Sleight of Hand

CHAPTER Fifty-Nine

Horace Blair sat in his breakfast nook and looked out at his garden. He had been out of jail for a week and today would be his first day in the office. Everything had happened very quickly after Benedict was fired. Soon after, Jack Pratt and Bobby Schatz had come to his cell with Rick Hamada to tell him that Charles Benedict was under arrest, and that he was a free man. He had left the jail in a daze, not really believing that his ordeal was finally over.

Horace wanted to thank Dana Cutler, but he had not seen her since Pratt brought the private investigator to the jail. She had made it clear during her visit that she was acting for Carrie and did not want to be paid. But he would figure out a way to let her know how much he appreciated what she had done for him.

Blair’s ordeal had taken a lot out of him. Anger had kept him going much of the time while he’d been locked up, but he felt as if he had only a limited supply of energy, and fighting for his freedom had drained most of the tank. When he took a bite out of his croissant it tasted like cardboard. He set it down half-eaten. He had no appetite. When he woke up at five he had thought about swimming, but he didn’t have the energy for it so he’d stayed in bed for another hour. He’d given his newspapers a cursory read, but he couldn’t concentrate. The garden, which usually gave him joy, now left him cold.

An image of Carrie invaded his thoughts and suddenly he was choking up. He had not loved Carrie for some time, but he had always cared for her. It made him sad to think that she had died young and in such a terrible way. He could not imagine how she felt when Charles Benedict snuffed out the vibrant flame that animated her, and he prayed that her death had been mercifully swift and free of suffering.

Horace’s eyes filled with tears. He could not remember the last time he had cried. Was he crying for Carrie or himself? Maybe he was crying for both. He was one of the most powerful men in America but he did not feel powerful. He felt old, empty, and alone, and he had no one with whom he could share these feelings.

“Your car is ready,” Walter said.

Horace took a deep breath and nodded, too sad to speak. Walter left and Horace pressed a napkin to his eyes to dry his tears. He had an important meeting in one hour and he could not afford to show weakness, but he did feel weak, and he had no enthusiasm for battle.

Horace levered himself to his feet. He closed his eyes and regrouped emotionally. He was free. He had won. But he didn’t feel like a victor. He felt like a tired old man.