“This guy, Manuel, still alive?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m still new here.”
They sat at a table in the front room just off the bar, the nonsmoking section of what Walter agreed looked like a terrific neighborhood establishment.
“You live nearby?” he asked.
“Not too far. I’m in a condo until I get myself settled. I think I’m going to buy a house in a neighborhood called Inman Park.” Walter never did well at these kinds of conversations. He had no idea where or what Inman Park was, and, except for the fact that Isobel might buy a house there, no interest in finding out or being told. They started going through all the uncomfortable questions with all the meaningless answers. She asked where he was coming from? Did he have a good flight? Was he happy to be getting back to St. John? How was his health? Was he hungry? He asked if she liked Atlanta. Where the Center’s offices were? Was the weather more enjoyable than the winter in New York? All the crap, and it continued even after their food arrived. Finally, he said, “Isobel, no more bullshit. This is going to drive me fucking nuts. How are you? Really?”
“Fine. I’m f-fine.” It wasn’t what he was looking for. Her eyes had no sparkle, her smile, such as it was, lacked the warmth he’d come to treasure, and her manner made no offer of intimacy. He reached out across the table to hold her hand.
“Is there someplace we can go. I don’t have to be back at the airport-”
“No. No, I can’t. I’ve got to get back to the office.”
“What for?”
“This is a real job, Walter. I’m not running around chasing Leonard Martin anymore. And I’m not ducking photographers from the Post or the Daily News. No one in Atlanta knows who I am. Isn’t that wonderful?” The food ran out before the small talk.
“I should be home by ten,” he said. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m not even sure-”
“When are you coming to St. John?” Walter asked. Now it was Isobel who leaned across the table to take Walter’s hand. They sat beneath a photo of a middle-aged Manuel and two other men of the same age. All three stood next to Arnold Palmer. They were smiling. Arnold was young, in his prime, lean and fit, had dark hair, and a cigarette in one hand.
Isobel said, “Walter, don’t go getting serious on me, alright? It was great, wonderful-I love you dearly-but we each have things we need to do. Don’t we? Places to go. People to meet. We’ll see each other again. We will.” Her smile was breaking his heart.
“It’s just, I thought-”
“Don’t. Please don’t.”
“I love you, Isobel.”
“Oh, Walter, you don’t. No, you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t. It’s been a long time for you. I know. But you have a life, Walter. We both do. We’ll always be friends and we will see each other again. We will. I promise.”
“Isobel-”
“Walter, Walter. Please don’t. Don’t be hurt. I never wanted to hurt you.”
She was young and he was not. He was experienced, so experienced, and she was not. What was it about her? Time had not dulled all his senses. He’d missed some things, sure, but you always missed some things. You never got it all right. Why had it taken him this long? Why didn’t he want to know? The pain. The pain. It came to him now. It came to him the way it always had, the way it had in Vietnam and Laos and ever since. The unease he sensed when she called him the night she met with Leonard-the feeling that something was missing when he read her article-the shock that went through him when Debra Melissa described the cowboy. It all came to him now like the floodgates had been thrown wide open. He looked at Isobel. Her eyes begged him to be silent, but he said it anyway. “You saw him, didn’t you? You knew all along.”
“Walter-”
“No,” he said, looking away, waving her off.
He finished his drink. Isobel didn’t touch her ice tea. The moment passed, although both knew the memory would last forever. She offered to drive him to the airport, but he said he’d catch a cab. He kissed her on the forehead when they said goodbye. His lips lingered a moment-too long? The scent of her hair caused him to close his eyes. He could tell it was an uncomfortable parting for Isobel. On the plane, he tried to convince himself she meant it when she said, “ We will see each other again. We will.” Didn’t he know her? Couldn’t he tell how she felt? Nor could he keep Leonard Martin at bay. He saw the fat, suburban attorney, disheveled and depressed. He saw the lean, trim Michael DelGrazo. He saw the cowboy in Clarksville-saw him in his own cabin. And Isobel knew from the beginning. He had opened the iron gate to his soul and let her in. Knowingly. He had shared with her things he had never shared with anyone. Purposely. He had kept no secrets from her. Gladly. He had loved her not at first sight. She was different, special. He earned this one. He had given himself to her. Completely. And she betrayed him. How had he missed it? There were so many things lately he failed to see, none more painful or more humiliating than this.
He fell asleep in first class, frightened he might never again run his hand across her bare hips, down her legs, across her knees; never again wake her in the morning, kissing her nipples, watching as she opened her eyes, smiling. In his dream he chased her across an open field. She climbed a flight of marble steps outside a large building, a building with no doors. He struggled to reach her as she stood atop the stairway. He climbed as fast as he could, yet made no progress, got no closer. He had trouble breathing. Then, finally, he was within reach of the top. Just as he was about to touch her, she stepped back out of sight. He crawled the last few steps, then, gasping, he looked up to see the Indian woman, smiling, offering him a pendant. And there was Leonard Martin. Behind him stood a young Vietnamese mother desperately clutching her two children. All three wept. Leonard had a rifle in his hands. He lifted the gun, shifting its weight against his shoulder, and pointed it at him. Isobel was nowhere to be seen. Leonard squeezed the trigger. Walter woke up trembling.
New York
Tom Maloney walked in the back door. It was an entrance he’d been shown months ago, when the idea of retaining Walter Sherman first came to mind. At the time he considered it no more than another skill available on the open market. True, the market he spoke of wasn’t quite that open, and this particular skill was available only for a handsome price. Nevertheless, Maloney believed that if it existed, it was for sale. “If I want it-it’s mine.” Anything that was for sale could be his. Price was never a factor. How many kings had he ransomed in his day? What he’d acquired was indeed exceptional. “Crack and hack,” it was called. Get in. Get the code. That’s it. Simple? Sure, but close to impossible. Once you beat it, however, it’s over. No one and no place was immune, not even the Caymans. Besides, he’d used it before. He thought it was strange that he’d been inside twice already, once just to read it, and a second time he actually put something in. He’d not taken anything out. Now he was about to use this technology, this mechanism, this mumbo-jumbo magic for the purpose it had been invented. When the message appeared on his computer screen, he didn’t believe it. The chill that ran the full length of his body could have frozen hell. He’d gone to cash his lottery ticket and it was nowhere to be found. He lost it. He looked at the keystroke instructions. Letter by letter he read them half out loud. He canceled out his connection and started all over again from the very beginning. He was not far from turning the computer off and restarting it. He was like a man searching his sock drawer, frantically tearing apart the pockets of a coat he hadn’t worn in years, desperately looking for his missing car keys. He knew they weren’t there, but he couldn’t help himself. The correct home page appeared. He typed his code in the special box, watching the letters and numbers as he pushed them down. They showed up as asterisks on his screen, and so, for no reason at all, he deleted them and did it again. One by one he pushed down on the computer keys until each one could go no farther. Of course the code had been correct the first time. He knew that, but he was no longer in control. Things were speeding up. His heart rate and respiration soared. He struggled to keep his thoughts straight. He began to sweat. He felt sick, lightheaded, about to throw up. The message popped up again: Account Closed.