Second Honeymoon

Chapter 115

THE RAIN WAS relentless, beating down on my windshield so hard that the wipers could barely keep up. If I had been driving, I would’ve had to pull over. But I wasn’t driving.

For the past two days, I’d been parked on an access road within Kensico Cemetery in Valhalla, New York. To get there I’d taken two flights from Birdwood, Nebraska, driven one rental car from Westchester County Airport, and made one stop at the local Stop & Shop to load up on food and water.

The only other place I stopped along the way was a Radio Shack, where I bought a cell phone charger that plugged into the cigarette lighter. The long-haired clerk roaming the aisle tried to sell me on a backup battery that provided an additional six hours of talk time.

“Good to know,” I told him. In other words, thanks but no thanks.

Truth was, I didn’t even need the talk time I already had. I couldn’t risk being found via GPS, so I was only turning on the phone once every few hours, and only to check messages.

The ones from Driesen tapered off after the first twenty-four hours. As for those from Sarah, I didn’t expect any, nor did they come. Some small part of her was surely miffed that I was keeping her in the dark, but the rest of her knew I had my reasons. Soon enough, she’d know them. The only question was whether I’d be right.

After scanning the field of headstones for the gazillionth time, I picked up the card Ned had sent with the flowers. There was no need to read it again; I had it down cold. In fact, I’d known the entire poem by heart since Mrs. Lindstrom’s eleventh-grade English class back at Keith Academy.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

Ned, of course, didn’t sign the card. He didn’t have to. He expected us to know the flowers were from him.

But why the poem? And of all poems, why Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”?

What promises do you have to keep, Ned?

That answer, I was convinced, was in my other hand.

It was the letter I’d found stashed behind Nora’s photograph, in the frame buried at the bottom of the toy chest under Ned’s bed. I still didn’t know why he had all those DeLorean cars. But I knew why he kept the letter. It was from Nora.

My darling brother, it began.

The tone was big-sister and loving, the entire first page dedicated to questions about Ned’s work and life in California. There was little doubt that she truly cared for him. I’m so proud of you, she wrote many times over.

Then came page 2.

The focus shifted to her life, the tone immediately dire. You’re the only one I can tell this to, Ned.

She’d fallen in love with “the wrong man,” someone who wasn’t what he claimed to be. Everything was a lie. His job, his intentions, even his name.

I’m in danger; I can feel it. Agent John O’Hara is going to be the death of me, Ned.

She didn’t elaborate; there were no further details. Only a request in the event her premonition would prove to be true.

Promise that you’ll come visit me. And when you do, bring me yellow lilies, like you did after that horrible night when we were children, when we were just little kids. Just kids.

That request was the reason I was still sitting in the car in the pouring rain. I was waiting and waiting for Ned to finally show his face. To keep that promise to Nora.