Free The Runaway Pastor's Wife by Diane Moody, Hannah Schmitt Page A

guy
something like Popeye and we might as well take out a full page ad in the Washington Post.
Just print a full confession in black and white! Anybody with half a brain
would link us to that bombing. Thank God, one of us has a brain, you moron.”
    They
started singing again. They even harmonized on one song over and over—“My Jordan lies
over the ocean, my Jordan lies
over the sea, my Jordan lies ALL over the
ocean, can’t bring back ol’ Jordan to
me!”
    They
started singing more stupid songs, and the drunken laughter went on all night.
With each one I began to piece together what must have happened. If only I’d
had a tape recorder.
    Eventually
they passed out. Fell sound asleep right there sprawled all over the kitchen
table. My mind was racing in a thousand directions. And then I remembered
something. The television coverage of Christopher Jordan’s death. The remnants
of his yacht. Even though it had been years ago, long before I knew Elliot, I
could still see those images in my mind. Scenes filmed at his funeral. His wife
and children consumed by their grief. The twenty-one gun salute. Taps.
    And
then I remembered seeing the new Chairman of the House
Ways and Means Committee—none other than Elliot Thomas—the
bereaving Congressman, at times too choked up to continue as he eulogized the
“beloved statesman and American hero.” And it all started to make sense to me.
    So why
didn’t I go to the authorities? Why didn’t I turn them in? After all, this was
the murder of a prominent congressman of the United
States . Why didn’t I tell someone?
    For
several reasons, and all of them selfish, I’m sorry to say. I had only been
married to Amelia for a year, but I already knew how much power Elliot Thomas
carried. To be perfectly honest, he scared me to death. Still does. And I was
primarily concerned with how it would affect me . I wasn’t about to risk
having my reputation tainted with this story if Elliot was brought down. I
wanted to be known as a Major League baseball player—not forever remembered as
the man who blew the whistle on a dirty politician. It’s no secret that
athletic accomplishments are quickly forgotten when scandal enters the picture.
    I knew
I had to keep my mouth shut. And in a perverted way of thinking, I realized I
could always use the information if Elliot ever crossed me. That may sound
rather calloused, but at that point in my life, it was the way my mind worked.
    However,
I did a little investigation on my own over those next few months. An odd guy
named Bo would show up at the country club from time to time when Elliot and
Duke were around. Eventually, I began to put two and two together, so I hired a
private investigator to check him out. I have in my possession a complete
background document on him—along with some rather incriminating evidence—phone
records, flight logs, receipts, photographs. This information clearly links
Mitch Creason—aka “Beauregard” aka “Bo”—to Elliot Thomas, implicating the
congressman in the murder of Christopher Jordan.
    Now,
the tables have all been turned. It’s time to use my secret files. Elliot isn’t
the only one who knows how to use blackmail. I have no other choice. This guy
plays in a ballpark that’s way out of my league. He knows no limits whatsoever.
I am fully aware of that and always have been since that weekend in the
backwoods of Texas .
    My
whole life is my company now. Elliot may have helped me with the start up, but
it was my blood, sweat and tears that made The
Sports Page what it is today. I refuse to stand by and watch him steal it
from me.
    — Michael
Dean
     
    Michael hit the return key several times,
leaving a short break in the text before adding a final personal note.
     
    Grady,
    Elliot
gave me 24 hours to give him an answer. The clock is ticking. This is literally
a matter of life and death for me. Once I have confronted Elliot with this
information, I can only imagine what his reaction will be.  I