William Lashner - Bitter Truth

I find it difficult to reconcile the young Faith Reddman Shaw, three-time murderess, with the woman who handed over so much to Nat in vain absolution of her past and her father’s past. It is touching and sad, both, to think of her acceding to Nat’s vile demands one after the other in hopes that, finally, her debts and her father’s debts would be paid. That she was a monster, that her attempts were flawed, that the object of her attempts was evil makes the effort no less noble. This has been a tale of the basest sort, but I think that the most interesting part remains forever hidden, and that is the story of Faith’s conversion from criminal to penitent. It is a story written on the human soul, indecipherable but no less real because of it. It is the true story of redemption in the Reddman history, heroically epic because she had so far up to climb. My guess is that her transformation followed a similar path to her husband’s and is a journey being embarked upon by Caroline now. Good luck to her and I hope to hell she finds whatever it is she is looking for.

As for me, I don’t go in for that spiritual crap, as Nat so tactfully put it. It is just a balm, I think, to conceal the painful truths we’re stuck with, like a flesh-colored zit cream. Sure it is comforting to see oneself as part of the great mystical all, destined to be reborn again and again, like it is comforting to loll about in a tub of warm water, but it strikes me as a false refuge. Maybe my near-death experiences have turned me existential, but I can’t help thinking now that I was born for no reason, I live for no reason, I will die for no reason. My task now is to figure out how to deal with those ugly truths without succumbing to depression and spending the rest of my life shivering with despair beneath the covers of my bed. One thing I do know for sure is that if I’m going to contemplate my place in the universe I’d just as soon do it on a beach in Aruba with an umbrella drink in my hand.

I agreed to Nat’s offer. I promised to leave him alone, to tell no one where I found him, to halt all my attempts to collect on the debt pending his death. If he dies with ten million we’d get a third, half of which goes to my partner, a third of which goes to taxes, leaving me with about a million. So sometime in the future, the far future because he seemed a healthy man despite his age, I’m going to get a million dollars. As long as Nat has told me the truth. It’s not all I was hoping for, but I can live with it, I suppose. Better it goes to me than to some corrupt government on the Seychelles. I don’t like the idea of leaving him alone as if he got away with it but I’m nobody’s instrument of retribution. “Vengeance is Mine,” sayeth the Lord, and He can have it. I’m just a lawyer trying to make the best deal I can. Besides, I figure leaving Nat alone with his beastly flowers in that mosquito-infested jungle to face the heat of the dry season and the swarms of the rainy season is as close as I can come to sending him to hell. If I can do that and still end up with a million dollars, then that’s what I’m going to do.

Am I still obsessed with finding a great fortune after all I’ve seen of the Reddmans and the Pooles? Hell yes. Obscene wealth is the great American obsession and I am nothing if not a patriot. It’s just that now I think how I make it and how I spend it is every bit as meaningful as the money itself. Someday, if luck ever finds me, I’ll be graced with a child of my own. The tragedy of the Reddmans has taught me that everything we’ve ever done is passed to our children like an inheritance. I can live with my crimes, I think, but to curse my child with my crimes is criminal and to commit them knowing that later on I’ll have to hide the truth is positively craven. I’m still chasing as hard as the next guy, sure, but from here on in I act as if a child is judging every stride.

For their generous help with this manuscript, I’d like to thank Richard Goldberg, Marilyn Lashner, Carolyn Marino, Joseph R. Rackman, Pete Hendley, who handed me a shark inside Belize’s barrier reef, and my medical staff of Dr. Bret Lashner, gastroenterology; Dr. Michael Lauer, cardiology; Dr. Fred Baurer, psychiatry, and Dr. Barry Fabius, putting and the short game.

I wish also to thank the United States Navy and especially Warren Christensen, Public Affairs Specialist assigned to the Naval Ship Systems Engineering Station, Carderock Division, NSWC, for providing access to and information about the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard. Guillermo Chuc, of San Jose Succotz, who guided me around the ruins of Caracol, was of immeasurable help in my understanding of the Maya. I need also mention my friend Steven Grey, not for any help he provided with the manuscript, but because he sang like Elvis at my wedding.

Judith Regan, my editor, has given me nothing but encouragement and I am forever grateful for her enthusiasm and sage advice. She is one of those rare brave souls who ask for something different and then don’t flinch when they get it.

Finally, a writer’s raw material is time and so for giving me the time I needed to finish this book I give hugs and kisses to Nora, Jack, and especially Michael, who waited until my revisions were completed before entering our world. My wife, Pam, of course, gave me all the time I needed years before I was getting paid and so whatever I accomplish as a writer is her accomplishment too.

William Lashneris a graduate of Swarthmore College and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. He was a criminal prosecutor with the United States Department of Justice. His novels – Fatal Flaw; Bitter Truth; Hostile Witness – have been published worldwide in ten languages. He lives with his family outside of Philadelphia.