The Buck Stops Here (5 page)

Four

“This is the Greater Nashville Honor Guard,” I said, moving to the next image. On the screen flashed a photo of about 30 older men posed in front of a big American flag on the back steps of their veterans’ hall. The woman hadn’t yet shown up to sweep for bugs, so we were proceeding with the presentation while we waited, pretending as if nothing were going on here other than a simple business meeting.

“These guys provide honor guard services for all funerals of veterans in their area. They play ‘Taps,’ give a twenty-one gun salute, the whole thing. It’s quite beautiful.”

I moved to another image, showing about ten of those men standing at attention in a cemetery in the pouring rain, one of them with a bugle raised to his lips. This photo I had snapped myself, from a distance, and though the exposure was a bit dark, I thought it captured the somber mood of the occasion.

“In their grant request, they asked for money for additional bugles and bugle lessons. We gave them five thousand dollars toward that end.”

The next image appeared, a glossy ad from a car company.

“They also requested better transportation to the various funerals they serve, so we bought them this new twelve-passenger van.”

Kimball grunted appreciably, the first sound he had made since the presentation started.

“These men were so sweet and grateful,” I continued. “They sent a few photos with their thank-you note.”

I moved smoothly through the next ten or so images, snapshots the men had taken of themselves on board the van. Once they had decent transportation, they had expanded their services and now, besides performing honor guard duties at funerals, they also drove all over the southeast giving free patriotic presentations in elementary schools. Their smiles were so wide, you could feel their delight coming through the pictures.

“And that was the grant we gave the Greater Nashville Honor Guard,” I said, clicking to a new screen showing the figures. “Total value, about thirty-five thousand dollars.”

I moved on to the next charity, and then the next, describing each one in turn, including the focus of their operation, and how we were able to help them. Moving chronologically through time, I came upon the last big grant I had given out by myself to a group called MORE. At the helm of that group were the parents of my late husband. Tom had allowed me to give a whopping million-dollar grant to the charity the Webbers had created in Bryan’s honor.

As I looked at photos on the screen of the MORE facility, the people, and the clients they served, I felt my eyes welling up with tears. Had that million-dollar grant been guilt money? Had Tom thought he could pay off the debt he owed the Webbers with dollars? Somehow, he was involved in the death of their son. Did he really think that any amount of money could make that up to them?

The final grant was one that Tom and I had given out together a few weeks ago, a small amount to a friend of his who was raising money to send inner-city children to summer camps. I had culled a few images from their website in order to include them in the presentation.

“And this was the grant we gave to Kamps for Kids,” I said, blinking away my tears as I clicked to a new screen showing the figures. “Total value, almost fourteen thousand dollars.”

I clicked to the final screen, the one that summarized everything, showing the total amount of grants we had given out since we first started. Truly, the figure was stunning: Since opening our doors three years ago, the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation had given away 57 grants totaling almost 16 million dollars.

Incredible. I didn’t know why Tom had asked me to pull all of my work together into this one single presentation, but I was so glad he had. Seeing all we had accomplished since we started was truly a humbling thing.

“Thank you, Callie,” he said as I turned off the projector light. “Not only was that an excellent presentation, but the work it represents is commendable.”

“It’s your money, Tom,” I said, as I always did. “Giving it away is the easy part.”

I turned around to flip on the lights, surprised to see a woman standing there in the room, leaning against the doorframe.

“Oh!” I said, blinking in the sudden brightness. “You startled me.”

She stepped into the room and thrust out a hand. She was tall and striking, with spiky blond hair that made her seem even taller.

“Carole Anne Nelson,” she said. “Glad to meet you.”

“Carole Anne,” Tom said, rising and coming around the table. “Thanks for coming.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your little slide show there,” she said. “It looked like you were almost done.”

She reached into the hall for two suitcases and then brought them over to the table and opened them up. Inside was the equipment she would be using to sweep the room for bugs.

“This could take a while,” she announced as she assembled one of the pieces. “If you want to move into another room, I’ll call you when I’m finished.”

Tom glanced at his lawyer.

“I’ll stay here with Ms. Nelson,” Kimball said. “You two can go on ahead.”

My pulse surged as we stepped out. Tom pointed toward his office down at the end of the hall, so we went there.

His office was fairly large but modestly decorated, with a simple desk and chair at one end and a couch and coffee table at the other. It was also so rarely used that it felt stuffy when we stepped inside. Fortunately, it was at the end of the building and had two big windows along the back wall. We worked to get them open, feeling the warm May breeze sweep into the room as soon as we did.

“I don’t know why you won’t take this end unit for your office,” he said, gesturing for me to have a seat on the couch. “It’s so much bigger than yours, and it has these windows. You’ve got nothing but a wall.”

I sat on the couch, thinking how absurd the moment was. With all that was going on, we were conversing about who used which office as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m rarely here,” I said finally. “I don’t need much.”

“I’m here less than you are,” he said. “So I need even less.”

He hesitated before sitting, and I could feel his mind working. Should he sit next to me? Pull out his desk chair from behind the desk and roll it over here? Finally, he lowered himself onto the wooden coffee table, facing me, the front of his knees barely an inch from mine. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, catching me in the intense gaze of his eyes that I knew so well.

“So how are you doing, Callie?” he asked me in a soft voice.

I just stared at him, wondering where to begin. How was I doing? How did he
think
I was doing?

“It takes a lot of nerve to sit there and ask me that question,” I said after a moment, surprised by the anger I could hear in my own voice.
Speak the truth in love
, I reminded myself.
Speak the truth in love.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m lucky you’re even willing to meet with me.”

“I’ll do whatever I need to do to get some answers,” I said. “I mean, it isn’t all that common for a man to say he wants to marry you and then abandon you in the space of a few minutes.”

He nodded, and in his eyes I could see pain and grief. I had to remember that he was hurting too.

“What’s this about, Tom?” I implored, leaning forward. Our faces were mere inches from each other, and I had to resist the urge to fall into his arms. I missed him so badly!

“We’ll talk when she’s finished,” he said, gesturing toward the door, meaning the agent who was sweeping for bugs. I nodded.

Sitting there, his eyes studied my face as if he were memorizing it. Unable to stand his scrutiny, I closed my eyes.

“I miss you so much,” I whispered.

“Callie, can I hold you? Please?”

While my mind said no, my head nodded yes. Tom moved onto the couch and pulled me into his arms, burying his face against the top of my head.

“I love you,” he whispered, kissing my hair, my face as his lips sought mine. I loved him too. I knew that despite everything, I always would.

When the knock came at the door, it jarred us from some other place, some other time. Tom pulled away, cleared his throat, and told whoever it was that we would be out in just a minute.

“Agent Nelson’s all finished,” we heard Kimball say. “We can get started.”

We stood, smoothing our clothes and hair. What on earth had possessed me—after all that had happened—to sit there on the couch, kissing Tom? Had I gone utterly insane?

He turned to me and ran a hand over my hair, smoothing it down.

“You have some lipstick on you,” I said softly, reaching up to wipe a smudge from his lower lip. He caught my wrist and kissed it, and then he pulled me into a long, fierce hug.

Finally, we returned together to the conference room, where Kimball and the agent were chatting. As we stepped inside, she approached us with a handheld tool, a personal sweeper, and examined us each in turn.

“Okay, that about wraps it up,” she said when she was finished, slipping the unit back into its case. “You’re all clear.”

“Any problems with the room?” Tom asked.

“Nope. Clean as a whistle.”

“Very good.”

Kimball saw her out while Tom and I sat at the table. He took the end spot, so I sat to his left. When Kimball returned, he closed the door and took the place at Tom’s right.

Lifting his briefcase onto the table, Kimball rooted through it for a moment and then took out a plain manila file. He shut the case and set the file on top of it.

“Callie Webber,” he said, reaching into his front pocket for a pair of glasses. “Thank you for meeting with us today. Well, tonight, I guess I should say.”

He took his time unfolding his glasses and putting them on. Though my heart was hammering away in my chest, I remained silent.

“I’m sure you want to know what’s going on,” he continued, “so I’m going to cut right to the chase.”

He opened the file, tilting it toward himself so that I couldn’t see inside. After flipping several pages, he paused.

“Here it is,” he said, pulling off his glasses and fixing his gaze on me. “I’m sure you’ve heard of a confidentiality agreement.”

I nodded, wondering if they would ask me to sign one.

“Often, a company will make you sign such an agreement as a condition of employment. Being in technology, Tom has signed more than his share over the years. There are a lot of secrets to be kept in the computer business.”

“I’m sure there are,” I said. I glanced at Tom, but his eyes were fixed on some distant point across the room.

“Six years and six months ago, Tom signed a confidentiality contract with the National Security Agency. Two years later, he signed an addendum to that contract. The fact that I can even tell you that such a contract exists required special permission from the agency and necessitated my presence at this meeting.”

“I understand,” I said, though I didn’t, really.

“In business,” he continued, “these contracts are often enforced with fines—sometimes heavy fines. You talk, you pay.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“In Tom’s case, however, the contracts are not just enforced with fines.”

“They’re not?”

I looked at Tom and then back at Kimball. The lawyer was putting on his glasses again, and he skimmed the page in front of him.

“Pursuant to section five, paragraph four,” he read, “violation of the confidential nature of this agreement subjects agent to fines not exceeding five hundred thousand dollars and imprisonment not exceeding ten years.”

He put the paper down and pulled off his glasses.

“Imprisonment not exceeding ten years,” he said. “That means that Tom Bennett risks up to ten years in prison if he breathes even one word to you about the facts restricted by this document.”

I sat back in my chair, my mind spinning.

Ten years in prison…for telling me a few secrets?

“Callie,” Tom said, reaching for my hand. “What you overheard in the hospital in Florida were things that should never have been said. I can’t take them back, but I also can’t ever tell you what we were talking about.”

I pulled my hand away from his grasp.

“But Eli knew things—”

“Eli ferreted some stuff out on his own a long time ago. I never confirmed or denied what he learned, but he found enough outside sources to gain a full understanding of the facts anyway. Because he was former NSA himself, I felt free to talk with him that day at the hospital, though I really shouldn’t have.”

“Tom, was the ‘James’ you spoke of James Sparks?”

Tom looked back at me, helpless.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t answer that question.”

I stared at both men, thoroughly confused. Had they really gone to all of this trouble in order to tell me…nothing?

“You said I have the right to know the truth.”

“You do have the right to know the truth,” he replied. “But I can’t be the one to give it to you. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve pulled every string, spoken to every legal expert at my disposal, exhausted every option I have. My hands are tied.”

“So what does this mean?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer. “Is there someone else I can talk to? Kimball?”