The Seven Year Itch (19 page)

Chapter 29

Early
Tuesday Morning…

“I
t’s Jim.” Cartwright woke up and immediately left a voicemail
for J.J. She couldn’t miss this meeting. It wasn’t quite five a.m. He knew she
wouldn’t answer but hopefully she’d detect the urgency. Their meeting was
critical to the advancement of her career—and the
end
of his. “Don’t forget about the plan this morning. It’s
critical.”

Sleepless, Jim Cartwright lay in bed thinking about how much
he adored his little girls, watching the sunlight drift through the picture
window. They’d been the light of his life since the day, no, the moment he
first laid eyes on them. Twins. Dr. Martin was almost as surprised as he and
his wife Debbie upon the discovery of his two bundles of joy. They’d tried to
conceive for years to no avail. He loved his wife dearly even if he wasn’t
in love
with her. They had been the best
of friends since college, always would be. He trusted Debbie implicitly—often
more than he trusted himself. He would’ve given her the world if it was his to
offer. But the one thing he wanted to give her with all his heart, the one
thing he promised he couldn’t deliver.

Five years into their marriage, he could no longer bear to
watch the toll the childless disappointments had taken on her mind, body, and
spirit. After they’d exhausted every other option, from holistic vitamin
treatments to acupuncture, they finally gave in and attempted in-vitro
fertilization, despite his concerns about the cost. Each treatment cost $7,000
which drained them of years of savings and left them drowning in debt. He’d all
but stopped checking the mailbox...nothing but bills anyway.

Between the phone ringing incessantly with bill collectors
calling twenty-four seven, the second foreclosure notice, and his wife’s
unyielding quest for motherhood, the pressure had become too much to bear.
Minute by minute, second by second, he crumbled under the weight of his life,
this misery of his own making.

What kind of future could he offer the infant gifts he prayed
God would deliver to him? Some poverty stricken existence like the one he’d
grown up living in? Wearing hand-me-down thrift store clothes and watching the
mailbox for the first of the month check in the mail? Scraping by with a little
bit of nothing to survive? He’d been running from poverty all of his adult
life, but no matter how much he worked and struggled, he could never get away, not
far enough for his comfort. Poor always nipped at his heels, at least until he
climbed his way up the ladder at the Bureau. Finally, he achieved his standard
of success; he competed with the Joneses. He had the house. He had the car. He
had the clothes. He had credit cards. He had candlelight dinners and vacations
in Hawaii. All he and his dear wife wanted was a baby. One little baby.

Years of perfunctory sex yielded nothing. What deed had
cursed his life that God would not grant him this one blessing after all he’d
suffered and survived himself? Deep inside he believed he knew the reason. He’d
spent his entire life concealing his own truth and the guilt ate him alive,
left him believing his life was an abomination. He danced the dance, played the
role, married the woman he’d never fallen in love with for the sake of making
the world comfortable with a pretender. He’d only had one brief unconsummated
indiscretion with Rex, after suppressing his yearning for months (and for men
in general for years). But with his conservative Catholic upbringing, he’d
always believed his longings were evil, impure. And his most deep-seated fear
was God’s punishment for his sins would be to leave him childless for the rest
of his life.

With so many fathers in the world who barely acknowledged
their children’s existence or cared for them financially or otherwise, why else
would God say,
“Not Jim Cartwright.”

Seven treatments and fifty thousand dollars later, he and his
wife were expecting. He’d finally become the father he’d always dreamed he’d
be, but as his misfortune would dictate, his children would be delivered in the
midst of his financial ruin. When Gloria told him the news, he’d just returned
from his attorney’s office where he prepared to file for bankruptcy, even though
doing so could have cost him his security clearances and thus his job. He
understood the consequences of taking such an extreme financial action. After
all, he’d once taught the very same security classes that now haunted him.

Report changes in your financial
situation.

Report all contacts
with foreign nationals.

Secrets and lies. Lies
and secrets. What a tangled web we weave,
he thought to himself. He’d done
neither and now he’d be forced to pay the piper a few short hours later when it
was his turn to take his polygraph examination. He thought he’d have a little
more time to strategize and ensure his family would be okay if for some reason
he never returned home. Amazing how one call from the FBI Director could help
clear the polygraph schedule the next day. Freeman had made it clear to
Cartwright that he had no desire to make these examinations a long drawn-out
process. Frankly, Freeman had never suspected anyone of criminal misdeeds
during his tenure. For him, ordering the examinations was simply a matter of
course.

For Cartwright, however, it’d probably mean the end of the
life he’d worked so hard and sacrificed so much to build.

He reached onto the nightstand and grabbed his cell phone.
Dreading the call, he took a few deep breaths before slowly punching her
numbers into the phone. He was tempted to hang up; she answered before he could
press the button.

“Yes,” Alex said her voice cold and dry. The call was
contrary to his communications plan and he knew she’d be irritated. But since
it would be his last, he didn’t really give a damn about protocol. “I thought I
told you never to call me at this number. It can be traced.”

Her Russian accent was unusually perceptible, perhaps because
she sounded angry.

“It’s an emergency. I had no other choice.”

“An emergency,” she snapped. “What is it?”

“I have to take a polygraph at ten this morning, and I think
we both know this will not go well,” he said. “And frankly, I—I can’t do this
anymore.”

“I understand,” she responded, “but what will your family do for
money?”

“They’ll have my pension. And I was hoping in exchange for
some information about the mole investigation, you might be willing to provide
me with one last payment, so I can leave them with some financial security.”

She paused.

He fully expected her to say no as compassion wasn’t in her
vocabulary.

She grumbled. “Okay...meet me at the usual spot. Nine
o’clock.”

Cartwright sat on the edge of the bed and pushed his feet
into his brown leather Father’s Day slippers. He placed his arms into his like-colored
Christmas robe, and made his way to his favorite place in the house.

“Girls! It’s time to wake uuuuuup,” he sang as he entered the
twins’ bedroom. Every morning, he was the one who got the kids off to school
because Gloria worked the midnight shift at the hospital.

He waited for them to respond, knowing they wouldn’t (as part
of the routine), so he knocked on the door and cast his eyes on his
pretending-to-be-asleep princesses. “Good morning sleepy heads!” he said as he
eased over to their bunk beds. The sound of his steps getting closer and closer
made the oldest (by one minute) giggle with her head beneath the blanket.

“Annnniiiie,” he sang, “Time to wake uuuuuuup.”

She giggled again as he pulled the blanket back and blew a
zerbert into her cheek, causing her to roar with laughter. “Morning, Daddy!”

“My turn. My turn,” Abby said, laying on her side with her
cheek poked out from beneath the bottom bunk. “I’m ready.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping!” Annie admonished and then
pouted. “You’re ruining the whole thing,”

“I beg to differ,” Jim said to Annie. “A zerbert is the best
part of the day, even if you know it’s coming. Now you two get up and get
dressed. Daddy’s got a long day ahead of him.”

“You gonna lock up some bad guys, Daddy? Like the last time
we saw you on TV?” Annie asked, referring to the FBI’s press conference
following the NY office’s arrests. Cartwright served as a spokesperson for the
case involving Russian spies operating under commercial cover.

“Yes, baby. Daddy’s gonna take care of one
big bad guy
today, and get him off the
streets,” he said, turning away quickly so they couldn’t see his sullen
expression.

His chin fell to his chest. This time
he
was the bad guy he’d send to jail.

He rushed the girls through their morning routines in order
to steal a few moments to collect his thoughts before he did what his
conscience demanded. He’d known for many months he couldn’t keep up with the
pretense in his life anymore. Sooner or later truth would find its way out.
He’d only hoped he would be in a position to do some damage control for his
family’s sake. Now,
he
was controlled
by the damage—and the consequences would be severe. But when he looked at his
hazel-eyed angels, those two precious souls, in his mind his actions, no matter
how deplorable on the surface, were equally the greatest gifts and the greatest
curses of his life.

He stepped into his walk-in closet to select his suit for the
day. He first picked up a light grey suit with a pink-ish shirt but he knew
there’d be a lot of sweating involved. Next he looked at the black suit but it
felt too morbid. Finally, he settled on the navy blue suit. It was his kids’
favorite. Enough said.

He poked his head out of his bedroom door. “Girls? You
getting dressed?”

“Yeeeees!” they yelled in unison.

“Okay, well, you’ve only got ten minutes before we have to
leave so hurry up!”

The choir sang, “Okay, Daddy!”

He took a brief shower and dressed as quickly as possible.
His appointment started at 10 a.m. and it was already past eight. Where had the
time flown? His mind had sunk deep in thought swirling with fear. He took the
envelope he’d prepared and wrote on the front of it. “For J.J. McCall only.”

In the sole quiet moments of the morning, the drunken moment that would
forever change his life flooded his mind.

Chapter 30

I
t was December 2005, years before Freeman had been appointed
Director and subsequently banned all alcohol-related events at FBI facilities
across the country. Although seemingly drastic, Freeman’s extreme policy
followed an agent’s fatal hit-and-run accident after a holiday party which
killed a civilian. The Organized Crime and Drug Section hosted what would be
the last and final of the headquarters’ Christmas shindigs. Organizers did it
up and partied down every year during the holiday festivities which included a
D.J., a buffet full of all the seasonal dishes and desserts, and the best
part—an open bar with every bottled spirit in which one could indulge.

Drunken executives and agents, who wouldn’t as soon spit on
you if you were on fire when they were sober, sloshed around hugging a little
too long, kissing a little too often, and touching a little too much. A sexual
harassment nightmare for most women, agent or otherwise. For Jim Cartwright, it
would be the first night he and Rex, a youthful technical information database
specialist, connected on an intimate level. While Jim tried to blame his
behavior on the alcohol, the truth of the matter was that he’d suppressed his
pining for Rex far longer than he desired.

One conversation about everything and nothing led to one
surreptitious touch. One touch led to many lingering stares. The lingering
stares resulted in a leisurely stroll to the FBI garage where they’d planned to
release the drunken passion simmering within.

Jim’s mind had become foggy and unfocused. He couldn’t have
been thinking . . .
straight
. Because
if he had been thinking straight, he would’ve remembered his wife and his
children that night, and he’d never have let Rex stand so close to him. He’d
have never let Rex’s lips press against his. He’d never have found himself
stripping his shirt off in the backseat of a fogged up Bureau-issued vehicle.
And when their carnal cravings had nearly reached their drunken peak, and they
reached to unbuckle their respective belts, he’d never have glanced through the
window to see those piercing blue eyes glaring back at him in contempt and
disgust.

Nothing of the sort would’ve happened if he’d been thinking .
. .
straight
.

If he hadn’t forgotten the life-long role he’d mastered until
that one fateful night, he’d never have been blackmailed into cooperating with
the Russians. He’d never have helped employ his nightmare, he’d never have
granted access to those sensitive documents and allowed them to be removed from
headquarters. And he would never have accepted the $200,000 in payments that
freed him from creditors, but held him hostage to his extortionists and his own
lies and deceit.

Nothing of the sort would ever have happened, if he had been
thinking . . .
straight.

“Daddy! We’re ready!” his girls cried out to him, a welcome
interruption to his ugly thoughts.

He wiped the warm tears from his cheeks. “I’ll be down in
just a minute!”

He’d finished collecting all the important documents and the
last of the proceeds from his illicit activities, which his wife would need in
his absence. Between the cash and his pension, they wouldn’t have to worry
about money for some time. He placed everything Gloria and J.J. needed in her
lingerie drawer where she’d be sure to find them that evening. He checked in
the mirror, and gave himself a last once-over, straightened his tie, and made
his way down the stairs and out of the house.

As they backed out of the driveway he’d resurfaced on a rare
free Saturday, he took one long look, not at his house, but at the home he’d
made for his wife and children.

He smiled.

“What’s so funny, Daddy?” Abby asked.

“Daddy’s not laughing,” Jim said. “I was just thinking you
girls make me so happy.”

“Turn on the cd, pleeeeeease?” Annie asked.

“Sure, sweetie,” he replied.

He pressed power button and the sounds of
Barney and Friends
filled the car.

Fitting
, he
thought.
It’s time to face the music.

•
 
•
 
•

Jim checked his watch, his stomach twisting
into tightly wound knots. It was nine a.m. The irony of it all. He’d worked his
entire career to be the good guy, to build the reputation of an agent who was
impervious to corruption, to serve as a patriot. After his inevitable failed
polygraph and subsequent confession, he’d be hauled off to jail like a common
criminal.

What his wife would say. What his girls would think of him.

Would they remember with pride the father who tucked them
into bed every night and read them bedtime stories? The father who made them
Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes and brushed their hair into crooked ponytails? Or
would they remember with disgrace the father who sold out his country, who had
affairs with men, and who they’d be forced to visit behind barbed-wire fences
for the rest of his natural born days? And how could he, the father who loved
them so, live with the thought that each morning when they arose and each night
before they fell asleep, they’d know their father couldn’t kiss them goodnight
or wake with them in the morning because he was locked up in some
eight-by-eight cell for twenty-three hours a day. He cried the kind of heaving
sob your soul releases when filled with the deepest sorrow and regret.

Jim pulled into the scenic overlook on George Washington
Parkway, and stared at the rainbow of fall leaves across the river in the
Georgetown area as
Ava Maria
blared
from his radio. A few moments later, Alex arrived, parked her car beside his,
and slipped into his passenger seat. He shifted in his seat to face her. She
appeared angry and agitated and immediately began scanning his vehicle.

“What are you looking for?” Cartwright asked Alex.

She opened his center console with her gloved hand. “I just
want to make sure you don’t have any recording devices.”

“I know you’re pissed, but I had no idea Freeman would make
me take the poly,” he said, shifting his head with her every move.

“My concern is not that you must take the polygraph. My
concern is what you plan to say during the pretest examination. For me, the
stakes are too high for weakness. I have everything to lose, including my
life,” she said, as she reached her hand into the glove compartment, pulled out
his weapon, and aimed it at his head.

“I swear,” he pleaded, trembling as his face drowned in
fear-borne tears. “I will not reveal your identity.”

She reached into her coat pocket and retrieved a small
unlined notepad. The first sheet contained a pre-written note.

“I know you won’t!” she said. “Now, shut up and copy this!”

Jim trembled and shook his head feverishly, so afraid he
could almost smell death permeate the car. “No, I won’t.”

“Copy the fucking note!” she screamed maniacally, breaking
her usual cool demeanor.

Cartwright’s hand trembled and tears washed down his face as
he retrieved a pen from his suit pocket and began to write.

 
“Put it up there,” she
said, motioning her head toward the dashboard.

Jim slipped the note on top and shook his head as tears swept
across his cheeks in waves of sorrow. She grabbed the note pad and shoved it in
her pocket.

“My girls!” he said. “Please, don’t do this.”

She pressed the barrel of his Bureau-issued Glock firmly
against his temple. Shivering, he clamped his eyes shut until his girls’ smiles
appeared.

Cold and empty, devoid of humanity, she pulled the trigger.

Blood and brain fragments splattered on the window. Some on
her own person. Unfazed she wiped her fingerprints from the gun and placed the
gun in his hand before allowing it to fall to the floor. Cartwright’s body
slumped against the door, life abandoning his body on a brief, shallow breath.

“Rest in peace,
golubaya
bl’yad
!” she hissed, spitting the words
gay
whore
in Russian as she exited the car.

Fall had become Jim Cartwright’s favorite time of the year.
He fell in love in the fall. He married in the fall. His children were born in
the fall.

And, in disgrace and despair, he died in the fall.