My eye was immediately drawn to the woman on the left. It was Marie-Anne Cantin. She wore a killer smile, absolutely devastating. It was a smile that could twist a man’s heart. A man could fall in love just being on the receiving end of that smile. A man would want to see the smile every day and be the one who could make it appear. He would want it all to himself.
Man, I got it, Benedict. I really, truly got it.
Marie-Anne was gazing lovingly at a man I didn’t recognize.
At least, not at first.
He, too, was African or African American. His head was shaved. He had no facial hair. He did not wear glasses. That was why I didn’t recognize him at first. That was why, even when I looked hard, I couldn’t be sure. Except it was the only thing that made sense.
Benedict.
There were only two problems. One, Benedict hadn’t graduated from Oxford University. Two, the name underneath the picture didn’t read Benedict Edwards. It read Jamal W. Langston.
Huh?
Maybe it wasn’t Benedict. Maybe Jamal W. Langston just looked like Benedict.
I frowned. Yeah, right, sure, that made sense. And maybe Benedict just happened to be carrying a torch for a woman who had long ago dated a man who looked just like him!
Dopey theory.
So what other theory did I have? The obvious: Benedict Edwards was really Jamal W. Langston.
I didn’t get it. Or maybe I did. Maybe the pieces were finally, if not coming together, all on the same table. I googled Jamal W. Langston. The first link came from a newspaper called the Statesman. It was, according to the link, “Ghana’s oldest mainstream newspaper—Founded in 1949.”
I clicked the article. When I saw what it was—when I read the headline—I nearly screamed out loud, and yet, at the same time, some of those puzzle pieces were starting to come together.
It was Jamal W. Langston’s obituary.
How could that be . . . ? I started reading, my eyes growing wide as a few of the puzzle pieces finally started to click into place.
From behind me, a tired voice sent a chill straight down my spine: “Man, I wish you hadn’t seen that.”
I slowly turned toward Benedict. He had a gun in his hand.
Chapter 27
If I’d been ranking the many surreal moments I’d been experiencing in recent days, having my best friend point a gun at me would have just elbowed its way into the top spot. I shook my head. How had I not seen it or sensed anything? His eyeglasses and their frames were beyond ridiculous. The haircut almost dared me to question his sanity or personal space-time continuum.
Benedict stood there wearing a green turtleneck, beige corduroys, and a tweed jacket—with a gun in his hand. Part of me wanted to laugh out loud. I had a million questions for him, but I started with the one I had been asking repeatedly from the beginning.
“Where’s Natalie?”
If he was surprised by what I’d asked, his face didn’t show it. “I don’t know.”
I pointed at the gun in his hand. “Are you going to shoot me?”
“I took an oath,” he said. “I made a promise.”
“To shoot me?”
“To kill anyone who learned my secret.”
“Even your maybe best friend?”
“Even him.”
I nodded. “I get it, you know.”
“Get what?”
“Jamal W. Langston,” I said, gesturing toward the screen. “He was a crusading prosecutor. He took on the deadly drug cartels of Ghana without worry about his own safety. He brought them down when no one else could. The man died a hero.”
I waited for him to say something. He didn’t.
“Brave guy,” I said.
“Foolish guy,” Benedict corrected.
“The cartels swore vengeance on him—and if the article is to be believed, they got it. Jamal W. Langston was burned alive. But he wasn’t, was he?”
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“No, Jamal wasn’t burned alive,” Benedict said. “But the cartels still got their vengeance.”
The proverbial veil was being lifted from my eyes. Well, no, it felt more like a camera coming into focus. The indistinguishable blob in the distance was gaining shape and form. Turn by turn—or in this case, moment by moment—the focus was growing sharper. Natalie, the retreat, our sudden breakup, the wedding, the NYPD, that surveillance photo, her mysterious e-mail to me, the promise she forced me to make six years ago . . . it was all coming together now.
“You faked your own death to save this woman, didn’t you?”
“Her,” he said. “And me too, I guess.”
“But mostly her.”
He didn’t respond. Instead Benedict—or should I call him Jamal?—moved toward the computer screen. His eyes were moist as he reached his finger out and gently touched Marie-Anne’s face.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“My wife.”
“Does she know what you’ve done?”
“No.”
“Wait,” I said, my head spinning with the realization. “Even she thinks you’re dead?”
He nodded. “Those are the rules. That’s part of the oath we take. It is the only way to make sure everyone stays safe.”
I thought again about him sitting here, looking up that Facebook page, staring at those photographs, her status, her life updates—like the one about her being “in a relationship” with another man.
“Who is Kevin Backus?” I asked.
Benedict managed something like a smile. “Kevin is an old friend. He waited a long time for his chance. It’s okay. I don’t want her to be alone. He’s a good man.”
Even the silence pierced the heart.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I asked.
“Nothing to tell.”
“I think there is.”
He shook his head. “I already told you. I don’t know where Natalie is. I’ve never met her. I’ve never even heard her name except through you.”
“I’m having trouble believing that.”
“Too bad.” He still had the gun in his hand. “What made you suspect me?”
“The GPS in your car. It showed you’d gone to the retreat in Kraftboro, Vermont.”
He made a face. “Dumb of me.”
“Why did you drive up there?”
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“I was trying to save your life. I pulled into Jed’s farm right after the cops. Seems you didn’t need my help.”
Man, I got it, Benedict. I really, truly got it.
Marie-Anne was gazing lovingly at a man I didn’t recognize.
At least, not at first.
He, too, was African or African American. His head was shaved. He had no facial hair. He did not wear glasses. That was why I didn’t recognize him at first. That was why, even when I looked hard, I couldn’t be sure. Except it was the only thing that made sense.
Benedict.
There were only two problems. One, Benedict hadn’t graduated from Oxford University. Two, the name underneath the picture didn’t read Benedict Edwards. It read Jamal W. Langston.
Huh?
Maybe it wasn’t Benedict. Maybe Jamal W. Langston just looked like Benedict.
I frowned. Yeah, right, sure, that made sense. And maybe Benedict just happened to be carrying a torch for a woman who had long ago dated a man who looked just like him!
Dopey theory.
So what other theory did I have? The obvious: Benedict Edwards was really Jamal W. Langston.
I didn’t get it. Or maybe I did. Maybe the pieces were finally, if not coming together, all on the same table. I googled Jamal W. Langston. The first link came from a newspaper called the Statesman. It was, according to the link, “Ghana’s oldest mainstream newspaper—Founded in 1949.”
I clicked the article. When I saw what it was—when I read the headline—I nearly screamed out loud, and yet, at the same time, some of those puzzle pieces were starting to come together.
It was Jamal W. Langston’s obituary.
How could that be . . . ? I started reading, my eyes growing wide as a few of the puzzle pieces finally started to click into place.
From behind me, a tired voice sent a chill straight down my spine: “Man, I wish you hadn’t seen that.”
I slowly turned toward Benedict. He had a gun in his hand.
Chapter 27
If I’d been ranking the many surreal moments I’d been experiencing in recent days, having my best friend point a gun at me would have just elbowed its way into the top spot. I shook my head. How had I not seen it or sensed anything? His eyeglasses and their frames were beyond ridiculous. The haircut almost dared me to question his sanity or personal space-time continuum.
Benedict stood there wearing a green turtleneck, beige corduroys, and a tweed jacket—with a gun in his hand. Part of me wanted to laugh out loud. I had a million questions for him, but I started with the one I had been asking repeatedly from the beginning.
“Where’s Natalie?”
If he was surprised by what I’d asked, his face didn’t show it. “I don’t know.”
I pointed at the gun in his hand. “Are you going to shoot me?”
“I took an oath,” he said. “I made a promise.”
“To shoot me?”
“To kill anyone who learned my secret.”
“Even your maybe best friend?”
“Even him.”
I nodded. “I get it, you know.”
“Get what?”
“Jamal W. Langston,” I said, gesturing toward the screen. “He was a crusading prosecutor. He took on the deadly drug cartels of Ghana without worry about his own safety. He brought them down when no one else could. The man died a hero.”
I waited for him to say something. He didn’t.
“Brave guy,” I said.
“Foolish guy,” Benedict corrected.
“The cartels swore vengeance on him—and if the article is to be believed, they got it. Jamal W. Langston was burned alive. But he wasn’t, was he?”
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“No, Jamal wasn’t burned alive,” Benedict said. “But the cartels still got their vengeance.”
The proverbial veil was being lifted from my eyes. Well, no, it felt more like a camera coming into focus. The indistinguishable blob in the distance was gaining shape and form. Turn by turn—or in this case, moment by moment—the focus was growing sharper. Natalie, the retreat, our sudden breakup, the wedding, the NYPD, that surveillance photo, her mysterious e-mail to me, the promise she forced me to make six years ago . . . it was all coming together now.
“You faked your own death to save this woman, didn’t you?”
“Her,” he said. “And me too, I guess.”
“But mostly her.”
He didn’t respond. Instead Benedict—or should I call him Jamal?—moved toward the computer screen. His eyes were moist as he reached his finger out and gently touched Marie-Anne’s face.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“My wife.”
“Does she know what you’ve done?”
“No.”
“Wait,” I said, my head spinning with the realization. “Even she thinks you’re dead?”
He nodded. “Those are the rules. That’s part of the oath we take. It is the only way to make sure everyone stays safe.”
I thought again about him sitting here, looking up that Facebook page, staring at those photographs, her status, her life updates—like the one about her being “in a relationship” with another man.
“Who is Kevin Backus?” I asked.
Benedict managed something like a smile. “Kevin is an old friend. He waited a long time for his chance. It’s okay. I don’t want her to be alone. He’s a good man.”
Even the silence pierced the heart.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I asked.
“Nothing to tell.”
“I think there is.”
He shook his head. “I already told you. I don’t know where Natalie is. I’ve never met her. I’ve never even heard her name except through you.”
“I’m having trouble believing that.”
“Too bad.” He still had the gun in his hand. “What made you suspect me?”
“The GPS in your car. It showed you’d gone to the retreat in Kraftboro, Vermont.”
He made a face. “Dumb of me.”
“Why did you drive up there?”
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“I was trying to save your life. I pulled into Jed’s farm right after the cops. Seems you didn’t need my help.”
