Page 84 of Gone Before Goodbye
“My name is Charles Lockwood. Just as I said.”
“Are you CIA?”
“Let’s just say something like that.”
“Where am I?”
“You’re safe,” he says. “And to answer your next question, you’ve been here two days.”
Two days. Her head drops back on the pillow. She wants to ask a million more questions, wants to stay awake, but her eyes are starting to flutter closed.
“I want to know…” She stops speaking.
“You will. I’ll tell you everything soon. But one last thing for now.”
Her eyes are closed now.
In the dark, she hears his voice: “Where is Trace Packer?”
“Bangladesh maybe,” she tells him.
“No, he’s not. Trace is missing, Maggie. We think he may have intentionally gone off the grid.”
“I don’t understand.”
And then, as Maggie sinks under, hoping to head back to that dream in the vineyard, she could swear she hears Charles Lockwood say something that makes absolutely no sense: “We think Trace is trying to find your husband.”
Maggie doesn’t see Charles Lockwood the next time she wakes up. Or the time after that. She is being looked after by two women in hospital scrubs. The women are kind and quiet. Maggie feels her strength returning. She asks them questions—where am I? where is Charles Lockwood?—but they give her a lot of tight smiles and no answers. She is soon able to get out of bed, walk around. Her recovery may seem remarkable, but her injuries ended up being more superficial than serious. There is some pain near her shoulder where the bullet grazed, and her head aches from the aftermath of a concussion.
But she also feels antsy and ready to go.
That night, when Maggie wakes up in her dark hospital-like room, she senses someone is with her. Her eyes adjust enough to see the silhouette, and then the face comes into focus. It’s Charles Lockwood. He stares at the wall.
She speaks first. “Why did you say Trace is trying to find Marc?”
He doesn’t move.
“Marc is dead,” she says.
“I know.” Charles Lockwood leans back in the chair. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why did you?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I want some answers. Like I want them now.”
He nods. Her eyes are adjusting. She can make out his face now. The gloss and polish she’d seen at Ragoravich’s have been wiped away. There are lines etched on his face. His hair has a touch of gray. He looks weathered, worn.
“There’s a lot to tell you,” he says. “I also don’t know how much you know already. I don’t know how much you knew at the time or how much you figured out later.” He turns to her. “Do you know who Eric Hoffer is?”
“No.”
“An American philosopher. He has this quote I love: ‘Every great cause begins as a movement, becomes a business, and eventually degenerates into a racket.’” He smiles. “Good, right?”
She doesn’t reply.
“Corruption starts small,” he continues. “My uncle was a pastor. He had this pious parishioner, a sweet widow, to handle the church’s budget. Mrs. Tingley. She devoted her life to that congregation. She worked long hours. One night, when she stayed late yet again, she got hungry and wanted to get a sandwich. She’d forgotten her wallet at home. That’s what she said. Who knows, right? Anyway, Mrs. Tingley ordered a sandwich from the local sandwich shop and used some of the petty cash from that week’s tithing to pay for it. No big deal. Easily justified. Then she did it again. Then she ordered two sandwiches and brought one home for her son. That’s it. Just an extra sandwich. Ten years later, the parish realized Mrs. Tingley had embezzled almost half a million dollars.”
