Leave Her Out: A Novel Read online

  LEAVE

  HER

  OUT

  DANIEL DAVIDSOHN

  danieldavidsohn.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Daniel Davidsohn.

  The right of Daniel Davidsohn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, except in cases of brief quotations embodied in reviews or articles. It may not be edited amended, lent, resold, hired out, distributed or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s written permission.

  Permission can be obtained from www.danieldavidsohn.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Daniel Davidsohn

  Edited by Charlie Wilson, Landmark Editorial

  Revision by Deborah Dove

  Additional revision by Stephanie Parent

  Interior design: Polgarus Studio

  Cover design & illustration: Pineal

  Original cover photograph:

  Ulises Sepúlveda Déniz/Shutterstock.com

  Nomad Soul/Shutterstock.com

  Original cover photograph: sdominick/iStock by Getty Images

  ISBN: 978-85-922784-5-8

  PRINT ISBN: 978-85-922784-6-5

  AUDIOBOOK ISBN: 978-85-922784-7-2

  There are no guarantees. From a perspective of fear, nothing is safe enough. From a perspective of love, nothing is necessary.

  — Emmanuel

  Table of Contents

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  1

  HAVRE, MONTANA

  Millie Smith stared at the man with the confusion of someone who’d just seen a dolphin in a desert. That man—he looked like…

  “No way,” she mumbled.

  No way was that famous, prestigious national figure striding down a lonely road crossing one of the golden wheat fields of the city of Havre. No way was he here, alone, looking anxious. Scanning all about like he’d lost something, or someone.

  Millie slowed her pace and pulled the collar of her dog, a mighty mastiff. The man, about a hundred yards away now, did not slow his pace. The closer he got, the more Millie thought… But Havre was a quiet community known for family values and small-town ideals, not a place to find celebrities walking by. Or toward you.

  Millie squinted, still struggling to compute what her eyes told her was true, because what a weird and unbelievable encounter it would be.

  The stranger who was so familiar jerked his head. A little tic she remembered from televised press conferences years ago. And Millie finally conceded: Oh my. It’s him!

  Before she could so much as frame another thought, Millie registered a loud noise behind her. The mastiff turned and began barking. Millie turned too, looking up at the sky and shielding her eyes against the direct sunlight. She saw a helicopter flying by. It must have taken off from somewhere in the wheat field.

  This walk was getting stranger by the minute.

  “Enough!” she yelled at her dog. The mastiff quieted and Millie turned to walk on across the field. The empty field.

  What the hell?

  The man who just ten seconds ago was moving in Millie’s direction was no longer walking down the road. He was nowhere in sight.

  There was no place to look for him other than the road and the wheat field surrounding it. Millie rushed to where she’d last seen him, before the helicopter distracted her. She hoped the mastiff would sniff something unusual, but the tired animal just looked back at her, begging to go home.

  Millie looked all about. The wheat wasn’t so high it would hide a grown man. The truth was, there was no way he could have disappeared.

  Heart pounding, she pulled out her cell phone.

  “Hill County Sheriff’s Office,” said a familiar voice.

  “Who’s this, Nancy?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Millie here.”

  “Millie Smith?”

  “Yes. Listen, I need to report a missing person.”

  “OK, darling. I hope it’s not one of yours?”

  “No, no.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on Thirty-First Street. In the field near Wildhorse Road.”

  “Right. Do you know the person?”

  “You bet.”

  “Well, do you have a name?”

  Millie hesitated. “Anthony Morris.”

  “Like the president?”

  “Not just like him. It’s the former president himself.”

  “Uh-huh. You’re not fooling around, are you, Millie?”

  “No, Nancy. I am not fooling around. We were about to cross paths. I heard a noise, looked behind me for a moment. When I looked back, he was gone.”

  “OK, Millie, let me get this right. You’re saying that former President Anthony Morris decided to play hide-and-seek on a wheat field in Havre?”

  “Will you send someone or what?”

  “Uh, yeah. Can you wait there?”

  “I have my dog with me. He’s tired.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  2

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER. MONTANA, US

  There I was, like countless times before, lost in a delusion that turned my pathetic life into a vision of pure torment. It was all due to the antique oak chest next to my bed, a gift from my past mentor, Charles Dulles, the man who had opened all the doors for me.

  I was sure that chest was watching me.

  Though it wasn’t clear what was inside the damn thing, it had to be something powerful and valuable. Every time this happened, I was drawn to open it. I was aware of the danger. Regardless, a force impelled me. It pushed me to break free from the fear and reach for what was hidden in the chest.

  I knew that this force represented greed. No shrink required.

  Then, I did it—I mentally opened that presumptuous little box. I did it ritualistically, pretending I no longer cared about any consequence. I knelt down in front of it, stared at the beautiful wood, breathed in its symbolism for a while. I was gathering courage. It was, after all, my moment of truth. What exactly did I fear?

  When bravery surpassed caution, I opened the lid. I did it slowly, until the underside was completely exposed. Inside the chest, darkness. Really, it couldn’t have been sunshine—it didn’t fit the nightmare. I bent forward to look inside, but I still couldn’t see any
thing.

  Instead, I felt it. That thing was alive.

  In an instant, my mind sped up. A thrill ran down my spine, like in the old days of my political ladder climbing. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled—the danger was tangible.

  Coming for me.

  I had only a fraction of a second to identify the occupant of the chest as a serpent—with Charles Dulles’s face—before that awful creature shot out and sank its poisonous fangs right into my neck.

  “Jesus!” I yelled.

  All I could do to release its grip on me was to shake my head. Or open my eyes.

  So at that point, I did both.

  Usually, I sweat profusely when the vision occurs. I even peed once or twice. Now, with my eyes open and the psychological threat gone, I felt wetness on my neck. I touched it, testing the viscosity between my fingers, and brought my hand up to my eyes. It was blood. My blood.

  Next, I sensed a chilly draft on my face and turned to glance at my bedroom window. It was broken. There was glass all over the floor and next to me on the bed.

  While I struggled to assimilate the nightmarish awakening, my door opened. Viktoria Krizman burst in and ran toward me. I sat up and raised my palms—I’m OK—trying to calm her.

  Vicky inspected the bedroom, attempting to figure out what had happened. She saw the broken window, the glass all over, and finally found the missile that had done the damage: a small but heavy bronze puppet sculpture. She crossed quickly to the window, looked all over outside; then, seeing no one, she turned to me.

  “What’s this, Tony?” she asked, raising the puppet.

  I stared at it and concluded, “That’s probably me.”

  “I’m calling the Secret Service.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s just a scratch. Do me a favor, will you? Don’t tell anyone about this.”

  Vicky looked unhappy with that, but she nodded. “We need to find out who did this,” she said.

  “Oh, I know who did this.”

  “Who?”

  “Charles Dulles.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he still thinks I’m his puppet.”

  Vicky looked suspiciously at the bronze sculpture, like she was saying, Is that really what this attack was about? I grimaced with disgust and looked away.

  Then I said, to myself as much as her, “Charles is reminding me that nothing has changed.”

  3

  MONTANA, US

  It was embarrassing. I didn’t know why I still had an imaginary serpent slithering about in my mind at this hour of the day as I was being driven through Montana. Charles Dulles and I had no business together anymore. He was supposed to inhabit my past. Charles’s days at the Senate were over too. Word had it that he was in the private sector doing what he did best: making, moving, charging, and hiding money. The thing was, I fell for his political spell during my presidential campaign, but even after all those years, I believed I shouldn’t be worried anymore.

  My gut, however, told me otherwise.

  “Someone is following us,” my driver informed me, looking in the rearview mirror.

  “Blue sedan?” I asked matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, sir,” he confirmed, tensing up. “I’m ready to take evasive action.”

  “Just keep on driving.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I resisted the temptation to shift in the backseat and take a quick look at the sedan tailing us. Instead, I sat back and looked out at the snow and wondered if I was really fit for this—the long winters of Big Sky Country. Then again, my life had been one long, dark winter. Why expect anything else?

  “They’re still following, sir.”

  “Never mind, Robert. That’s what they do. They show themselves, that’s all.”

  The truth was, the mundane conquests of the past had merely provided temporary relief, and whatever glory I’d enjoyed was long gone. Now, it seemed, I only had room for painful memories. I’d reached the top of the mountain, but I felt no sense of accomplishment at the climb and no wonder at the view. I just felt tired and regretful. And when I thought about the people who’d abandoned me—the public supporters and those close to me—I didn’t blame them.

  “You’re right, sir.”

  “About?”

  “They’re gone.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  My dear friend Mohe Taylor called me as we were driving out of Bozeman on Highland Boulevard.

  I could have flown from Glasgow to Bozeman and back, but I wanted to travel by car. As an outsider, I was still dazzled by the mountains, alpine lakes, and the prairies in Yellowstone Country, and the occasional sighting of a bison or bear. Sometimes, I even engaged with the rural people of the Southeast.

  True, the postcard feel of Montana had played a role in my decision to move here, but what I really wanted was to live close to Mohe, who was a local. I had asked too much of him in the past; it was only fair that I give back in any way I could. Moving closer to Mohe, instead of asking him to move closer to me, was a way to pay homage to our special friendship. At least, I hoped Mohe saw it that way.

  “Sir?” Robert said as he leaned over the front seat of the SUV, holding out the phone.

  Robert wasn’t Secret Service. In fact, I had to fight for years before they let me go my own way. I explained to them that I was tired of having people around me all the time, reporting and gossiping about my every move. It didn’t work, so I bluffed, threatening to shoot any agent who crossed my path. That worked.

  Robert had a military background of some sort, but his belly was way too round for him to be considered for an official presidential protection role. He was a quiet, modest man, married with two grown-up sons. Whenever he was at my side, which wasn’t often, the phone stayed in his pocket. Even a forgotten president needed filters.

  “Mr. Taylor’s calling,” Robert said with his usual formality, which I much appreciated. I couldn’t handle new friends at my age. It was too demanding.

  I took the phone from him. It rang off. I fully expected it would ring again very soon. Mohe would want an explanation.

  I stared out the window at the frozen streets. It had been snowing for two straight days, and before leaving, on my way from the hospital room to the car, Robert informed me that the temperature outside was twelve degrees. Without asking, he offered me the large wool blanket that we kept in the trunk. It had been a gift from Mohe. I was now covered up to my neck in a loud tribal print. Fortunately, the car windows were tinted, so nobody could see.

  I didn’t have arthritis or anything like that. I was just cold. Winter in Montana could be harsh. Sometimes, Florida flitted into my mind, but then, I wasn’t retired yet. Quite the contrary, I felt very much alive. There were things yet to be done, and I was on the case.

  I had spent the night in the hospital. The doctors said I was fine—strong enough for Rocky Mountain Oysters, a dish made of fried bull testicles. But when I mentioned to a trustee on the hospital’s board of directors that I was travelling back to Glasgow by car—a six-hour ride depending on the weather—he offered to arrange a room for the night. At seventy-eight years old and having been the president for a good four years, I found that the privileges of age and notoriety were most welcome. I deserved them.

  The phone rang again. Mohe. I would have to explain my sojourn at the hospital, though I hated doing it.

  Mohe was more than a friend. He had been my private doctor for almost three decades. And my vice president, the first Native American to have gone that far in politics. He had this challenging, mystical way of interpreting life that I never fully understood, but I always felt truth in my friend, and that was what counted. It so happened that now, at last, I was beginning to figure him out. Which, annoyingly, only proved that you are never too old to learn. A double burden for sure; you’re old and still ignorant.

  “What happened?” Mohe demanded as soon as I answered the call.

  “Nothi
ng. I just wanted a routine check.”

  “Really? Last checkup was what, a month ago?”

  “Give or take.”

  “Are you feeling anything?”

  “Yes. I’m feeling…exhilarated. We’ve been out of the White House for almost twenty years, pal. Tell me, are you in Glasgow?”

  “No. But I’ll be there by noon.”

  “Come by the house. Let’s have dinner together.”

  “Sure. I’ll be there.”

  “Oh. And, uh, what would it take for a man to get a mental health checkup?”

  “A psychiatrist.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I understand. But can it be done at home?”

  “I’m sure I can get someone to do a brief checkup on you. But, Tony, it does sound a little crazy that you’re asking for one.”

  “I don’t care. See you at dinner. Bring the shrink. Preferably a woman. Make it pleasant for me, will you?”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Although, now you mention it, I’m out of red wine…”

  “OK.”

  One could wonder about Mohe’s sense of humor. He had none. Instead, there was this self-imposed duty of carrying the weight of his people on his shoulders. Maybe that was his burden. Mine was to figure out who really mattered to me now that fear was clouding my judgment. I was suspicious of everybody around me, including the people I respected. And then there was the past, the snake that haunted me. I wondered if it would ever sink its fangs into my neck for real.

  4

  ARCATA, CALIFORNIA

  Stella was in the middle of her endurance workout at the gym. She caught a guy checking her out in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, taking her in: she was not particularly tall and no billboard model, but strong and toned and with a glow that brought out her short caramel hair. Not bad. But then, he couldn’t see what was on the inside.