s nothing to do.” Marisa got up and set the box of tissues firmly on the nightstand. “And I am through feeling sorry for myself. I have to resurrect my career from the ashes of this firestorm, and that’s going to be my priority from this moment.”
“Glad to hear it,” Tracy said, brightening.
“And now I’m going to take a very long, very hot shower,” Marisa announced, marching toward the bathroom.
“I’m glad to hear that, too,” Tracy added, grinning.
Marisa threw her a dirty look over her shoulder.
“Well, water could only cause an improvement,” Tracy said, shrugging.
Marisa pushed open the bathroom door and glanced in the mirror. “I see what you mean,” she said glumly.
“I’ll order dinner in the room,” Tracy went on, cheering up at the prospect of food.
“I couldn’t eat anything,” Marisa said, turning on the taps.
“Chicken Marsala?” Tracy suggested.
“Oh, God,” Marisa whispered, leaning against the tiled wall, her gorge rising at the thought of wine sauce.
“All right,” Tracy said, peeking in the door as steam billowed out of the shower stall. “Bad idea. But you can’t keep on starving yourself. You’re losing weight already and you can’t spare it. How about a grilled cheese sandwich?”
“Yes, Mother,” Marisa said, smiling weakly.
“And a glass of milk,” Tracy added, as Marisa shut the door firmly in her face.
Marisa stepped under the streaming water and picked up the bottle of shampoo, wishing that she could wash away her troubles as easily as she washed her hair.
* * *
It happened as Marisa had predicted. Judge Lasky declared a mistrial and the Indians kept their land. Marisa was recalled to Maine where she was kept very busy filing papers to answer collusion charges on the attempted bribery. She was placed on suspension and reduced to the status of law clerk while the state bar association awaited the outcome before instituting disbarment proceedings against her. She was miserable, but she had to bide her time until she was able to show that Block was lying.
About two weeks after Marisa left Florida, Jack flew to Washington and entered the familiar building which housed the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He went up in the elevator and strolled down a corridor lined with offices, looking for a particular cubicle. When he found it he looked up and down the hall to make sure that no one else was around, and then he entered quickly, startling the room’s occupant.
“Hi, Randall,” Jack said briskly. “Remember me?”
Block dropped his pencil.
“We’re going to have another little talk,” Jack announced, and kicked the door shut behind him.
Chapter 8
Marisa peered out the window of her house in Maine and gauged the accumulation of snow on the ground. It was enough to cause trouble but not enough to bring traffic to a standstill. She would be able to make it in to work.
She switched on the radio in the kitchen and was rewarded with the blaring sound of “Deck the Halls,” reminding her that it was Christmas Eve. She turned the knob abruptly, cutting off the sound. She had never felt less festive in her life.
The coffeepot was disassembled on the drain board, and as she put the pieces together and fitted the filter into the cup she tried to remember whether she had sent her gray wool skirt to the cleaners. The navy shirtwaist was probably clean, but there was a button missing from one of the sleeves.
She sighed. She would wear whatever was easiest. She didn’t have the heart, or the interest, for a wardrobe analysis. She plugged in the pot and wandered over to the front door to see if the paperboy had left the morning edition on the porch.
A blast of wintry air greeted her as she opened the door. Icicles were hanging from the eaves and Mr. Henderson across the street was already clearing his property with a roaring snow blower. Marisa regretted not pulling her car into the garage the night before; now she would have to scrape the frost off its windows.
Marisa looked in the direction of the driveway and froze. There was an object planted in a shallow drift just beyond her porch. Shielding her eyes against the glare, she saw that it was an arrow decked out with colorful feathers.
Her heart beating faster, Marisa glanced around quickly and saw Jack leaning against her car in the driveway. Arms folded, ankles crossed, he was watching her steadily, his only concession to the weather a red woolen muffler wrapped around his throat and stuffed into the collar of his fringed jacket.
Marisa’s hands went to her sleep disordered hair and the collar of her striped wool robe. The man did have a knack for catching her in disarray. Even so, she had to restrain herself from running barefoot across the frozen lawn and into his arms. Then she remembered how angry she was with him and forced herself to remain where she was.
Jack sauntered toward Marisa as she stood planted like a tree on her front steps, too amazed to move. Then he stopped a few feet away from her and held out a manila envelope.
“What’s that?” she asked flatly, looking at it intently, then back at his face.
“Please take it,” he said.
After a second, she moved forward and did.
“Open it,” he said.
“Jack, I’m not in any mood for games. You’d better tell me what’s inside.”
“It’s a full confession from Randall Block, taking sole responsibility for the attempted bribe and clearing you completely.”
Marisa exhaled a long, slow breath, studying Jack’s fixed expression. Then she flung the envelope in his face, whirled, and slammed the door behind her.
“Marisa, open up!” Jack shouted, pounding on the door. “Come on, this isn’t fair!”
“Fair!” she yelled back at him through the solid oak door, shooting the deadbolt home with a flick of her wrist. “Who are you to talk to me about fair? Go back to Florida!”
“I came from Oklahoma.”
“Then go back there. Just leave me alone.”
“Marisa, please. Can’t you listen for a minute?”
“Just like you listened to me? I remember how patient and understanding you were about Block’s accusations. How dare you show up here with that thing in your hand and expect me to forget your inexcusable behavior?”
“I don’t expect that. I just want to talk to you.”
Marisa hesitated.
“Marisa, it’s Christmas. Are you going to leave me out here on the lawn, peering in the window like the Little Match Girl?”
Marisa sighed heavily.
“I will let you in,” she called, “but once you’ve said your piece I expect you to leave without any further discussion.”
There was a profound, extended silence from the other side of the door.