“So, his intent was clear. The execution could use some work.”
Ryan glanced out the window. “A lot of work. What do we do now?”
“This hearing is a lost cause, so I don’t want to submit an affidavit from you. Jackson was attacked while you were in Panama, so the only way to oppose Brent’s testimony is to account for every minute of every day while you were there. It makes no sense to pin you down under oath with the FBI snooping around.”
“So you’re just going to let the judge rule?”
“I’ll call Jackson and try to negotiate an agreed order for the judge to sign. Something that makes no finding that you actually were responsible for the attack, but nonetheless says you agree not to get within a hundred yards of Jackson or your wife for the duration of the case.”
“Wonderful. For years Brent has been abusing my sister, and now he’s the key witness who gets a restraining order against me.”
“The order might not technically protect Brent. Just Liz and her lawyer. But my advice to you is to stay clear of your brother-in-law anyway.”
“I will,” said Ryan. “Just as soon as I break his friggin’ neck.”
Jeanette Duffy came home from the beauty shop around two o’clock. It was her regular Saturday ritual. She pulled the car all the way up to the garage, toward the rear of the house. A light rain sprinkled the walkway to the kitchen door. She dug out her keys and took small, quick steps up the stairs, trying to save her hair from the weather. She aimed the key for the lock, then froze. The glass panel on the door was broken. The door was already unlocked.
Jeanette scurried down the stairs, spurred by fear. She yanked open the car door and jumped inside. Her hand was shaking so badly she could barely insert the key. Finally, she got it in and raced out of the driveway.
The dirt road was slick from the rain. The car fishtailed in a mud puddle, but she regained control. A hundred yards down the road was the McClennys’ farm, her closest neighbors. She pulled in the driveway and ran to the front door. Mr. McClenny answered.
“I think I’ve been robbed!” she shouted. “Can I use your phone?”
McClenny seemed stunned for a half-second. No one ever got robbed around here. “Sure,” he said as she opened the door. “It’s right in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.” She hurried through the living room and grabbed the phone. She started to dial the police, then stopped. It suddenly occurred to her that this could be another chapter in the feud between Ryan and Brent — a family matter. Maybe Ryan had threatened to burn the money again, and Brent had come looking for it.
She dug in her purse for the number Ryan had given her — Norm’s house. She dialed nervously. Norm’s wife answered and brought Ryan to the phone. Her composure broke at the sound of her son’s voice. “Ryan,” she said, sniffling. “I think we’ve been robbed.”
“What?”
“Our house. I think somebody broke in. The window was broken on the back door.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did you see anybody?”
“No.”
“Where are you now?”
“At the McClennys’.”
“Good. Stay away from the house, Mom. Go stay with Sarah. No, on second thought, Brent’s on his way home. Can you just stay with the McClennys a few hours?”
“I think so. I’d do the same for them.”
“Okay. I’ll leave now. I should be there sometime after dark.”
“Should I call the police?”
He thought for only a split second. “No,” he said firmly. “Don’t call the police. I’ll be home tonight. I’ll handle it.”
Amy phoned several times Saturday, only to hear that Marilyn was unavailable. She left messages, but a return call never came. She knew Marilyn was back from Washington, since the local news had photographed her stepping off the airplane at Denver International Airport on Saturday morning. By four o’clock, she could wait no longer. She laid it on the line to Marilyn’s housekeeper.
“Tell her I’ve been contacted by the FBI,” she said. “I must talk to her.”
Within twenty minutes, Amy had a call back. Marilyn sounded less concerned than expected. She was actually apologetic.
“I wasn’t avoiding you, Amy. It’s just that everything’s been a whirlwind since the announcement. I must have received a thousand congratulatory phone calls in the past twenty-four hours.”
“I’m sorry. I should congratulate you, too. It’s just that my enthusiasm has been overshadowed by the FBI.”
“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” said Marilyn. “The FBI runs routine checks on all presidential appointees. It’s their job.”
“I don’t think this is routine.”
“Trust me. Once the appointment is announced, the FBI moves very quickly on these background investigations.”
“No, listen to me. I was eating lunch, watching you and the President on television, when the agent came up to me at the restaurant. It wasn’t triggered by your appointment.”
“Then what did trigger it, Amy?”
She struggled, dreading what she had to say.
“He wanted to know about my contact with Ryan Duffy.”
“Oh, my God. Amy, I told you to stay away from those people. Do you have any idea what kind of scrutiny I’m under right now? Everyone around me is a reflection on my character. Especially someone like you. It’s no secret you and I are close.”
Amy’s voice tightened. “Just how close are we?”
“Very close. You know that.”
“I do, yes. But I’m confused. I was up all night. I couldn’t stop thinking about what you told me yesterday. I flat-out do not understand it. I have to ask: why would a man rape you almost forty-six years ago, and then send me two hundred thousand dollars just before he dies?”
“I have no idea.”
“Marilyn, are we… related?”
Stunned silence. Finally she answered. “I told you we can never talk about this. Please don’t try to force me.”
“I just have so many questions.”
“Sometimes questions are better left unanswered.”
“Better for you, maybe.”
“Better for both of us. Don’t make me ask you again, Amy. Do not go down this road. It’s a dead end.”
“Marilyn, please.”
“Goodbye, Amy.”
Amy was about to make one more plea, but the line clicked in her ear. It had caught her off guard. She gripped the phone, staring in disbelief.
For the first time in her life, Marilyn Gaslow had hung up on her.
48
Driving alone at night on Highway 287 was an exercise in monotony. It plunged south through the quiet eastern plains at insufferable stretches, flat as the oceans of darkened cornfields, moving only imperceptibly to the east or west. It was like being stuck on a treadmill. The only scenery was oncoming pavement that reached as far as the headlights. With the brights on you could see the first row of corn just beyond the gravel shoulder, maybe
