The next glossy picture showed Angelina wearing a black strapless cocktail dress that was hemmed just below her knees. She stood tall, elegant, and erect with her body angled toward the camera. Her long dark hair was swept to one side, leaving the top of her left arm and the tattoos there exposed. The caption explained that the rows of tattooed numbers displayed the map coordinates of the places where her children were born.
Sleep-deprived and staring at Angelina Jolie’s thin arm, Annabelle figured out the meaning of the numbers painted on the terra-cotta pot next to Innis Wheelock’s bloody corpse.
CHAPTER 25
W ith the midterm elections fast approaching, political guru Peter Nordstrut had plenty of work to do, but he couldn’t concentrate. He hadn’t been able to focus on the latest polling numbers all day. His mind was tortured with the image of Innis Wheelock lying on the greenhouse floor.
Peter got up from his desk and walked over to the mirror hanging on the wall next to the office door. He peered at himself through his horn-rimmed glasses. His blond hair was going gray; his face looked puffy, his eyes a bit bloodshot. No wonder: He’d barely slept the night before.
He paced across the blue carpet, his eyes avoiding the pictures that lined the office wall. There were too many photographs of Innis and Valentina and him there. In Tuxedo Park, in Albany, in Washington, in Rome.
Peter had been with the Wheelocks since he was a very young man, just a few years out of law school. He’d signed on as a volunteer when Valentina made it clear that she intended to run for governor. He knew that he’d proved himself invaluable in that campaign, ensuring that he would be along for all the others. It had been a wonderful ride for as long as it lasted.
Since the Wheelocks had returned from Italy, things hadn’t been the same. Peter had first thought that it was his imagination, but it became clear that Innis was simply not returning his calls and was avoiding every opportunity to meet with him. It had become so obvious that Peter had been stunned to receive an invitation to the St. Francis party at Pentimento. He had eagerly accepted.
Now, however, Peter suspected that he’d been invited to the party because Innis wanted him to see what he did to himself. Perverse, yet perhaps fitting, considering everything else they’d been through together. Every ugly thing.
Walking over to the American flag that stood in the corner of the room, Peter began counting the stars on the field of blue. He kept losing his place, forcing himself to start all over again.
What are you doing, Peter? You need to get some help.
He couldn’t go to a psychiatrist and unburden himself. Confidentiality laws or no, a doctor’s records could always be subpoenaed. The last thing Peter could survive was having what he’d done revealed in a court of law.
Where can you get relief? Who can help you?
Impulsively, Peter told his assistant to hold his calls. Then he called 411 for the number of Mount Carmel’s rectory in Tuxedo. When the parish secretary answered, he asked to speak with Father Michael Gehry.
Peter didn’t identify himself. “Father, I’m not a churchgoer, but I need to go to confession. I knew Innis Wheelock, and his death has me feeling I should make things right with God. Innis always said he found confession to be such a relief. I want relief, too, Father. I need forgiveness.”
“I can hear your confession,” said Father Gehry. “Would you like to make an appointment to come to Mount Carmel?”
“Before I say anything, Father, I have to ask you something.” Peter paused before putting his question to the priest. “You can’t reveal anything you hear in confession, can you?”
“Absolutely not,” Father Gehry said firmly. “The sacramental seal is inviolable.”
“That’s what I’ve been told, Father, but if you knew something that would save someone’s life, wouldn’t you speak up?”
“No,” said
Sleep-deprived and staring at Angelina Jolie’s thin arm, Annabelle figured out the meaning of the numbers painted on the terra-cotta pot next to Innis Wheelock’s bloody corpse.
CHAPTER 25
W ith the midterm elections fast approaching, political guru Peter Nordstrut had plenty of work to do, but he couldn’t concentrate. He hadn’t been able to focus on the latest polling numbers all day. His mind was tortured with the image of Innis Wheelock lying on the greenhouse floor.
Peter got up from his desk and walked over to the mirror hanging on the wall next to the office door. He peered at himself through his horn-rimmed glasses. His blond hair was going gray; his face looked puffy, his eyes a bit bloodshot. No wonder: He’d barely slept the night before.
He paced across the blue carpet, his eyes avoiding the pictures that lined the office wall. There were too many photographs of Innis and Valentina and him there. In Tuxedo Park, in Albany, in Washington, in Rome.
Peter had been with the Wheelocks since he was a very young man, just a few years out of law school. He’d signed on as a volunteer when Valentina made it clear that she intended to run for governor. He knew that he’d proved himself invaluable in that campaign, ensuring that he would be along for all the others. It had been a wonderful ride for as long as it lasted.
Since the Wheelocks had returned from Italy, things hadn’t been the same. Peter had first thought that it was his imagination, but it became clear that Innis was simply not returning his calls and was avoiding every opportunity to meet with him. It had become so obvious that Peter had been stunned to receive an invitation to the St. Francis party at Pentimento. He had eagerly accepted.
Now, however, Peter suspected that he’d been invited to the party because Innis wanted him to see what he did to himself. Perverse, yet perhaps fitting, considering everything else they’d been through together. Every ugly thing.
Walking over to the American flag that stood in the corner of the room, Peter began counting the stars on the field of blue. He kept losing his place, forcing himself to start all over again.
What are you doing, Peter? You need to get some help.
He couldn’t go to a psychiatrist and unburden himself. Confidentiality laws or no, a doctor’s records could always be subpoenaed. The last thing Peter could survive was having what he’d done revealed in a court of law.
Where can you get relief? Who can help you?
Impulsively, Peter told his assistant to hold his calls. Then he called 411 for the number of Mount Carmel’s rectory in Tuxedo. When the parish secretary answered, he asked to speak with Father Michael Gehry.
Peter didn’t identify himself. “Father, I’m not a churchgoer, but I need to go to confession. I knew Innis Wheelock, and his death has me feeling I should make things right with God. Innis always said he found confession to be such a relief. I want relief, too, Father. I need forgiveness.”
“I can hear your confession,” said Father Gehry. “Would you like to make an appointment to come to Mount Carmel?”
“Before I say anything, Father, I have to ask you something.” Peter paused before putting his question to the priest. “You can’t reveal anything you hear in confession, can you?”
“Absolutely not,” Father Gehry said firmly. “The sacramental seal is inviolable.”
“That’s what I’ve been told, Father, but if you knew something that would save someone’s life, wouldn’t you speak up?”
“No,” said
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