by Alex Kava
Maggie waved for Patrick to come over, pointing him out to one of the security officers. He elbowed his way through the crowd that had grown around him. His knees felt a bit wobbly. His heart hadn’t stopped banging. He made his way to Maggie’s side, just as they pulled the guy away from the wall and turned him to face Patrick.
His heart dropped to his feet as he finally looked the guy in the eyes.
“It’s not him,” Patrick said.
EPILOGUE
Sunday morning, December 24
Newburgh Heights, Virginia
“Your decorations are incredible,” Julia Racine said as Maggie led her into the kitchen. Racine stopped when she saw Gwen and Tully, especially Tully, his sleeves rolled up, a red “Grill Baby Grill” apron tied around him. He didn’t look up from the sugar cookie shaped like a reindeer that he was frosting.
“Don’t even say it,” he warned, still not a glance up as he carefully swirled around the antlers. “Where did Patrick disappear? He’s the one who got me into this.”
“He’s out back with Emma and Rebecca,” Maggie said, glancing at her backyard from the kitchen window.
The three of them were throwing snowballs for Harvey to catch. For a minute she had an odd sense of déjà vu, another reminder of the day after Thanksgiving and being pulled away from a houseful of friends. She caught herself taking a deep breath.
“Maybe they can talk her into going to the University of New Haven,” Tully said.
“Still no decisions as to where she wants to go?”
“Too many distractions.”
Maggie decided to leave it alone. It hadn’t been three months since Tully’s daughter Emma had to deal with her father and her mother being the target of a madman. It would take time. Just like it would take time for Patrick.
He and Rebecca had driven down from Connecticut, arriving yesterday to spend the holidays with Maggie and Harvey. Last night he confessed to her—after Rebecca had gone to bed—that he still had nightmares about the Project Manager, handcuffing him to a bomb. She should have had an answer for him. She had gone through the same thing many times, different killers invading her sleep. All she could tell him was that it would take time. That’s all she had to offer.
Despite her efforts, along with Charlie Wurth’s and Henry Lee’s, the so-called secret organization had managed to close ranks and board up doors around itself. It would take additional months to gather evidence and bring charges. Senator Foster was still being investigated, resigning his seat before being officially tossed out of the Senate. However, Senator Foster’s cosponsor pushed through the Homeland Security bill with little opposition. In the wake of two bombings, it became the patriotic thing to do. And Henry Lee would spend Christmas with his wife and grandson, his testimony securing his freedom.
As for the Project Manager, how could Maggie tell Patrick not to worry? The man had vanished.
The doorbell rang again. Maggie left her guests in the kitchen and made her way down the hall to the entrance. She opened the door to find Benjamin Platt, his white West Highland terrier, Digger, up under one arm and his other arm raised, his hand holding a piece of mistletoe over his head.
“Merry Christmas!”
Without missing a beat, Maggie petted Digger and gave the dog a kiss on his head.
Ben laughed and shook his head. “This dog always gets more action than I do.”
He stepped inside and put Digger down to scamper off in the direction of voices.
“Not quite the chick magnet you thought he’d be, huh?”
She helped him take his coat off and while she was behind him she whispered in his ear, “You don’t need a dog or mistletoe.”
The look in his eyes was enough to send a flutter through her.
Patrick interrupted. “We ready to go?”
“You’re leaving?” Ben asked. “I just got here.”
“We’ll be back in about an hour,” Maggie told him as Patrick took Ben’s coat from Maggie and replaced it with her own.
“She’s taking me tree hunting,” Patrick told him. “We’re going to bring back the most magical Christmas tree in the field.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
After the Oklahoma City bombing there were at least twenty witnesses who insisted they saw a “third terrorist” or “John Doe #2” with Timothy McVeigh at different times and in different places, but they always described him with the same physical characteristics. Over half of those witnesses gave this description even before the now infamous sketch had been completed. All of the assertions I’ve made about a third terrorist conspiracy are not my own. Some people, including Timothy McVeigh’s first attorney, still believe the mysterious John Doe #2 may have been the actual mastermind. No one, however, seems to know what happened to him.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This past year and a half my family has been gathering way too often at hospitals, providing the writer in me with more than enough research material. Here’s to the crew: Bob and Tracy Kava, Nancy and Jim Tworek, Kenny and Connie Kava and Patricia Kava.
Naming characters is often a unique process for most authors. Only on rare occasions have I used a real person’s name for one of my characters. This novel is the exception. Thanks go to the following:
Joanne Ceimo for allowing me to use both her sons’ names, David and Chris Ceimo. Chris actually does own an English pub called The Rose and Crown, only you’ll find it in Phoenix, Arizona, not Minneapolis.
Ray Kunze—so you’re not a headless, rotting corpse, after all. And no, I don’t think you dress like a bouncer at a private nightclub.
Lee Dixon and his new grandson, Henry Lee Dixon. I haven’t met the latter yet, but I’m sure he’s as lovable and ornery as his grandfather.
Also special thanks to:
Leigh Ann Retelsdorf—all the questions helped…really they did…okay, maybe not in the beginning, but eventually they did.
Faith Cotton—for being my eyes by providing all the fantastic photos of Mall of America.
Frank Tripp at Alegent Health Wellness Center for answering questions about commercial dryers.
And of course, Sharon Car, Marlene Haney, Sandy Rockwood and Patti El-Kachouti—for your patience, your friendship and your reminders that there is life outside of writing books.
My unwavering respect and heartfelt gratitude to my incredible team:
Linda McFall, my editor and grace under pressure;
Amy Moore-Benson, my agent extraordinaire;
And Deb Carlin, my peace of mind, always.
A very special thank-you to the booksellers, book buyers and librarians across the country for mentioning my novels.
Last and most importantly, to all you faithful readers—I know there’s plenty of competition for your time, your entertainment and for your dollars. I thank you for continuing to choose my novels.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-6399-8
BLACK FRIDAY
Copyright © 2009 by S.M. Kava.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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