No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(16)

McNeal sat in contemplation. He thought of his wife meeting with Garrett at his office in DC, talking over her business. He felt an unbearable sadness seep once again into his heart. It was almost too much to bear. Even though they were separated, she had gifted him a fortune. But he didn’t want it. He wanted her. That’s all he wanted. His wife.

“I’m assuming you must have a few questions for me.”

“I’m just trying to wrap my head around this. It’s a lot to take in. When did you last speak to her?”

“Ten days ago.”

“That recently?”

“Correct. Just before she died. She sent in private papers, a copy of the will, and photographs. She said it was important, and just for you.”

“How did she seem?”

“I’m not qualified to give an assessment of her physical or mental condition.”

“I never said you were. I’m just asking, was she compos mentis?”

“I’m her lawyer, not her doctor.”

McNeal felt slightly empty, knowing for certain now he was going to inherit his dead wife’s estate. He had never craved material things.

“It’s usually the men who go first,” Garrett added. “I mean who die first. I expected to go before my wife. But she died three years ago. Quite unexpectedly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“A word to the wise, Mr. McNeal. Take time to mourn. Take time to remember the good times. Time is indeed a great healer.”

McNeal closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face.

“Day or night, don’t hesitate to contact me if you need any help or guidance on this.”

“Thanks.”

“Try not to worry about the legal side of things. We’ll sort all that out.”





Eleven

The sky was slate gray on the day of Caroline’s funeral. Dark clouds rolled in off Long Island Sound. McNeal stood by the graveside at a cemetery outside Westport. He was flanked by his brother, Peter, and his father, bearing witness to her passing. The wreaths of flowers around the graveside rustled in the wind, the handwritten cards flapping noisily. The minister spoke of not having known Caroline, though he had read her work. And he had spoken with her husband, Jack, who knew her best.

McNeal gazed down at the empty grave.

“She was a tenacious woman, principled and driven,” the minister said. “A woman so deeply loved by her husband, Jack. So deeply loved. Words were her tools, and she deployed them expertly. She was smart. Highly educated and very well-read. But she wore her learning lightly. She will be sorely missed.”

McNeal felt his throat tighten. He bowed his head as the coffin was lowered into the grave.

“She is now at peace, lying in the arms of her heavenly father. May God rest her soul.”

McNeal stared at the highly polished coffin. His father, a man not known for shows of emotion, began to sob again, which cut right through McNeal. He stood solemnly by his wife’s grave. He always tried hard not to show raw emotion. His own father had taught him that as a boy. But now his father was the one who wept at his breaking point.

He stood and waited in silence. He wanted to say a final goodbye. In private.

Peter and his father, as if sensing that, hugged him before they walked slowly from the graveside.

The minister stepped forward and shook McNeal’s hand. “In this time of darkness, Jack, please remember the Lord is watching over us all.”

McNeal nodded. “I hope so.”

The minister drifted slowly away from the graveside, finally leaving him alone with his thoughts.

McNeal stood for what seemed like an eternity. Off in the distance he could see two gravediggers waiting for him to depart. They stood beside some trees on the edge of the cemetery. He bent down, picked up some dirt, and threw it down onto her coffin. “Caroline, until we meet again. I wish I could have been there for you. I just want you to know that I love you, and I haven’t stopped loving you. Maybe sometime soon, who knows when, I’ll see you again.”

He stared down at the lumps of earth on the coffin, his heart feeling as if it had been ripped out by its roots.

“I just want you to know that.”

A few hours later, the McNeals returned to the sanctuary of the Westport house. Jack’s sister-in-law, Muriel, had told Peter she’d stay there with their three children while the others were at the cemetery.

Muriel fussed around, fixing drinks and food.

McNeal read the cards from friends and colleagues, past and present. And there was even one from Bob Buckley expressing his deep sorrow.

McNeal was touched. His boss was tough. He hadn’t expected that.

When Muriel had fed the kids and everyone had a drink in their hand, she took herself and the kids out of the house and across to the beach. It was like she instinctively knew the men wanted to be by themselves.

Peter leaned forward, glass of beer in hand. “I don’t know if and when I should talk about this. Maybe it’s not the best time.”

“What is it?” Jack said.

“I hope you don’t mind me speaking my piece, Jack.”

“Spit it out. We’re family.”

“It’s been more than a week, and still we don’t have a rational explanation. We’ve got an official narrative. The chain of events. She was depressed. She took the pills. Then she took her life. But did she? I feel as if . . . something doesn’t feel right. I can’t imagine her taking drugs. I can’t imagine her walking into the Potomac.”