Not in the Heart (4 page)

Ellen shook her head and rolled her eyes. She wanted to throw the phone against the wall.

He was sitting behind a pillar, riffling through pages from a paper bag. Her first instinct was to scream, to ask what he thought he was doing, to yell that his son needed him. But she took a deep breath and watched him work.

There had always been something about Truman Wiley that caused a stir in her heart, good or bad. When she first met him, he had the big, wiry hair that framed his Tom Hanks–like face, narrow and long, and when he smiled, it was like a caricature of some lovable, squinty-eyed fur ball. He wore tight jeans and walked with that air of confidence that few in college seemed to possess. Long-armed and lanky and a laugh that was as genuine as a summer rain. She saw only echoes of that now. The years had edged his hair back from his temples. He was nowhere near balding, but he kept it close, though now he looked a bit shaggy. She saw he had lost weight. His cheeks were sallow and when he stood, his sweatpants sagged. And his eyes betrayed a tiredness, a weariness that comes not just from lack of sleep but lack of rest. A life of questions and nowhere to turn for answers.

“Why didn't you come up?” she said, trying to keep the edge from her voice.

“Good to see you, too.”

She bit her lip. She had prayed this wouldn't go badly. All the way down the elevator.

“He's not doing well. He was asking about you before he went back to sleep. I think it would help him if you—”

“I've been with Murrow. I didn't have a chance to change.”

“You didn't go in the house with those clothes, did you?”

“No, I stripped down last night—it's a long story. The house is fine, I promise. But my car was towed. Repossessed. And Murrow was in there.”

He spoke about the cat like it was a person. Someone he cared for. It was all she could do not to head for the elevator.

She looked at the paper bag. “Is that from Oleta?”

He nodded.

“So you're taking the job?”

“She paid me and I'm going to deposit the money and get started. But I need a car.”

“You can't take a cat in my car. If you can't come up and see him, you can't ride in the car.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “There's a Target a few blocks from here. I'll get some shorts and a shirt. Will that work?” There was bite in the question, as if she was the one causing the problem. She could tell he was in get-it-done mode, but there was still fear in his eyes—or something close to it.

“If you want to use the car, you have to come to the room. By the time you get back, he'll be up for lunch.”

He stared at the floor and nodded. “Okay. But I can't lug this stuff to Target and back. Let me have the keys.”

She crossed her arms and stared. “Grab your stuff and follow me.”

They walked outside to the parking elevator and the Florida heat hit them. Stretching her legs felt good even though she walked into an oven. It had been more than a day since she had been outside.

“You and Oleta didn't hit it off?” she said.

“She was a little abrasive. Distrustful. She probably has reason. I just hope she doesn't take it out on Murrow.”

“She's a good woman. And she'll be a reliable resource. Picked anything up from the Piggly Wiggly files?”

He smiled and pressed the Up arrow at the elevator. “The evidence is overwhelming. Looks like I don't have any reason to fear.”

“Fear what?”

“That I'll get into this and find out he's not guilty. Which is what they all say. Especially the ones who are looking at the needle. That would throw a wrench in the transplant plans. . . .”

“Carlton's on our side,” she said. “But those around him—”

“Carlton? You're on a first-name basis again?”

She rolled her eyes. “Governor Townsend. Don't tell me you're still jealous.”

“Have you talked with him?”

She checked her watch and nodded. “With his office, his chief of staff. And he and I have had a couple of conversations about Aiden's situation. His intervention in this will also be part of the book, I assume.”

“Which makes me wonder
why
. You know he's not going to do anything to derail his chances of the White House.”

They stepped out at the top floor and Ellen led him to her Sequoia. He stowed his computer and the bag in the back.

“I don't see how this could hurt him. He wants to help, Tru.”

“If the far-right crowd thinks this is a bad idea, they'll turn on him. The liberals, too. This could stir up party dissension. The leadership won't want that, especially with him rising in the polls.”

“This is not about polls. He's on board. Why are you trying to steal the last hope we have?”

They rode back down the elevator in an uncomfortable silence. When the door opened, he stopped near a white pylon, shading his eyes from the sun. “I'm trying to be realistic. I don't want you to get your hopes up.”

“You think I'm not being realistic? That I haven't thought through all the possibilities? With every surgery I get my hopes up. With every new drug. I've gotten my hopes up about a lot of things that haven't come through, so don't worry about me.”

Ellen turned away. The icy silence was broken only by the traffic pulling into the garage and the people shuffling past them on the street.

“There's no doubt I'll need to talk with him,” he said. “Maybe you could set it up. And I should make contact with the detectives on the case. Family of the victim, too.”

“Truman, this doesn't have to be a Pulitzer prize winner. This is one man's story of change inside an ugly place. Don't get every angle. Don't make it a personal crusade.”

“Personal crusade? Telling different sides of a story is a personal crusade?”

“I'm not suggesting you do a bad job, but you don't have to make this so hard.”

“You asked me to do this. Now you want me to phone it in?”

“I'm glad you're suddenly sold on the idea. I just think there's more going on. Maybe all this happened because you're supposed to be here for Aiden. Maybe you could make him a priority.”

“I love my son. I know I don't do that as well as you do.”

“Don't make this about me.”

“If you and Oleta want me to throw something together and print Conley's death row gasps and be happy with the money, you asked the wrong guy. You know I don't do things halfway.”

“Yeah. Most things.”

She wanted the words back, but there they were, hanging in the air like a circling hawk looking for prey. This was the content of the last few years of their marriage. The hurts of the past seemed to rise up at even the slightest hint of a meaningful conversation. The further toward faith and reliance on God Ellen moved, the more Truman seemed to pull back. He became angry, more aloof with Abigail and Aiden, taking hardship assignments and flying to foreign countries for stories that made him a household name but not a fixture in his own home.

“I need to get back up there,” she said, turning toward him. She put out a hand and touched his arm. “Tru, I think you should do this with everything in you. Full speed ahead. And I know this has fallen in your lap for a reason.”

“Oleta said the same thing. Purpose and all that God stuff. I hope you're right.”

She moved toward the front door and he called out to her. “You think I could have the keys? I told Oleta I'd get Murrow. . . .”

She couldn't believe it. Another dodge. “You're not carrying that cat in any part of my car. You know you can't do that. And whether you like it or not, you need to see your son.”

“Ellen, you don't know what you're asking.”

“What
I'm
asking?” She shook her head and dug into her purse, threw the keys hard at him and turned away. She didn't care anymore.
Take the car. Get the cat. Go. Get out of our lives.
She held her tongue as the automatic door opened and she walked toward the lobby.

She didn't look back until she reached Aiden's floor and saw her car still sitting atop the parking garage.

C
HAPTER
5

That certainly went well. Funny how a tender conversation can bring out the fangs. But I will say this: Ellen's key-ring fastball on the outside corner left a bruise on my right hand. That girl could've pitched in the minors.

I walked to Target in the blistering heat, cursing the sun, Ellen, and myself. Part of moving to the cottage was to alleviate the strife and bad vibe I brought around the house. Even Ellen didn't know I had bought the cottage until I moved there about six months ago. Maybe it's a cop-out to say I went away to make things easier for them. Maybe I was just doing it for myself. But I felt it was better for everyone if I wasn't around. When I was at home, we fought. When I was gone, we fought about me not being home, just over the phone. And I can always hang up the phone.

It was one of those SuperTargets with produce and baked goods in the front, and I grabbed a sandwich and found some shorts, a shirt, and even picked out new briefs and socks within five minutes. I am past the point of worrying about how I look.

I ate the hoagie on the way back, all changed into my new clothes. White shirt, gray shorts. I threw the others into the bathroom trash. No sense in taking a chance with cat hair.

The sandwich tasted like a rock and hung somewhere in my esophagus, a dry clump of meat and cheese and yeasty bread. Maybe it was my digestive system, but I tossed the remainder of the sandwich into a culvert and stuck the wadded-up wrapper in my pocket. Some hungry animal would eat that sandwich, but the plastic wrap would have been a detriment to the earth and I wasn't about to have that on my conscience. No, sirree, even if I can't visit my son on his deathbed, I recycle.

With check in hand, I drove to our bank. I'd tapped out my credit cards and I needed cash. I didn't recognize the teller. Turnover is heavy there. She seemed concerned with the large amount I wanted, but I explained I had my eye on a used car. That's what I figured I'd do: get something cheap at a dealer and away I'd go. That's what I told myself.

She handed me the envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills and I stuck it as deep in the pocket of my new shorts as I could and returned to Ellen's car. I had bought her an Escalade years earlier, but she'd traded it in on a Toyota Sequoia that she said got better gas mileage. Someone in her church owned a Toyota dealership, so I'm sure she got a good deal. That should sound sarcastic because it is. The only thing worse than a Christian who wants to help save your soul is a Christian who wants to save your soul
and
sell you a used car.

I'm a fast reader and after my foray through the stack of pages in my new paper-bag briefcase, I decided I only needed to talk with one man at the police station, a detective named George Chandler. Judging from the picture in the article, George was probably at or near retirement, if he hadn't succumbed to heart disease from beer and donuts. After a couple of calls I found out he was across town and still on the job. It took me forty-five minutes to get there.

George was not only nearing retirement, he had a bandage on one discolored arm that looked frightfully close to a melanoma emergency. He walked outside with me, heading to his car with his partner in tow, a thin man who looked like he was just out of high school. I don't think George would have given me the time of day if he hadn't recognized my face from a report I did about a slain officer's tribute a few years earlier. I told him I was writing about the Conley case and he wanted to know what angle I was taking.

“I'm telling it from his side.”

He raised an eyebrow, which looked like the only exercise he'd gotten all day. Maybe he was doing eyebrow Pilates. I've heard it can strengthen your core.

“That should be interesting,” George said. “Finally getting the truth out of him?”

“I don't think he's ready to give up his innocence.”

The detective cursed. “What he put that mother through. Unimaginable. That was the easiest conviction we ever gave the DA. Ever.”

I got the point with the first
ever
.

“Every shred of evidence pointed to him. If there's anybody who deserves the death penalty in the history of this state, it's Terrelle Conley. You can quote me. More evidence than Bundy and the rest of them put together. And I'd be glad to pull the switch on Old Sparky or stick in the last IV. Tell that
guy
what I said.”

Only George didn't say
guy
; he said another word that I guess could mean
man
, in a loose translation of his French.

“Were there ever any doubts in the investigation?”

“None. Not one. Ever.”

There it was again. He was an everaholic.

“Did you consider another suspect?”

“Didn't have to. He buried her in the dump near where he was sleeping. We found the murder weapon in his cabinet. What more do you need?”

I had made a note and pulled out a name I'd scribbled down. “What about your partner at the time, Sawyer?”

That got a rise from him. Lines formed on his face at the mention of the name. Advanced forehead Pilates.

“Yeah, you need to talk to Dennis if you want Conley's side. Dennis was always the defense's best friend on capital cases. Bleeding heart. Against the death penalty. Could have ruined us but he didn't.” He opened his door. “You should definitely talk to him.”

“How do I find him? He still on the job?”

“Hey, you're the
guy guy
reporter, right?”

Only he didn't say
guy guy
. You get the point. I reached for the door before he closed it and he looked at my hand like it was a raw chicken. With lice.

“One more question,” I said. “You ever find a motive? She wasn't sexually assaulted. Why would anybody kill a hairdresser?”

“You haven't seen the video, have you?” George said. “Take a look at the video from that case and ask your friend Conley to explain it.”

He closed the door and the two drove away, George's mouth running in a rampant and obscene tirade.

During the conversation I had ignored my cell. Now I pulled out the phone to listen to the message and noticed that another had come in earlier.

“Mr. Wiley, this is Vanessa from Tallahassee General's billing department.” She sounded like she was twelve and was reading her mother's recipe for Ding Dong pudding. “Your wife gave me this number and said I could reach you here. This is to confirm the notice we sent to you last week that your balance will be referred to a collection agency if—”

Get in line.
I pushed the 7, the one for delete. I don't know a lot about my phone but I do know the delete button is 7.

“Truman,” a male voice said on the next message. “We see you've relocated.” It sent a shiver through me, something akin to racking, bowel-loosening fear. The kind of feeling you get when you see a dark figure in the yard at midnight staring at your house and holding an ax. I wanted to hit the 7 but knew I couldn't.

After a pause he said, “I understand you're having some personal problems. And a colleague there in Tallahassee tells me your son isn't well. Sorry to hear it. But, Truman, we need to deal with this little matter of the loan. My
heart
goes out to you, but my patience trumps my heart. I suggest you contact me quickly. Otherwise we'll be contacting you.”

There was heavy breathing at the end of the message and I could picture Mickey “The Vault” Luchesi's face. I had met the man on an investigative story. I'd weaseled my way into an interview, with the caveat that we wouldn't show his face, give his name, or in any way expose him. He spoke candidly about a string of recent murders near gambling establishments on the East Coast. I didn't know it at the time but he was using the opportunity to send a message to his colleagues. I had stayed in touch with Mickey afterward, unfortunately, and took a loan from him at a particularly dark point. That decision only compounded my troubles and exponentially increased the darkness.

The hospital's collection agency was bad. Mickey's agency didn't send letters. They came in person.

I've learned in reporting that when your back is against the wall on a story, you have to just do the next thing, take the next step, get more information. You can't worry about what you don't have; you have to focus on what's in your Piggly Wiggly bag, proverbially speaking. If I ever write a book about reporting, that will be one of my maxims: do the next thing.

I called the realty office and Oleta picked up. She assured me Murrow was fine. She had bought a litter box and food at the pet store and Murrow now had the rule of their storage room.

“How's Aiden?” she said.

“He's good. Stable.”

“You didn't see him, did you?”

Why do all the women in my life have antennas? Even their friends have it. Maybe I'm paranoid, but I felt even Vanessa from the billing office could have guessed my blood pressure and pulse rate.

“I haven't gone up yet, but I did see Ellen. Have you heard anything about getting me into Starke?”

I could tell a
tsk-tsk
when I heard one; then her voice became animated. “You're on for this Friday morning. You have one hour. The chaplain set it up for me but they're regimented over there. It's like being in the military. You come in late, you don't go in.”

“I'll be there. But about Murrow, is there any way you could—?”

“Don't worry about her. I'll take her home with me if I have to. She'll be fine. Just concentrate on your son. And the book.”

“Great. That puts my mind at ease. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot. I appreciate what you're doing.”

“We're praying for Aiden. He's the most important thing right now.”

I asked her if she remembered a Detective Sawyer who worked on her husband's case and knew how to get in touch with him. I felt naked with my laptop in the back. She took down the name and said she'd call.

The well rose as I drove back to the hospital. A familiar feeling like a river cresting against the banks of life. I knew I had to see Aiden, but I couldn't get past the obligation, the responsibility, the guilt of the past, the desire for my wife, and the shame of my choices. Once you've failed your family, you live on a different level. You're always trying to fill in the missing stairs. You try too hard to live up to expectations or to not fulfill the negative ones.

I pulled to a stop on the street across from the hospital and guessed which was his room. Shades were drawn. I wondered if my son was waiting. I imagined him hooked up to tubes, swollen face, sunken eyes. I focused on monitors and blips when he was young. Scars down his chest. Sharp silver plunging into pale skin.

Instead of pulling into the parking garage, I drove past it and headed for I-10. Like a magnet I was drawn to the broken white lines, east toward the coast, toward the water and the old familiar way to lose myself. With each exit I had the urge to turn around, to return and sit with my wife and son. But I managed to push those urges down.