Page 37 of The List

“He promised to stay out of this.”

“He loves his daughter and is worried. I love my son, and I’m worried too.”

“This whole thing is a mess, and neither one of us really knows how to fix it.” She paused. “Brent and I love each other, Catherine. I think we have for a long time. We should have worked that out before a lot of other people were hurt.”

“Like your ex-husbands? Paula?”

Her face tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“None of this is fair. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not here defending Paula. She had her faults, and was obviously quite troubled. But Paula is gone.”

“Not to Brent. He still feels guilty.”

“I want you to tell me why.”

She hesitated. “I think you need to ask him that. It’s not my place.”

“But it is. You’re the reason he feels guilty. Look, I wasn’t blind to the problems in that marriage. Brent was never happy. There always seemed to be turmoil. But I never realized, until recently, the full extent of your involvement.”

“Brent never cheated on his wife with me.”

“I would have expected no less. But you were still there. A presence. An obstacle. A competitor to her. In some ways it was worse than an affair. You had his heart.”

“Paula was determined to hang on to Brent. I think she knew from the start he didn’t really love her—like a husband should love his wife. He tried to stop the marriage, but she wasn’t going to let go.”

“So if you loved him, why did you let him marry Paula?”

A fair question, one she’d posed to herself many times in the years since.

“I was so screwed up back then. I didn’t know what I wanted.

I never focused on anything. Brent was the only man I ever felt really close to.

I trusted him, though at the time I didn’t realize that.

It’s taken growing older to see the mistakes I made.

You’re right, I should have told him how I felt.

He’d get so agitated with me. He tried to pin me down, but I wouldn’t allow it.

Paula, to her credit, never gave up. She stayed with him, got the ring and the wedding. ”

“But she needed a pregnancy to make it happen.”

“It never would have happened otherwise.”

“And all of this has been festering for how long?”

“For me? Fifteen years. It ruined my three marriages. And Brent’s.

” She watched the older woman closely, gauging the reaction.

“I want you to know, again, it wasn’t like we were sneaking around all the time.

Our relationship wasn’t all that physical.

When he moved to Atlanta, I thought I could finally get over him—”

“But you couldn’t.”

She shook her head. “It only got worse. My third marriage was a disaster from the start. But I didn’t want her to die, Catherine. You have to know that. No one wanted her to die. Her killing herself was the last thing anybody considered. Brent, especially. He had no clue she was that unstable.”

“Paula kept a lot to herself. Which became her undoing. What about you, Ashley, when do you plan to tell Brent everything?”

She stared at Catherine Walker.

And saw it in her eyes.

“Your father felt I should know the truth. Of course, he doesn’t know about the Alzheimer’s. He was doing what daddies do for their daughters. Help them out. I’m glad he did. I’ve thought of little else since he dropped by. I have a granddaughter I never knew existed.”

Silence hovered over them.

Both women absorbing the magnitude of the situation.

Tears swirled in Ashley’s eyes.

“Brent has to know,” Catherine said. “It may draw him closer.”

“It may also drive him away,” she said.

“Deceit can do that, but it’s a risk you’ll have to take. At some point, the lies have to end.”

Tears now filled Catherine Walker’s eyes.

“I almost think you’re on my side,” she said.

“I’m on Brent’s side. If you make him happy, and I think you do, then I’ll support you a hundred percent. I don’t want to see him, or you, hurt anymore.”

“Paula was so difficult. He wanted to end things. He really did. But she didn’t play fair.”

“That’s right. Including killing herself. I get his guilt. I really do. But what would he have done if he’d known Lori Anne was his daughter?”

“I’ve asked myself that a million times. It happened right before I married Manley Simmons. I immediately knew the child was Brent’s. But I told everyone it was Manley’s.”

“Why didn’t you tell him before he married Paula?”

“I don’t know. It seemed easier to keep quiet. Say nothing. Go on.”

“He would have married you.”

“I know that now. Then, I wasn’t so sure.”

“Brent never asked about Lori Anne?”

“Once, years ago. But I lied. Manley suspects, but God bless him, he’s never said a word. Lori Anne adores him. Telling the truth could be devastating for her.”

“But lies are always worse.”

Amen.

“In the divorce Manley agreed to pay child support. I went along just to keep up the pretense. But I’ve put every dime into a special account. I figured one day I’d give it back to him.” She had to say, “I love Brent, Catherine. This time I’m not going to let him go.”

“I came here today to say that I’m sick and getting old.

I have to know my son’s going to be all right.

I’m afraid Brent’s hesitant, thinking I won’t approve of any of this.

But it’s not my decision to make. It’s yours and his, not to mention Lori Anne’s.

Make this happen, Ashley. Fix it, while you can. ”

She never could have had this conversation with her own mother.

Sadly, she was a selfish, narrow-minded woman who lived across the state.

True, they were cordial, with calls on holidays, birthdays, and Mother’s Day.

But that was the extent of their relationship.

No bond existed. Lori Anne barely knew her.

They were both far closer with her father, but sometimes she wished for a mother.

“I really would like a granddaughter,” Catherine said. “While I can enjoy her.”

Tears flowed.

“I think she’d love that too.”

4:45 P.M.

H ANK LEFT IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE FIRST DAY OF NEGOTIATIONS ended, waving off an offer by his negotiations committee to reconvene at the VFW for a beer.

For the next week none of the union delegations would report to work at the mill.

Instead, the Comfort Inn would be where they’d toil from 8:00 to 4:30, until their respective locals concluded a deal.

Overall, day one went well. After pitching IBEW’s initial offer, Hank preached all afternoon about the dire needs of his members.

Which included assured overtime, new call-in procedures, health benefits, and wages.

Each was debated in agonizing detail. The company countered with its initial offer and, as expected, asked for a contract five years in length.

He’d feigned surprise and raised hell about the evils of long-term deals, all for the benefit of his negotiations committee and to further the perception of how tough and unrelenting he could be.

He’d need a strong reputation later in the week when it finally came time to convince the other two locals, and his own members, to join in a five-year deal.

That and a little luck , he thought as he parked his truck under the carport.

He drifted inside the house and stripped off his shirt and tie, donning his bathing suit.

He wasn’t hungry, rarely did he eat dinner before seven, so he headed outside to the pool.

The sun had already made its daily pass over the backyard, the late afternoon looming hot and humid.

He plunged into the lukewarm water and began to relax.

A few laps back and forth was the extent of his exercise program.

He was in good shape. No appreciable health problems, and he was genuinely looking forward to a decade or two of peaceful retirement, living off his savings and the monthly check Southern Republic would send to supplement Social Security.

He enjoyed the water for a few more minutes, then dried off and stepped into his office.

He needed to make a few calls and remind some scatterbrains about their court appearances scheduled next week.

The bail bonding business brought in a nice side income, one he’d also be counting on in retirement.

The phone rang.

Which happened at all hours of the day and night. He answered and learned that somebody was looking for bond money.

“What’s the charge?” he asked the caller.

“Got myself arrested for burglary.”

“How much is the bond?”

“Ten thousand.”

Now for the real question. “Got collateral? Land, car, jewelry. Something I can hold to make sure you come back.”

“Thought that’s what the bond was for.”

They all said the same thing. “The bond’s for the court. I don’t plan to pay out ten thousand of my dollars when you decide not to show. I need collateral, so I know you’re serious.”

The caller sighed. “I’ll have to get back to you.”

“Give me your name.”

The caller did.

“You own any land in the county?”

The caller did and told him where.

“You’re also going to need a thousand bucks for my fee. Ten percent, like the law allows.”

“Didn’t know that either.”

“I guess you figured I was going to sign my life away just ’cause you’re a great guy?”

“I’ll call you back later.”

“You do that.”

In anticipation of a possible return call, he reached for the county tax roll.

He bought a copy every January from the Woods County tax commissioner.

That data allowed instant verification on what land a potential bondee, or their family, owned and to what degree it was encumbered.

He thumbed through and confirmed what the caller said.

He owned a half-acre tract near the mill assessed at $8,000, a $4,000 first lien in place to the Woods County State Bank.

Now if the man called back there’d be no blind reliance on what was said.

He’d know. And he liked knowing the answers before the questions were asked.

He slid the printout back on the plywood shelf.

Glancing down, he noticed the clipboard lying on the counter with the list of numbers. He hadn’t thought about them in a few days, his brain filled with contract negotiations.

What were they?

He’d been snooping in company records for decades.

In the old days it was a peek here and there into paper files.

Then copy machines made it possible for spies to bring the information to him.

Computers made things both easier and more difficult, with their passwords and firewalls.

But little within the company network was beyond his scrutiny.

Except these numbers.

The desktop computer dinged for a new email.

He was moderately computer-literate. Ashley had taught him a lot.

He appreciated technology, seeing the wisdom in its many uses.

He sat before the monitor and saw that the email came from the union member he’d assigned to deal with Paul Zimmerman’s family.

When a member died the membership did everything they could to ease the family’s pain and burden.

This death was particularly heartbreaking, considering its suddenness and the children.

The widow was terrified how she was going to pay the bills and feed her kids.

He’d told his man to assure her there would be no problems with either.

The email was an update on what was happening.

He read it with keen interest. He cared for every one of his members, good and bad alike. He was their leader and a leader led.

His man noted in his report that the death benefit form had been completed and he urged it to be quickly processed.

He clicked on the attachment and opened it, making sure everything was in order.

And it appeared to be so. He would process the form tomorrow through industrial relations and make sure the $50,000 death benefit was promptly paid.

That should help alleviate some of the widow’s fears.

Then he noticed something.

Paul Zimmerman’s Social Security number.

Handwritten into the space reserved for that information. Since it was the only Social Security number he possessed on his members, he decided to take a quick look. He grabbed the clipboard with the list still attached.

034156901

456913276

343016692

295617833

178932515

236987521

492016755

516332578

And found a match on the seventh line. 492-01-6755. Paul Zimmerman’s Social Security number.

There.

Part of the list.

Coincidence? No friggin’ way.

He sat back in the chair, which squeaked from the strain, and stared at the clipboard.

Now more intrigued than ever.