Part 28 (2/2)
”Shut up.”
Our pace had slowed as he seemed to be working out how much I knew.
”You'll never be able to sell that book, you know,” I said. ”It's one of a kind.”
”Don't be nave. There are plenty of people who would be happy to buy it and keep their mouth shut. It happens all the time. You just have to find the right kind of buyer.”
”You found out about the seeds because Kevin was making inquiries to pharmaceutical companies about Alzheimer's drugs. He talked to someone at Arista Pharmaceutical, obviously. Then somehow you found out about the book . . . Yasmin must have told you. The only people who knew how valuable it was before Kevin died were Victor, his father, and Kevin. Victor must have told Yasmin, and since you two were lovers, she told you everything.”
”I offered to help Kevin,” he said. ”We were willing to pay him a fortune for those seeds, even if they turned out to be nothing more than dust.”
”He didn't want your help or your money, he wanted to make this discovery on his own. So you started following him, stalking him. Were you the one who killed him?”
”I didn't kill him. He fell. And keep walking.”
”You left him on those steps and he died. And now you're going to kill me.”
”I don't have any choice. You're my last loose end. But I do appreciate you leading me to the seeds . . . I should have figured that out. All this time they're buried with good old Pierre L'Enfant.”
To our left was the flower garden. One of David's hands still had my arm in a vise grip behind my back, and he'd used the strap of my camera bag to secure my other arm. Anyone who saw us-and there was no one-would a.s.sume we were lovers out for a walk on a beautiful sun-dappled afternoon, unless they got close to us. Down below on Sheridan Drive, one of the main roads that wound through the cemetery, a large vehicle-maybe a tour bus, if I was lucky-was coming up the hill. I could hear the whine of the engine as it got closer.
”Don't try anything,” he said in my ear as his arm slipped around my neck again, ”or I'll shoot.”
He was bluffing. He wouldn't shoot with witnesses around. The bus came into view by the Old Amphitheater, and it was my best chance. I bit his arm and wrenched out of his grip, shoving the camera bag into his gut. He yelped and absorbed the blow with a soft ”ouf” as I took off. But apparently the bus was empty or out of service and the driver didn't see me. It lumbered past the stop for Arlington House and continued down the hill before disappearing from view. I ran into the amphitheater and ducked behind a boxwood hedge.
”I'll find you,” he shouted.
I heard his footsteps, so I took off running again, using the enormous white pillars and the hedge as screens. Someone had to be inside the mansion, even if I hadn't seen anyone. Wasn't it open for visitors? I ran fast, but he ran faster. He swung the camera bag, which caught me hard in the shoulder just as I rounded the corner by the L'Enfant memorial, and the blow knocked me to the ground. I skidded across the gravel on my hands and knees, ending up on the gra.s.s. As soon as I started to get up, he dove on top of me and together we rolled to the edge of the hill.
He was bigger and stronger. He gave me one final shove, to send me down the hill, and started to get up. I grabbed his ankles and yanked hard. His feet went out from under him and I held on as he landed. He kicked again, this time his blows landing on my head and shoulders. Below us I heard voices, people shouting, probably watching from far below on the plaza next to the Eternal Flame.
My head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it and I tasted blood. He gave me another hard shove, and this time I couldn't hold on anymore. I fell away, tumbling down the long, steep hill. I dug in my heels and clawed at the ground, trying to grab at something to stop my momentum. Eventually I stopped rolling and lay there, winded, b.l.o.o.d.y, and sore.
By now the sirens were everywhere, and I knew they were coming for both of us. I got to my knees, ignoring the audience talking and pointing at me down below. Halfway up the hill, two men in camouflage uniforms carrying a.s.sault rifles ran toward me.
This wasn't going to be good.
”We've already got your friend,” one of them said, as the other one snapped handcuffs over the sc.r.a.pes on my wrists. ”You're under arrest.”
23.
I didn't return to Arlington Cemetery for six months, not until the middle of September, on an afternoon when the sky was so blue it hurt your eyes and the golden suns.h.i.+ne was warm and slanting. It took that long for Ryan Velis and Thea Stavros to call in every favor owed them in order to persuade the National Park Service to open the little safe below the marker by Pierre L'Enfant's grave. Then there was more wrangling about whose property the contents-if there were any-would be. Eventually it was decided that if there were indeed seeds inside the safe, they would go to Monticello to be cultivated, but it would be a joint project with the National Park Service. I was glad to hear from Ryan that seeds would also be sent to the Millennium Seed Bank in honor of Kevin and Alastair.
Though Thea and Olivia Upshaw pored over records and doc.u.ments at the Library of Congress and the Smithsonian, no one could figure out what happened to the key that fit into the lock, which meant it would have to be drilled open. Considering Was.h.i.+ngton's bureaucracy, it was astonis.h.i.+ng that it took only months and not years to arrange permission for someone to break open the safe. Fortunately, it didn't require an act of Congress, or I figured I could be an old woman before we'd know how it all turned out.
The months leading up to that day had been busy and tumultuous. Nick came home from his grand tour of the Middle East and moved into Quill Russell's new Was.h.i.+ngton office, and I turned down the White House photographer's job with IPS, though I told Monica to keep me in mind if she needed an extra shooter from time to time. But the truth was I liked being my own boss. I was getting more work than I could handle, and most important, a wealthy friend of Max's offered to help with fund-raising for the Shoe Project and setting it up as a nonprofit charity, so Grace and I were busier than ever with that.
In a season of bad news, scandal, and heartache, there was some happiness and reason to celebrate when the doctors in Virginia finally figured out that Chappy's mental confusion had been caused by changes to his medication, as well as Chap himself, who had mixed up his prescriptions. He stayed with Harry and my mother in Middleburg until the beginning of May, when my mother was satisfied he was his old self. By then, Harry joked that they were driving each other nuts again and that keeping all sharp objects hidden from both of them had become a full-time job. So a few days later, Mom and Harry drove Chappy back to Connecticut so she could set up daily visits from a home helper, which was the middle ground everyone finally agreed on if he was going to stay in his house independently and not move to a.s.sisted living.
We had been lucky that it turned out well for my grandfather, but Victor's father died of complications from pneumonia a few weeks after I got back from London. Jack told me Victor decided not to return to Was.h.i.+ngton and planned to stay permanently in Europe, a.s.suming his father's responsibilities and commuting between London and Vienna. He had broken off the engagement with Yasmin after he'd learned she and David had been lovers and that David had been blackmailing her about their affair in return for information about Kevin's book. Jack said what hurt Victor the most was her betrayal, going into his private e-mail and pa.s.sing along to David correspondence relating to Kevin, his father, and the book.
As for Yasmin, Olivia told me she'd been fired from the Smithsonian, although she claimed she quit in order to campaign for her mother in West Virginia. Ironically, the day I heard the news I ran into her on the staircase on my way out of the Castle.
She was carrying a small box that looked like it contained the contents of her office. I moved aside to let her pa.s.s.
She gave me a defiant look and said, ”Look what the cat dragged in. What are you doing here?”
I looked her in the eye. ”Working.”
”Not me. I'm leaving,” she said. ”I'm done with this place. I'm campaigning for my mother, then I'm going to be Edward Jaine's new personal a.s.sistant. He has a private jet, you know. And half a dozen homes. I'm going to be traveling everywhere with him.”
I hadn't heard about that, but I supposed it made sense. ”Congratulations, Yasmin. I hope it works out for you.”
”Stay out of my life,” she said with feeling. ”I mean it.”
”I never wanted to be part of it.”
”Please.” She gave me a look of disdain. ”You talked to Victor in London and afterward he told me he wanted to postpone the wedding. You probably had something to do with Kevin telling me he thought I should wait as well. You meddled in something that was none of your business, Sophie.”
”Victor had already made up his mind, and I didn't find out Kevin met you until after he was dead.”
”I don't believe you.”
I gave her a weary look. ”I don't care. You got someone to pretend to be Victor's secretary in London so you could get me to come to the Anchor pub, didn't you? What were you going to do? Talk to me or shove me into the river?”
Her eyes widened, but she tilted her chin and smirked. ”I don't know what you're talking about. But if it had been me, I know what I would have done.”
”It was you.” I brushed past her and said, ”I've got to go. Goodbye, Yasmin.”
I never saw her again, but in June Ursula lost her hard-fought primary, in part because of her opponent's deep pockets but also because of the scandal over Yasmin's wedding and David's upcoming trial. Nick told me Quill Russell said Ursula had immediately been courted to join a competing consulting firm in the merry-go-round world of Was.h.i.+ngton politics and lobbying, plus she had a book deal lined up when she finally left the Senate in January.
In July, David Arista was convicted of the murder of Brother Kevin Boyle in a trial that was swift and tawdry, the kind of scandal that livened up an otherwise quiet summer in Was.h.i.+ngton. The star witness had been Yasmin Gilberti.
She escaped relatively unscathed thanks to Ursula's lawyers, who brokered a deal in return for her cooperation at the trial. But Yasmin had claimed-and I believed her-that the reason she had arrived early at the monastery the day Kevin was killed was to talk him out of saying anything to Victor about postponing or even canceling the wedding after their upsetting meeting that morning. She hadn't known Kevin was dead until she ran into me and Paul Zarin, but once she heard the news, she'd been terrified that David Arista might have had something to do with it. By then she'd had enough of him, so she'd contacted Edward Jaine and told him everything about the book, knowing he'd move heaven and earth to get his hands on it and thwart David's plans.
As it turned out, I'd been right that someone at the monastery had been indirectly involved in Kevin's death. Paul Zarin, the seminarian Xavier had been planning to dismiss, was David Arista's cousin. By then Paul had decided to leave the Franciscans and David promised him a job with Arista Pharmaceutical in return for keeping tabs on Kevin.
Jack showed up at David's trial every day, following it as a case study for his ethics cla.s.s. He and I talked about it, of course, but the whole thing upset me more than I'd expected.
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