Richard Patterson - Fall from Grace

He jerked the wheel abruptly, throwing Messud sideways as he pulled the gun concealed beneath his seat.

Righting himself, the Afghan perceived that he was speeding down an empty road at night with an American who was exactly what the Taliban suspected, and knew Messud’s true loyalties very well.

“I never trusted you,” Adam told Messud in Pashto, and shot the Afghan between the eyes.

For fifty miles, Adam drove with Messud’s body slumped beside him. Dumping it by the road, Adam hoped that someone would blame an Afghan. Then he drove to Kandahar and learned that Benjamin Blaine was dead.

Adam closed his eyes, and tried again to sleep.

Early the next morning, he took a flight to Washington, D.C.

There was a Vineyard sunrise of heartbreaking beauty. Looking out the window as the plane climbed higher, he saw Cuttyhunk Island on the edge of the blue horizon, and thought of his last sail with Jenny Leigh.

They had rented a sailboat. Though not an experienced sailor, Jenny was eager to learn. She took the helm, holding the tiller in one hand and the mainsheet in the other. Adam sat beside her, noting subtle shifts in the wind. A stiff breeze blew the blond strands of hair across her smiling face.

“Good,” Adam said. “Now let out the mainsheet a little.”

She did this, tentative at first, then grinning as the mainsail caught the wind. The sailboat gained speed. Satisfied, Adam slid forward on the port side, balancing the boat to help her. Even when sea spray splashed her face, Jenny’s eyes were bright. Adam could feel her exhilaration.

After an hour, her mood still elevated, Jenny began to talk about her writing. “For me,” she explained, “it’s partly about why we are the way we are. But it also means I feel safe.” Hand on the tiller, she gazed ahead, face solemn now. “In my stories, I control what happens. There’s no experience I can’t use. But it can’t hurt me anymore. Instead, I can understand it, then change it to be more the way I want.”

As more often lately, Adam sensed that Jenny was dealing with a pain she refused to reveal, perhaps did not fully understand. “So do you write for other people, Jen, or for yourself?”

“Both.” Suddenly, she was animated again. “I don’t just want to be a writer, but a great one. I want to be on an airplane, or on a beach, and see someone so enthralled by what I wrote they don’t notice me at all.”

This was Jenny at her emotional peak, her ambitions boundless and romantic. To Adam, three years older, she seemed touchingly, almost heartbreakingly, young. He hoped that life would not give her more hurt than she could endure. “I like the part of being anonymous,” she explained, “where the reader’s only idea of me comes from what I write. Did it ever feel strange to read your father’s books?”

“In a way.” Adam paused, trying to express what he had never told anyone. “I admired his talent, and also felt sad. The man who wrote those books was larger in spirit than the dad Teddy and I knew. ‘If you can be that way on the page,’ I wanted to say, ‘why not with us?’”

As Jenny adjusted the tiller, Adam felt her mood change. Pensively, she said, “Maybe I’m like that, too.” Heading for Cuttyhunk, the idea seemed to consume her, rendering both of them silent.

On the way back, a fierce current along the Elizabeth Islands caught them up.

Adam took the tiller, fighting stiff and erratic winds as the current increased to twenty knots. The jib became snagged. When Jenny scrambled to free it, a sudden wave knocked the boat sideways.

Adam saw Jenny lose her balance, suspended in slow motion above the side before pitching into the chill waves of the Vineyard Sound. Turning, he spotted her bobbing in the water as the current swept him away.

She was not a strong swimmer, Adam knew. Quickly, he wrenched the boat in a circle back toward her. Jenny’s arms began thrashing, her eyes wide with fright. Only the life jacket kept her head above water. He fought the wind, his progress toward her agonizingly slow.

Minutes passed. Her face was waxen now, her mouth shut tight. Desperate, Adam tacked to reach her. At last, he came close enough to toss her a line knotted at the end.

She clutched the line with both hands, hope and panic etched in her face. The wind shifted. Abruptly, the mainsail filled, propelling the boat forward at startling speed. The rope snapped taut in Jenny’s hands, the forward motion of the boat dragging her through rough waters like a rag doll. Adam heard her scream. In seconds, she would release the line, falling back as the boat sped away, or keep swallowing water through her mouth and nose until the sensation of drowning forced her to let go.

Jerking the tiller, Adam steered into the wind. The boat slowed abruptly, forging back toward Jenny. At last, the line went slack, and Jenny began bobbing again. Tiller in one hand, Adam pulled her toward him with the rope. As she came close, he reached out, risking his own tumble into the water. The instant his hand clasped hers the boat rocked again. The fierceness of her grip was all that linked them.

With desperate haste, Adam pulled her into the boat. Still gripping the tiller, he hugged her. He felt her trembling with relief and fear.

“Strange,” she murmured after a time. “Suddenly, I was just so scared of dying.”

Adam kissed her forehead, felt cold skin and damp tendrils of hair. “Now you’re like me,” he said gently. “But it’s like I promised at Waskosims, Jen. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

In late afternoon, they spotted Menemsha Harbor. Though warmed by the sun, Jenny still leaned against him. “I’ve never talked to anyone about my writing,” she said. “At least not like I do with you.”

“Do you know why?”

She hesitated. “I’m afraid of rejection. Both of my stories and of me. Sometimes I’m too scared to show them to anyone, especially someone I know.”

A new idea struck him, a way to encourage her. “Suppose my dad wanted to read one of your stories, Jen. Could he?”

She stared at him in wonder. “Do you think he would?”

“I could always ask.” Still watching the current, Adam considered how much this might appeal to Ben’s idea of himself. “He just might give you feedback, and he knows damn near everyone in publishing. Maybe you should come to dinner.” Pausing, he smiled at another thought. “Actually, you’ll be a welcome distraction for us all. Given that we’re close to the last boat race, and I’ve nearly caught him in the standings, Dad’s a little short with me right now.”

The wheels of the plane touched down, jolting Adam back to the present.

In the next three days, Adam met with his superiors, transferred money to Jason Lew through two separate bank accounts, and returned to the Vineyard. On the day following, Lew called him to report. “I got by with it,” Lew said. “I don’t think the security guys suspected me. If you’re feeling reckless, you can find out if my technical gifts survive.”

That evening, at twilight, Adam told Clarice he was going fly-fishing and drove to Dogfish Bar.

Several men were already there, spread like sentries along the surf. Spotting Matthew Thomson, Adam stopped to chat, then took his place among the others. For several hours he tried to clear his mind of tensions, focused on his casting. Only as the rest began drifting away did Adam’s thoughts turn from the water.

Shortly after midnight, he found himself alone.

Edgier now, he made himself remain for one more hour. Then he returned to the dirt patch where he had parked his truck, changed into jeans and a dark sweater, and made the forty-minute drive to Edgartown.

He parked on a residential lane two blocks from Main Street. The town was dark and quiet, the last of the drunken college kids cleared from the sidewalks. Sliding out of the truck, he walked near the shade trees lining the road.