Blessed Are Those Who Weep (25 page)

 

Chapter 51

F
I
NALLY
,
AFTER
WRITING
for ten hours, I hit send and slump back into my chair at my desk.

Kellogg, who has been hovering over my shoulder for the past twenty minutes, sprints back to his desk like a wide-­end receiver.

The newspaper attorney reads over Kellogg's shoulder and after a few minutes, gives the thumbs-­up. Kellogg stands up, knocking his chair onto the ground and throws his fists up in the air.

The entire newsroom erupts in cheers. A few bottles of champagne are uncorked, and waiters start carrying in plates of food and setting up on a conference-­room table.

I close my eyes and smile. My story is flying through the ether. Kellogg is sending it to the Associated Press and then it will appear in newspapers around the world.

I try to keep my eyes open as my colleagues pat me on the back and toast me with bottles of beer and plastic cups of champagne. I've barely slept for the past two days nailing this story down. It
is
the biggest story of my life, just like Maria Martin said it would be.

It turns out General Hightower is in deep shit.

And my story is telling the world all about it. We found proof of what Martin told me, in letters he sent to his wife. We have the photocopies, and the cops have the originals. Maria sent them to her mother's post-­office box in San Juan Bautista the day she called me at the newspaper. In her note, she wrote that she was giving me copies to write a story, but she wanted her mother to have the originals for safekeeping.

Mrs. Castillo doesn't check the box often. But she did yesterday.

The letters from Martin outlined what he told me about Flight 93. In the package to her mother, Maria Martin said she was going to go to the press with the information.
The press
. She trusted me with all that information. But Martin killed her in a fit of jealous rage first.

But now the story she trusted me to tell is going to be told.

GENERAL ORDERED FLIGHT 93 SHOT DOWN

When General Craig Hightower learned during the early morning hours of 9/11 fthat Flight 93 was on a direct crash course to the White House, he made the hardest decision of his life: To shoot the plane down.

The revelation comes less than 24 hours after Hightower announced his plans to run for president.

In a conversation secretly recorded by military investigators in his office, Hightower explained that he had no choice but to order the plane shot down.

“Is it a bad thing? Yes. Do I regret it? Yes. Would I do it again? Yes. Of course I didn't want to do it, but would I do it again? In a second.”

The president has denied any knowledge of Hightower's actions, saying the military leader acted independently and under no direct orders from the White House. A congressional investigation has convened.

It's also been revealed that to keep its secret about Flight 93, the general was involved in a massive cover-­up involving a U.S. soldier suspected of killing his family.

Joey Martin, a member of an elite, secret unit of the U.S. Army, accidentally heard the general's orders to shoot down the plane while he was in a Blackhawk helicopter escorting the general to the White House in the wake of the first two planes hitting the Twin Towers.

Senator Kate Corvin has confirmed that based on information provided to her office by the
Bay Herald
, an investigation into both the president's and General Hightower's actions is underway.

Sgt. Martin's account of what he heard was laid out in a long letter he wrote to his wife, who he is now suspected of killing, along with other members of his family.

At the time of the flight to the White House on the morning of 9/11, Martin's headset was accidentally tuned into the same frequency as the general's when the order was given. Officials realized later that someone else had been listening into the conversation, but they did not know it was Martin until he came forward recently with what he knew.

Martin revealed what he had heard after his commanding officers refused to grant Martin leave to come visit his family in San Francisco. When he went AWOL and was threatened with desertion, he contacted the general, saying that if anyone came after him, he would reveal the conversation he had overheard in the Blackhawk.

Police say Martin came home and killed his wife, parents, and nephew. The motive for those slayings is still under investigation.

As police searched for Martin, the general lied about his whereabouts in an elaborate cover-­up, telling his staff, including Lt. General David Cooper, that Martin was still in Iraq.

I left a lot out of this story. I know why Martin killed his wife and family. He told me himself that he killed her because he thought she was unfaithful, but by even saying this, I'm opening up scrutiny of Maria she doesn't deserve.

And this story would never have come together without the help of Moretti's friend, Lt. General Cooper, who has been on our side ever since we told him what was going on. He arranged the secret recording of Hightower spilling the beans and has taken care of every small detail to make sure nobody will get away with it.

And surprisingly, the recruiter came forward with a statement against the general, saying the general had lied to him, as well. Guess it goes to show that being a jerk doesn't mean you automatically break the law or do something nefarious. Some ­people are jerks for no good reason.

The letters also revealed what happened to Joey Martin in Iraq. I think that is why he spared Lucy.

Joey and three other men in his unit had been ordered on a covert night mission to destroy a building believed to be a military stronghold and hideout for Osama bin Laden.

Using a Stinger shoulder-­fired missile, they firebombed the building. Then, to make sure the job was done, they stormed the rubble of the building to finish Bin Laden off in case he had survived the fire and bombing.

But when they approached the partially collapsed building, they were met with the sounds of women screaming and babies crying. The building was a military hospital with a special newborn unit. Wounded Iraqi nurses wielding machine guns took out two of Joey's fellow soldiers as they approached. Joey and one other U.S. solider took out the five remaining nurses before they left, convinced that Osama had not been there.

Twenty-­four babies died that day. Most were the children of military soldiers. The intent had been to send a strong message to Iraqi forces.

The other surviving soldier was shot dead when he opened fire on his commander on the base. Joey believed it was a suicide mission, because he had contemplated suicide, as well.

Maria somehow talked him out of it. But afterward, although he didn't kill himself, he grew cold, vicious, and jealous. She told her mother he had changed.

This must be why Joey Martin couldn't kill Lucy. His taste for blood didn't extend to babies after what he did in Iraq. It explains why he set up a makeshift nursery for Lucy in his room at Fellatio. I think he was going to take her with him and care for her as his own, whether she truly was his or not. Maybe it was his own form of penance. Or maybe he wasn't fully the monster we all believed. We'll never know.

All the charges against Carol Abequero were dropped. She was released from jail the same day that Martin disappeared and she has gone underground.

None of this makes it in my story. That is a story to tell another day. Along with my story about how what soldiers do and see in Iraq can destroy lives if they are not given proper support and help from our government.

My story about Joey Martin goes on to explain how the general's influence extended to Khoury's lieutenant, who had already been arrested on suspicion of killing her after SFPD internal affairs investigators say ballistics analysis matched the bullet to his gun. Apparently, he was so sure he would get away with it that he used his ser­vice weapon. The general had promised the lieutenant a position in his cabinet if he was elected president in two years.

The only loose end was Martin. On my drive home to Donovan's, Kellogg calls.

“The general just offered his resignation on CNN. Took the fall for the president. Said he acted alone. One out of two isn't bad. Nice work, Giovanni.”

 

Chapter 52

F
ATHER
L
IAM
FINISHES
sprinkling holy water over Lucy in the baptismal font and hands her to Donovan as the congregation erupts in cheers.

“Up high. Over your head. Like she's the Lion King,” he says in Donovan's ear loud enough for me to overhear. He winks at me as he says it.

Donovan holds her high in the air as we process down the aisle at the church, passing faces wide with smiles. We make our way back to a small room, where Lucy will be dried and changed back into a flowing white baptismal gown.

Later, Mrs. Castillo hands her to me as we sit at a picnic in the park. The congregation put together a small feast to celebrate Lucy's baptism. Several colored tablecloths and blankets are spread on the grass. One portable table holds the food—­a roast pig, bowls of fruit and vegetables, rolls, and an assortment of salads, wine, lemonade, and cake.

I fold Lucy into my arms and breathe in her hair, trying not to cry. I've been a weepy mess ever since Lucy was found safe.

Luckily, Donovan and Mrs. Castillo are distracted as they talk about something near the fountains, so they don't notice. Lucy coos at me, patting my cheek and wrapping her little fingers through my hair. All my melancholy fades away as I laugh at this delightful little creature in my arms.

We sit down on a soft blanket near the food and play patty-­cake, and I watch her as she squeals with delight when a trio of geese comes by looking for scraps of food.

Later, when Mrs. Castillo buckles Lucy into the car seat in the back of her Lincoln, a wave of sadness returns, swooping over me. I open the door one last time and kiss the baby on her forehead. It's the third time I've done so.

“I'm sorry. I'm being silly,” I say with an embarrassed smile. “I just wish you didn't live so far away.”

“You can come visit Lucy anytime you want. She will need her godmother around to help guide her spiritual growth.”

I smile as they drive away, watching the car until it disappears around a corner.

L
ATER
, D
ONOVAN
AND
I are having a nightcap with Father Liam in his study. The fireplace is lit, and the hearth is covered with candles, the flames flickering, illuminating all our faces in an orange glow. Soft music is playing in the background. I'm mellow and sleepy and relax into the love seat, smiling at Donovan and Father Liam as they argue about who is a better filmmaker—­Francis Ford Coppola or Steven Spielberg. A half-­played chess game is on a small table near Father Liam's armchair. I can't help but glance at it every once in a while, figuring out the next few moves for both black and white. Donovan is refilling our drinks at the bar against the wall when Father Liam spots me eyeing the board.

“Donovan has me in a pickle there, you see. I'm black.” His blue eyes sparkle, and he presses his lips tightly together in a mischievous smile.

My eyes grow round. Donovan? I glance at his back and see his head drop. He turns with a sheepish smile.

“Ah jeez, it was supposed to be a surprise,” he says. “I asked Father Liam to teach me to play. I was going to surprise you when I got a little better.”

He walks over and hands us our drinks. For some reason, my face feels hot, and I grab my vodka and gulp. I haven't been drinking lately, so the alcohol hits me with a rush, and I'm sure my face turns even redder.

Donovan is watching me, and I can't stop smiling. He leans over, and his lips brush my forehead. “You did good, Ella,” he says in a low voice that sends a ripple of desire coursing through me. “That baby girl is right where she belongs.”

I sigh and close my eyes for a second. He's right. She's safe. But there are still too many loose ends.

“What if he's not dead?” I say, voicing a worry that keeps creeping into my mind. “What if Joey Martin is still out there and kills again?”

Donovan's forehead scrunches. “He thought his wife was cheating and about to go to the press with all his secrets. He thought his parents and nephew were in on it. He killed Abequero because he thought he was betrayed by him. Yes, he was delusional, but he had specific targets.”

We found out the connection with the sex club when the cops questioned the owner, the man in the green hat. A few years ago, before Joey Martin was deployed, he and Carol Abequero used to rent a room at the sex club to consummate their affair. While they were there, they met and became friends with Javier. Joey Martin introduced Javier to the dojo.

It appears that after he killed his family, Joey ran into Javier at the sex club when he went to change his clothes and hide. The sensei must have known this, and that's why he is now dead, too.

Joey Martin killed everyone who got in his way. Everyone but Lucy.

Despite what everyone says, I'm not convinced Joey Martin is dead.

Lopez said that the Army “Combined Applications Group” soldiers were the best of the best. That even Navy SEALs and Green Berets wanted to be like them. They were sort of like the James Bonds of the world, but even more ruthless and dangerous.

Hell, this guy was the only other person in a helicopter taking a five-­star General of the Army to the White House in the early hours of 9/11. From what Lopez explained to me, the only one higher than Hightower at that time was the president. The designation of five-­star General of the Army is only given during wartime, he said. What if Joey Martin is alive and not done seeking revenge?

I'm staring at the fire in Father Liam's rectory, thinking of all this, when a hand is placed on my shoulder.

“The more important question, I fear, is this Frank Anderson.” Father Liam's words hang in the silence.

Donovan sits up straight. “As usual, you are right,” he says. “I've—­”

His cell phone ringing interrupts him. Once glance at the screen tells me what I already suspected. It's his partner, Finn.

Of course.

Donovan gives me an apologetic look and leaves to take the call in another room.

Father Liam gets up to refill my drink.

“Let's talk about you,” he says with a wink as he settles back into his winged armchair.

“I'm fine.”

“Really?” He raises one eyebrow, and I know I can't lie to him.

“No, I'm not actually fine at all.” I scoot toward the edge of the couch. “I'm relieved that Lucy is safe.” I take a sip of my drink, but I'm not done yet. “Even though it's been more than twenty years, the man who killed my sister Caterina is still out there, possibly, God forbid, preying on others. And I don't think I will ever have a child of my own.” I look up at Father Liam, fiercely blinking back tears. “I don't even deserve to be a mother.”

“My dear Gabriella,” he says, getting up and settling beside me on the love seat. He pats my knee. “How can you hold onto all of this? Why do you feel like you need to take on the weight of the world? You can't stop or control all the evil in this world. I know. God knows I've tried. I can only do my small part in spreading goodness. I can't stop all the bad things from happening. Do you know how many nights I've sat here in this room weeping for the parishioners who have confided in me about their tragedy and heartache, and me knowing I can't stop their child who has cancer from dying? Or that I can't make the wounds from being sexually abused as a child disappear from the elderly man who is still haunted by it to this day? Or my friend, Gabriella, who will not forgive herself even though God has already forgiven her.”

I close my eyes. I will not cry. I breathe slowly in and out. In the other room, I can hear the low rumble of Donovan's voice as he speaks on the phone. Opening my eyes, I reach for Father Liam's hand. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to do it. I'm so tired of feeling this way. I'm exhausted by it all. I want to sleep for a year. I don't want to feel this way anymore.”

A beatific smile spreads across Father Liam's face. “It's simple, my dear. It only takes two words for me to give you the key, the secret to finding your way out of the hellhole you've crawled into.”

I wait, feeling hopeful.

“Let go.” He squeezes my hand.

I mull the words over. I think about what those words mean in my life. Let go of my obsessive desire to get pregnant. Let go of trying to find Frank Anderson so I can wreak my revenge. Let go of worrying about what Joey Martin will do let loose in the world.

“The question is, my dear, can you do that?”

I stare into the flames of the fire across the room. I'm not sure, but I'm also not sure I can go on the way I am anymore.

A
FEW
MINUTES
later, Donovan comes in and looks right at me. “Can I talk to you a sec?”

I already know what he's going to say. I'm ovulating. Tonight was supposed to be the night we tried to get pregnant. His face is creased with concern as I follow him into a spare bedroom and he closes the door. He runs his fingers through his hair.

“Geez, I'm not sure what to do. I told Finn I'd call him back. It's another prostitute. With the same john as the one strangled last week. The pimp is trying to send a message. She's the one who came to us about her friend's death. I can't let this one go, but I promised you. I promised I'd put you first no matter what. Maybe we could run home for a bit and I'll catch up with Finn later?”

He is so torn and earnest. With sudden clarity, I know what I want him to do.

“Go.”

Donovan lifts an eyebrow, as if it is a trick.

“No, really. You need to do this. Go. We always have next month. That woman came to you for help. She did what she thought was right, and now she's dead. You need to seek justice for her. I get it. Go. I love you. But you need to go.”

He grabs me and kisses me so fiercely I can't breathe.

When he pulls back, I gasp for air.

“There's more where that comes from,” he says. He turns to leave but stops.

“By the way, what I was about to say when Finn called is that the FBI is taking over Caterina's case.”

My mouth is open in surprise. I quickly close it.

“FBI?” I ask.

“That's fantastic news,” Father Liam says, clapping his hands together.

“Yep,” Donovan smiles. “An FBI buddy of mine is looking at a case in Nevada that is similar to Caterina's, and that makes it cross state lines. FBI jurisdiction.” He turns to me. “I was going to give you the good news when we got home. I have a bottle of bubbly chilling. Getting the feds involved is just what we need to find that asshole. No offense, Father.”

Father Liam's eyes sparkle. “Sounds like a good description of that man, from all the accounts I've heard.”

My heart pounds, and adrenaline spikes through my body. This is like Christmas come early. I'm a little light-­headed at this news. I close my eyes for a second and blink back the roller coaster of emotions swarming over me. Finally, after so long, there might be justice for Caterina.

D
R
IVING
ACROSS
THE
Bay Bridge, I find comfort in the city skyline, as I have so many other nights in my life. The sight of the soaring buildings against the midnight blue sky always makes my heart leap with joy. This city is my home. Even if I do end up getting a place with Donovan in Oakland, I will never be far from San Francisco. It will always be the place where I'm most alive and most in touch with myself.

Tomorrow I'm visiting a dojo in San Francisco's Chinatown. I'll ask them if they'll teach me to use my kubaton and which martial arts I should study for self-­defense.

Thinking about my conversation with Father Liam, I soak in the night before me—­the dotted lights that make up the skyline of San Francisco, my soul city, welcoming me home. Right when I'm halfway across the Bay Bridge, high above the water, I realize I'm at the point where my two lives—­the one with Donovan in Oakland and the one so rooted in my past in San Francisco—­intersect. It is right there that I roll down my window. Feeling the cold, crisp air against my face, whipping my hair, I imagine tossing all my fears and worries and anxieties out the window into the cool, dark waters of the Bay below. In my mind, I can see them float down into the darkness and sink into the bottom of the Bay. Good riddance. Hitting the exit to Market Street, I crank up my radio, singing along to U2's “Elevation” at the top of my lungs with a smile plastered across my face. I wonder if it actually worked, because strangely, I now feel lighter. I feel free. I feel a surge of hope and joy. Maybe, just maybe, if I try hard enough, I'll be able to let go.