35. Becks Born a Fighter
SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 1976
Tip: Your instincts, Virginia, are your best gift. When creating a guest list, always trust your gut. This, of course, also goes for choosing friends. And husbands. Your head gets so tangled with all its important thoughts. But somewhere, deep inside, an answer already exists. When you find it, you will know.
As Becks gazed at her birthday cake, trying to digest what had just happened with her mother, she wondered, for the first time, if her mother had never properly bonded with her. If the fear of losing her daughter as an infant—accepting that reality—made it easier for her to exile her after her husband died, to blame her for things that could never be her fault.
But, no. That couldn’t be. People bonded with children who weren’t biologically theirs all the time, loved them like their own. Becks had even heard tales of whales adopting dolphins, lambs being raised by dogs. But no matter. Her mother had ultimately forgiven her, come to terms with the truth and shared that truth with her daugher. And that was more than she could have hoped for.
Becks looked at herself in the mirror in the restroom off the library. Dim light had been her friend these last few weeks, but now even that couldn’t hide her gray pallor and complexion. She felt weak down to her bones. And she knew she didn’t have much longer. Even the pain injections and the steroids were having a hard time keeping her going now.
She walked back into the library and was surprised to see that the door leading to the kitchen was closed. She hadn’t closed it, had she? She heard a noise—one she recognized—coming from Townsend’s chair, and jumped as she saw Peter sitting in Townsend’s favorite spot by the fireplace. He was holding one of a pair of antique samurai swords that Townsend’s father had acquired on a trip to Japan. The noise she recognized was that of the sword being removed from its sheath. How many times had she scolded Lon as a child—who had been mesmerized by the swords—for doing that very thing? The blades were, as they were meant to be, deathly sharp. The smallest contact with flesh could draw blood.
Becks’s heart was already racing from the surprise of seeing Peter, but it practically galloped now that he was sitting there with a sword in his hand, slipping it ominously in and out of the case, almost dazed by the motion. They hadn’t exactly left things on polite terms. Never a good place to be with a cold-blooded killer.
The sword still in his hand, Peter said, “I didn’t like the way we left things yesterday morning.”
“I, um, I didn’t either,” Becks stuttered, never taking her eyes off the knife. She could scream if he moved any closer. But was there time? Silent patients couldn’t testify.
“Like I said, I’m really trying to make a fresh start. It’s why I came to Beaufort.”
Becks could feel her pulse pounding in her throat. Peter was so close that she knew he could take her out with one movement. She didn’t know what made her brave enough to say: “Okay. I get that. But, Peter, how do I know you won’t do this again, take another life? And then won’t that be on me?”
“Would you like to know why I’m not in jail, Mrs. Saint James? Why I didn’t lose my medical license?”
She closed her eyes for just a moment, trying to compose herself. It didn’t work. She didn’t answer, but he continued. “I’m not in jail because no one could prove what happened.”
Oh, God. This was it for her. This was the end. “But it wouldn’t have mattered because my patient’s family was so grateful. They didn’t want to see him suffer anymore. He was in the most pitiful shape I’d ever seen a human being, and—”
A picture was starting to form to Becks now. “Wait, your patient was dying?”
He nodded. “Days from death.” He paused. “What I did only hastened the process ever so slightly. I couldn’t bear to see a human in the state he was in. He was begging to be released from the hell he was living in; he was in so much pain. After I was convinced he was of entirely sound mind, if not body, I helped him. I helped them all. The family gave us their blessing.”
Becks did feel a tiny bit better. But, then again, she was dying too, so who was to say he wouldn’t kill her right here to save his reputation? “That doesn’t matter, Peter,” she said sternly. “It goes against everything the medical community stands for. Do you not remember the Hippocratic oath?”
She glanced down at the sword, gleaming in the light, still in his hand. Her temples were throbbing.
“I understand your opinion, but, with all due respect, you don’t actually know what you would do until you are in the position to make that decision.” He paused. “And I know it’s hard to keep a secret like this. But have you ever needed a fresh start, Mrs. Saint James?”
She nodded, only realizing when her head moved that she was back against the door.
“So maybe you could keep my secret for me?”
With another step toward her, Peter was so close she could see the blood vessels around those crystal eyes of his. Becks almost emitted a scream; this was the end. “Yes, yes,” she said hastily. “I’ll keep your secret.”
Just as her panic reached its peak, Peter, evidently noticing her alarm, hastily moved back toward Townsend’s chair and grabbed the case, attempting to slip the sword back inside. But the knife slipped just a centimeter. Peter didn’t even notice the blood coming from his hand until the sword was back inside the case.
He swore under his breath and put the cut to his mouth. Becks, realizing how silly she was being, took Peter’s arm and led him into the bathroom off the library. She turned on the cold tap and ran Peter’s hand underneath to stop the bleeding. Their eyes caught in the mirror.
Becks thought back to the letter she had written Townsend decades earlier. If just one thing binds us… just one… That gave Becks an idea. Peter had a secret he needed kept. And it was becoming increasingly apparent to Becks that perhaps she needed someone to keep a secret for her as well.
“Peter,” Becks said, “you obviously understand the value of keeping quiet about things.”
Peter looked confused but said, “Well… yes ma’am. I suppose that’s true.”
“If I needed a favor from you, what would you say to that?”
“I suppose this would be a case of us helping each other?” He raised his eyebrow.
Becks smiled affirmatively. He was getting it.
“Mrs. Saint James,” he said, “I know you are nearing the end. I’m not totally comfortable accelerating that for you, but when you get to that point—if that is what you’re asking me—I would consider—”
Becks laughed, cutting him off. “No, darling. What I need is for you to sink Townsend’s convertible.” She paused. “And, um, make it look like an accident.”
Peter shook his head. “Oh, I don’t think I could be involved in an insurance scheme,” he said. “I’ve already had to duck one set of troubles this year.”
“Oh, Peter. Not an insurance scheme. I’ll never file a claim on the car. That I can promise you. I just need the car gone.”
“Might I ask why?”
Without skipping a beat, Becks said, walking back into the library, “Peter, it appears to me that Townsend’s mental faculties are going downhill. I can’t be the one to tell him he can’t drive his beloved convertible. So were it gone, ruined, submerged in Taylor Creek, it would make the whole thing much more palatable.”
He scrunched his nose. “Couldn’t we act like it was stolen? Crash it into a tree? Disassemble the carburetor? I know how to do that, you know.”
Becks’s voice was satin calm as she said, “I’m sure you do, Peter. But, no, this is what I need done. I need the car submerged. Tonight. In the middle of the night when no one will see, of course.” She paused. “And I need how and why it got that way to be our secret.”
Becks could read the confusion written all over Peter’s face. She sensed he wanted to say no, but, then again, how could he? Becks knew his secret. Becks could ruin his life. Not that she ever would. But Peter didn’t know that.
Thinking of his current situation, Becks thought she might have something that could sway Peter. She and Townsend survived the Great Depression. They knew what hard times looked like. As such, they always kept a few thousand in cash stashed in the house for emergencies. And this was that, wasn’t it?
Becks ran her fingers along the shelf until she came to the book she was searching for. The Call of the Wild. She handed the book to Peter. He tried to hand it back to her. “Mrs. Saint James, I don’t understand.”
“Open the cover, Peter.”
He did as she said and his eyes went wide. “This isn’t about money,” he started. As if he hadn’t spoken at all, Becks rose on her tiptoes and took down a copy of Antigone and handed it to him.
“Peter, darling, you told me yourself that you needed a fresh start. Your empty house told me that you could use a leg up toward that end. All I need you to do is sink our car in the creek, and I’ll pay you well for it. You’re a brilliant doctor, a capable and ruddy farm boy. How hard could that possibly be?”
“It happens, I’ve heard,” he whispered. “Around the curve of Sunset Lane. Cars do lose control. They do wind up in the creek.”
Becks nodded. “And when the tops are down, convertibles sink so very quickly.”
Peter hadn’t actually agreed, but Becks, in her Becks way, thanked him as if he had, in a manner that affirmed no one ever said no to Becks Saint James. “Thank you, Peter. I have something to discuss with my husband now.” She paused. She knew Townsend Saint James better than she knew herself. But she was aware that the medication she was on and the thought of her impending death had made her less astute than usual. There was a chance that Townsend would disagree with her. She needed a contingency plan for that. “Peter,” she said. “Please check the windshield wipers before you sink it. If I change my mind, I’ll leave a note under one of them.”
Peter looked mystified but nodded his agreement. Then Becks said something Peter wouldn’t understand until decades later, something that he would keep secret for the rest of his natural life. “Thank you, dear. I just can’t bear the thought of our children being afraid to fly.”
Becks had been born a fighter. She had been born with a keen understanding of who she was, what she wanted, and what she was willing to do to get there. She had learned to recognize those same qualities in other people as well. Consequently, in one of her last actions on earth, Rebecca Saint James had, once again, chosen the right man for the job.