There Are No Accidents Page 2
I rise from the table and leave the café, making my way back through the mall to where the bus stopped earlier. I’m trembling as I push my way through the crowd and up the steely escalator. I check that no one is moving up to stand close behind me. Every face that passes on the opposite escalator is a flash connection and I turn dizzily to try and catch them looking back at me, but none do. I’m watching for that unnatural movement, that face that lingers too long on mine, the eye contact that registers a blink of recognition. There are people all around me, their eyes watching me; large eyes, small eyes, cruel eyes. Although I try, I have no clue who they’ll send, but whether it be a man or a woman, they’ll know who I am. They have the advantage of being briefed by the CIA. He’ll have provided a photograph and they’ll know me instantly. They’ll memorize the color of my hair, the contours of my face, my height, my weight. This is their last chance to corner me in a public place where they are anonymous and I’m at a disadvantage. All those times he talked about this agent and that agent and how they worked together… it was all so tedious then, but now I’m grateful. I have inherently learnt their skills through the process of osmosis. “This is absurd,” I say, savoring the moment. “He… who wants his CIA girlfriend to devise a way to dispose of me… has actually taught me the rules of their game. My job now… is to play to win.”
I walk fast until I find an innocuous-looking woman going in my direction. Then I stay close to her, walking at her pace and rhythm until I see the bus. I’m relieved to see the same driver and smile at his friendly face as I choose my seat. I feel weary with relief and take the luxury of closing my eyes for a few minutes, before I have to face him at the hotel.
My nap is cut short by his call, “Where are you?” his tone is abrupt now.
“I’m on a bus,” I say, without details. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the car … did you check out?”
“Yes, the luggage is with the bell captain.” I’m wondering if he’ll ask about breakfast. He doesn’t and I dread the reunion.
*
I’m sitting in the lobby of the hotel, three bags by my side, waiting for him to arrive. He’s here now, walking through the main door. He smiles and just for an instant, I detect a look of relief in his eyes and I’m thinking, perhaps there’s some feeling left, after all. But, I’ll never trust him again. I’ll always remain on my guard. I climb into the rental car beside him and I’m thinking… this is where she sat, today. Her body warmed my seat for me and I instantly feel sick with the thought. I scan the car with my eyes, looking for clues of her existence; a lipstick or trinket from her purse. But she’s CIA, she’s too clever not to clean up after herself.
Our flight to LA is on time and we settle into our seats, sitting side by side. He’s tense and uncomfortable sitting so close to me. I watch his body language, it’s disconnected. He fidgets, making awkward gestures. This is not how he expected to spend his evening. Tonight he was to play the grieving husband and his mind hasn’t adjusted to the present reality of the situation.
When the flight attendant arrives with the drinks trolley, he orders a large bourbon for himself and a red wine for me. But I refuse and he’s surprised. “What’s wrong with you?” he says. “You always have a drink.”
“Not tonight,” I say. “I’ve not eaten much.”
“You should’ve gone to breakfast.”
“How did you know I didn’t?” I reply. He’s uneasy.
“I don’t know… look this is ridiculous, you probably ate at the mall.”
“I don’t remember telling you that either.” I watch him squirm in his seat as he realizes he’s made two serious mistakes. So he closes his eyes and we travel in silence.
Chapter 2
LOS ANGELES
We arrive at our house in LA. He didn’t expect me to return, but a quick look around tells me that nothing’s been touched since we left. No surprises. No CIA woman sitting in the corner chair; she wouldn’t do that. That’s for amateurs and she’s a hardened professional. He could never actually do her job, he’s too scared. Scared of making a crucial mistake which would cost him his livelihood and scared of her too. He’s already failed her by wrongly anticipating my movements. He doesn’t have what it takes, he’s just full of bravado, happily telling second-hand stories of CIA undercover work.
I announce that I’m sleeping in the guest room. He doesn’t comment. After our conversation on the plane, he’s now aware that he’s been outsmarted so he chooses a silent acknowledgement. I lock my door and try to sleep. My night is fitful and his too, as I hear him walking around the house. Once or twice to the bathroom and then he opens the door to the yard. I leap out of bed and listen at my door. My heart’s pounding once again. For a moment I imagine I hear another voice and it occurs to me that he’s opening the door for an intruder. But of course, it wouldn’t really be an intruder intent on burglary. No, it would be arranged to seem like a burglary and the professional assassin would be long gone before the police arrive. I check the lock on my door and, grabbing my cell phone, I begin hitting the keys 911… but I pause, listening again as I hear him walking towards my room, I hold my breath so he doesn’t hear me. He’s talking as he walks, I place my ear to the door and listen, trying desperately to hear the other voice. Then I realize, there is no other voice… he’s talking to the cat! With my heart thumping, I cancel the emergency call and lie down on the bed. “I’m paranoid,” I say. “If he doesn’t kill me, this surely will,” and I clutch my heart in some tame attempt to slow it down.
Morning comes too soon and I’m tired. My mind is awake before my body can function, but knowing I won’t sleep longer, I rise and walk to the kitchen. He’s there, already dressed and ready for work. We don’t connect, but just as he’s leaving he pauses by the open door and pulls something out of his suit pocket.
“A souvenir for you,” he says and he hands me his key to the hotel room.
“But you always turn your key in?”
“I forgot,” he says and closes the door behind him.
The memories of yesterday race through my mind and I know I have to guard my sanity. He’s playing mind games. He’s done this before, but this time I’m prepared and I must not underestimate his ability to manipulate me. He instigates political power games for a living and after his two prior mistakes, he’s going to play hardball. I pour a large cup of coffee to jolt my system into waking mode and make my way along the corridor to the office. Today I’ll play smart. I won’t let emotion cloud my mind. Today…I’ll play detective. I settle down and begin looking for evidence as to why he wants me out of the way… permanently!
I begin with the bank accounts. It has to be money, it’s the only logical reason. I scrutinize every statement of every account; joint, single, credit cards and mortgage. I find nothing. No outstanding debts, nothing! I spend hours searching, but everything is squeaky clean. At 2:30 p.m. I’m still undressed so I go and shower. I let the water run over me, rinsing away the stress until my mind and my body feel cleansed. I feel refreshed and I’m able to think clearly now, so in a vain attempt for clues, I try and remember every murder mystery story I’ve read, both fiction and real, accidental and premeditated. In every story there’s always a motive, unless it’s accidental death. I’m thinking that it would be helpful to assemble the order of events from yesterday morning until now and document them. I pull on some clothes, race into the office and open a new file on my laptop. Slowly as I type, the page before me fills with a horror story that makes my blood curdle. I can no longer sit still. I stand, I pace, I’m reliving the last twenty-four hours and it’s awful! I’m thinking about my options. If I run, where do I go? If I tell someone, they’ll think I’m crazy, I have no proof. If I stay, will I survive? Can I endure another day or longer of cat-and-mouse games? I stop to consider my options. I think I’m safer at home. He won’t make a move while we’re alone in the house. He won’t have an alibi and in his business you don’t dirty your own backyard.
; I glance at the clock, it’s 3:30 p.m. He could be home in an hour, I don’t have much time. I sit at my desk and ask myself out loud, “Was this planned?” If so, there has to be a motive? But, for the life of me, I can’t think… Oh my God!… I know what it is. I go straight for the top drawer and pull out the file marked Life Insurance. I remember his words when we took out the policies. “This is the very best policy for both of us,” he’d said. “You sign here, on this line,” and he’d indicated where I should sign. I hesitated. He'd become impatient and had assured me that within a large corporation or government, all spouses of employees take out life insurance. So trusting him, I’d signed.
I open the policy and read that my life is insured for fifty thousand dollars. That’s not worth the risk? I read on and see that his life is insured for five hundred thousand dollars. This doesn’t make sense. I’d be the one with the motive. Then I notice a second policy, hidden under the first. This appears to be another full life policy or perhaps it’s just an updated version. I’m curious, so I check the date of the first against the second. The second seems to have been drawn up last month… I don’t remember updating this policy? I thumb through it and notice that his life is insured for the same amount as before, five hundred thousand dollars, but mine is different. My life is not insured for fifty thousand dollars on this policy. It’s now insured for five hundred thousand dollars! That’s the same as his. What the hell? Oh God, there’s more. On the next page is a policy for accidental death, and we’re both listed… for six hundred thousand dollars each. My heart begins to beat faster as I scan the document and realize exactly what this is about. I read on… if I die in an accident, he will get five hundred thousand from the first policy, plus six hundred thousand from the accidental death policy; in total one million, one hundred thousand dollars. Now that’s worth it! That’s the motive! I check for my signature and yes, surprise, surprise, there it is. Anyone inspecting the validation of this document would think that it’s my signature… but it’s not. I know that someone has penned the perfect forgery but if I deny it, he’ll say I’m crazy, verging on paranoia.
I quickly make three copies of both policies and place the originals back in the drawer. It’s 4:25 p.m. so thinking fast, I tidy up the office, grab my laptop and retreat to my bedroom. I write and attach notes to the copies of these insurance documents, explaining the change. Within ten minutes I’m out the door and on the way to my bank, where I place one set of copies in my safe deposit box. Next, I mail a second set of copies to my attorney, with instructions to keep the unopened envelope on file. Then I purchase a security briefcase and place the third set of copies inside for safekeeping. I lock it with a code and write on the label Short Stories. If he notices this briefcase, he’ll see it’s for my stories and he’s never been interested in my writing, but ironically, this piece will be enlightening.
I can’t face going home just yet, so I find a quiet café and sit to nurse an iced tea. I think long and hard. I look around at the other people, chatting, laughing, having fun. Some are solitary and serious and I wonder what’s on their minds? Are they like me, considering what to do about a husband who’s tired of them? Who’s found a lover who will help dispose of their spouse… for money. I think I drew the short straw— not all husbands who practice infidelity take a lover who is CIA. I have to think smart, as this is not meant to be a crime of passion or even blatant homicide. I sip my tea and mentally list my alternatives. Arrrh… alternatives to what? Death? I can’t go the police, I have no proof, my signature’s on the insurance document. I can’t Google this one, I just have to figure it out on my own.
I drive to the river, park the car and walk. My mind and stomach are turning somersaults and the rhythm of walking helps soothe my system. The faster I walk, the more I begin to conceptualize a resolution. A clear picture is forming and I switch to a writing mode, find a bench, sit quietly and make notes until I lose the light of the day.
*
It’s been three weeks since our return home and I’ve been concentrating on my work. Negativity is counterproductive, so I’m focusing on moving forward, becoming independent. A few months ago, I managed to secure a literary agent. She showed interest in my short stories and has submitted some for publication. This is the most important thing to me just now… and staying alive. I feel safe working at home. They won’t touch me here, too risky. The CIA operates with precision, so once they’ve formed a plan, chosen a location, then and only then will they act. She’ll arrange the details; the secluded hotel with private dark access and irregular staff providing an alibi for him. His part will be to convince me to accompany him on a trip. It’ll go something like this; “Such an offer is too good to turn down,” he’ll say, in his persuasive manner. I’ll say, that I’ll think about it, but he comes back at me quickly, taking my hand and looking into my eyes, trying desperately to sell himself as a husband bent on reconciliation. He’s failed her once, he can’t afford to fail again. Should I believe him, or not? Perhaps I’m a little paranoid? I stop speculating and drive home.
The house is dark when I arrive home and he’s unusually late. I’m relieved and settle onto the couch with a glass of wine and try to relax. But within ten minutes I hear his key in the door and before he’s over the threshold he says he has news. I acknowledge him and wait patiently while he disappears into his bedroom and strips down to his classic white underwear, his usual evening attire. He then pours himself a bourbon, smiles and tells me he has a surprise.
“The week after next,” he says excitedly, “we’re going on a trip.” I look at him and force a smile, which encourages him to continue. “Work is sending me to a closed security meeting. It's being held at a Navy air base, on the north Californian coast… that information you’re allowed to know. I’ll take the Friday off, we’ll spend the weekend there and I’ll attend the meeting on the Monday.” I sip my wine and watch the expression of anticipation sweep his face. He starts talking again, faster this time. “I’ve found us a great hotel and it’s off the beaten track, just a few miles inland with beautiful subtropical gardens… I thought you’d like that… and instead of staying in the main building, I’ve reserved one of their garden chalets so we’ll have complete privacy.” I reply by raising my eyebrows, and now he’s talking again. “The restaurant has a superb menu—” He waits for my reaction but the unutterable words “Last Supper” come streaming into my head, so I say nothing. He’s looking slightly desperate now as he notes my lack of enthusiasm. He stands, walks over to the couch and sits beside me. He then takes my hand and looks into my eyes saying, “I know we’ve not been close lately, but I want a reconciliation. Let’s make this a second honeymoon, shall we?”
The hope of a believable lie lingers on his lips as he waits for my answer. I’m silent for too long, it’s an uncomfortable interval and he feels the need to fill it. “I’m sorry I’ve been a bit short lately, it’s not you, it’s work.” He turns and faces me square on, with an expression of pleading for my answer.
“I’ll sleep on it,” I say, purposefully delaying.
“All right, let’s talk tomorrow.” He rises and then as an afterthought suggests, “Let’s go to dinner… somewhere we’ve always liked. You choose,” he says. “You’ll be more relaxed over dinner, you know how you like to eat.” He tries to turn this into light conversation, but I don’t engage and he gulps down his bourbon in one. It’s difficult to make small talk when there’s a price on my head.
I watch him as he makes his way to the kitchen. He’s dissatisfied with my answer and lack of commitment, so he’s seeking solace in comfort food. He has to lure me away from home to secure the deal with his CIA girlfriend, before she tires of him and moves onto a more competent player. I hear the custom beep from his iPhone as he checks his messages. I guess he won’t be making that confirmation call tonight after all.
*
The next day I put my plan into action. I telephone him to decline the dinner invitation and keep him in suspense about
the trip, saying I’ll decide in a couple of days. He protests, but I’m adamant. He dare not force the issue or he’ll have failed again. I’ll keep him waiting, just a little longer to build the pressure between them. I must admit that I’m enjoying the agonized expression on his face, night after night as we pass in the lonely corridors of the house. She’ll have schooled him in a woman’s mindset, instructing him not to oversell the idea and he obeys. It’s almost killing him.
A week has passed and every day he insists – very timidly – that we’ll lose the reservation at the pretty hotel. I wasn’t ready to give him an answer until I’d planned a strategy of my own. It may seem crazy to some people that I’d accept an invitation to spend the weekend with a sociopath, suspecting as I do that he and his CIA girlfriend think three is a crowd and wish to travel lighter. But accept, I do.
Chapter 3
THE JOURNEY
I’m sitting in the car beside him. He’s driving and he knows the route. He’s relaxed and in a pleasant mood, as anyone would be once they get their own way. He notices the large file on my lap and I tell him that I’ve brought along my latest story. “I wrote this recently,” I explain, observing his reaction. He humors me by showing interest and asking what it’s about. “It’s a story about an unfaithful husband who together with his lover plot to murder his wife… for money.” I pause for effect, watching him twitch. “Guess what,” I continue. “It’s in the process of being published.” He can’t hide his expression of astonishment.