“There isn’t an ill wind that doesn’t blow someone some good,” his mother-in-law was fond of saying. Jason was pretty sure she’d gotten the axiom from her mother or grandmother. Anyway, whoever had originally said it, they were right.
After his nightmare carjacking ordeal with the two Singleton murder suspects, Jason had spent one night in the hospital, and the next day trying to recover at home. He had a broken arm, a sprained ankle, and nineteen stitches in his head. He also had dozens of fellow journalists foaming at the mouth to talk with him—and that included some of the heavy hitters he’d been trying to impress over dinner Sunday night at the Rumor Mill on San Juan Island. But Jason decided to write his own account of the carjacking. The Seattle Times and the national wire services picked it up.
By the time he’d finally gotten his car back—nearly a week after it had been stolen—Jason was in high demand. He decided to follow up his success with an investigative piece on the Church of the True Divine Light. With a bandage still on his half-shaven head, a cast on his arm, and a pair of crutches, he flew to universities all over Washington, Oregon, and Idaho, interviewing former Messengers for the church. One of the wire services was picking up his transportation tab, which included a chauffeur service. It was very helpful, since Jason couldn’t drive. Some of the college kids he talked to were still so brainwashed that they refused to say anything negative about the church. But most of the students were very forthcoming—especially Courtney Furst and Randall Meacham. The name Doran Wiley kept cropping up in Jason’s conversations with church recruits at Western Washington University.
For a couple of days, the media spotlight had been on Doran, because he’d been the Singletons’ caretaker for a while, an unwitting victim of Scott Singleton’s predatory ways, and a recruiter for the church. He was also very handsome. It looked like he might be the Kato Kaelin of the Singleton murder case. But in interviews and on TV, he’d been so uncooperative and had come across as such a snarky homophobic ass that the press and the public quickly tired of him. His “fifteen minutes of fame” lasted about four days. Jason had tried to interview Doran for his first piece on the church’s recruiting programs in several colleges. But Doran had refused to talk to him unless he was paid.
Jason’s exposé was so successful that it helped launch further official investigations into the church’s nefarious activities. The Church of the True Divine Light seemed ready to implode. Marilee and Lawrence Cronin were already being investigated for their connection to the Singleton murders and several other crimes.
Jason’s trip to Montana was for a follow-up story he was pursuing.
The woman at the gate desk announced that they’d be boarding the Bozeman flight soon—and she went into the usual spiel about the limited space for carry-on bags.
Jason checked his phone messages. Someone from AP had called, and there was yet another message from Doran Wiley. This was the sixth time he’d called in the past week. Even though his scholarship had been revoked and he was in desperate need of money, Doran said for the sixth time that he was willing to talk to him now—without charging a fee.
Jason deleted the message—as he had the other voicemails from Doran Wiley.
Slipping his phone back in his pocket, Jason glanced up at the TV. CNN was showing footage from the weekend’s big news story. It was a scene at another airport—Hartsfield-Jackson International in Atlanta—that showed the cops yanking Lawrence and Marilee Cronin off a plane to Honduras. In the footage, Lawrence was yelling at the airport police, and Marilee was covering her face. But anyone could see it was her from the blond pigtails and her royal blue dress, which resembled a doorman’s uniform, right down to the epaulets.
She and her husband were being detained after trying to escape the country and pending indictments.
Jason perked up as the woman at the gate announced that they were ready to board the short flight to Bozeman.
With a smile on his face, Jason Eichhorn grabbed his bag and his crutches. Then he hobbled toward the gate.
Friday, December 15—5:22 P.M.
Leavenworth
Sophie sat in the children’s section of the Leavenworth Public Library. She had an audience of five toddlers seated around her. She’d just finished reading to them a picture book called The Christmas Crocodile by Bonny Becker. It was a hit with the kids.
A couple of them had asked why she was so dressed up. The librarian had asked as well.
Sophie had a date with Matt tonight—dinner at a very fancy, expensive resort, The Sleeping Lady. He’d be picking her up here at the library. It was Matt’s early Christmas present to her.
Sophie had come home from school that afternoon, showered, and then changed into a black, sleeveless cocktail dress, very Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She’d bought it online specifically for tonight’s dinner. From her mom, she borrowed a black cardigan with a design in black and silver sequins.
Sophie was happy with the ensemble. Even Liam said she looked very pretty: “real sophisticated-like.” All that remained of her swollen black eye—courtesy of Victor Moles—was a slight bruise, which she’d camouflaged with makeup.
Her dad had been ready to drive her to the library when her mom came downstairs with the pearl necklace that had been in her family for eons, the same pearl necklace Victor Moles had hoped to steal.
“You’re letting me borrow the pearls?” Sophie asked.
Her mom smiled. “No, I’m giving them to you, honey.”
“But you’re not supposed to give those to me until I get married or turn twenty-five or something.”
“Or something,” her mother said, leading her to the mirror in the living room. She stood behind her and put the string of pearls around her neck. They really looked elegant with the black dress. “You should have them now, because you’re a grownup, Sophie.” Her mother’s voice got a little quaver in it. “You’ve proven that to me, my brave, beautiful grown-up daughter.”
The two of them had a little cry and hugged. Sophie needed to reapply some makeup over her bruised eye.
In the car, her dad even cried a little, too—though he tried to hide it.
He’d promised her mom a trip to Paris next year to compensate for the one she’d missed. Then again, they might not be able to afford the trip next year. They’d had several unexpected expenses recently. The sliding glass door in the family room had to be replaced. Her parents also bought Liam a new camcorder. And they bought a new easy chair for her dad.
No one could stand looking at the old recliner after Vic had made it his for that short period of time. It was almost as bad as viewing the patch of land in the vineyard where the police had excavated Dane’s corpse. So her father’s old recliner went to Goodwill. The new one looked nothing like it. Her father put the replacement in a different spot in the family room—just to lift the curse off it.
For a while, Sophie had to endure countless questions from her classmates about her ordeal. She avoided going into the gory details. Matt, however, heard everything. After a few days, the hubbub died down. Sophie had been sort of a mini-celebrity for a while, but she didn’t mind one bit when the notoriety wore off.
Liam, on the other hand, was wildly popular in his class now. Older kids had actually volunteered to be in his Psycho remake—or help with the production. His friends came over to the house, all agog as if it were a museum or some fun-house chamber of horrors. Liam seemed to take it in his stride.
Sophie put The Christmas Crocodile back on the library shelf. She peeked out the front window and saw Matt’s beat-up Toyota Corolla pull into the lot.
With a small bouquet of flowers, he met her at the library door. He looked pretty cute in his tie and jacket. And she liked the way his eyes lit up when he stared at her. “God, thank you,” he murmured, opening the door for her.
“What for?” she smiled.
“For looking the way you do,” he said.
As they drove past the town center with all its holiday lights
on the chalet-storefronts, Sophie thought about this Christmas. Her parents had said it would be sort of a lean holiday, because of all the recent expenses. James would never know the difference, of course. And it really didn’t seem to matter to anyone else.
Her dad had gotten a replacement recliner—just as Liam had gotten a replacement camcorder. Her mother had gotten the promise of a trip to compensate for the one she’d just missed. And Sophie had received a string of pearls she’d always known she’d get. Everything they’d gotten they’d sort of had before.
Only now, it seemed to matter much, much more.
Thursday, December 21—1:20 P.M.
Marysville
The visitors’ center at the Western Washington Psychiatric Institute was a large, cold room with three long tables, two vending machines, and a view of an empty courtyard through the chain-link-screened windows. A small Christmas tree with blinking lights stood on a table in the corner. It looked lonely and pathetic.
While they waited for Joe to arrive, Laura and Sean had the place to themselves—except for a guard who stood by the door. According to Dr. Halstead, the guard was just a formality for patients like Joe, who was doing much better there this second time around.
Joe had been transferred to the facility from the hospital the first week in December. His condition had been critical for a while. His left leg had been grazed by two bullets. Two additional bullets had done major damage to his stomach and his rotator cuff.
Laura had visited him in the hospital in Wenatchee. She’d asked Sophie and Liam to send him Get Well cards, and they’d done so with slightly mixed feelings. However, James happily drew a picture for him. It showed a stick-figure man in a hospital bed with his arm in a cast.
This was Laura’s first visit with Joe here at the institute. It was also Sean’s first meeting with him ever. He, too, had mixed feelings about Joe. On the drive to the institute, Sean had expressed his reservations. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do when I finally meet this guy,” he’d said, taking his eyes off the road to look at her for a moment. “I’m not sure if I’ll want to punch his lights out or hug him.”
“You’ll want to hug him,” Laura had said, reaching over from the passenger seat and rubbing his shoulder. “He’s so guileless and sweet . . .”
When Joe stepped into the visitors’ room, Laura and Sean stood up. She noticed that he looked even skinnier than before. He had a bad buzz cut and wore an orange jumpsuit. His wounded arm was in a sling. He seemed a bit slow and fragile when he moved.
A part of her wanted to hug him, but Laura just shook his hand. It felt awkward somehow. If Sean hadn’t been there, maybe she would have come around to the other side of the table and embraced him.
She introduced them, and watched Joe’s face turn red. He shook hands with Sean, and murmured, “Pleased to meet you,” but he couldn’t look Sean in the eye. Then he sat down across from them.
“How are you, Joe?” she asked.
“I’m good,” he said quietly. “I’m feeling better every day. And—and Dr. Halstead says that if I continue to do as well as I have been, then I’ll be released from here in the spring.” He glanced at Sean. “Dr. Halstead’s my doctor, my shrink . . .”
Sean nodded and seemed to work up a smile.
Joe turned to her again. “I’m sort of like a trustee here, now. It’s not bad at all.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” She reached into a shopping bag she’d brought along with her. “Listen, I come bearing gifts—a couple of things . . .”
She carefully took out another drawing James had created for him in his preschool art class. It was of Santa, and made from red felt, cotton balls, glue, and watercolors.
Joe got tears in his eyes looking at it. “Will you thank him for me, please?”
“Of course we will,” Sean said.
Laura had also brought along a Christmas present. It was just a sketchpad and drawing pencils. But Joe made a big deal out of unwrapping them. Then he nervously went on about how much use he’d get out of them once his shoulder healed.
Then there was an awkward silence. Sean cleared his throat. “Joe?”
Joe finally looked Sean in the eye, but he still seemed so timid about it.
“Joe, I’m going to leave you and Laura alone for a few minutes,” Sean said. “But before I go, I need to be honest with you. I really didn’t want to meet you. I didn’t even want my wife coming here. For a while, I wasn’t at all happy with you, Joe. You put my family in grave danger. But you also saved their lives—so I guess that evens things out.”
Sean stood up and put his hand out.
Joe got to his feet and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. And pardon my left hand . . .”
“You can call me Sean,” her husband said with a smile. “You said you might get out of here in the spring. That’s a busy time for us at the vineyard. We might need an extra hand—if your shoulder is healed by then. Think about it.”
Wide-eyed, Joe nodded and smiled. “I will. Thank you, sir—I mean, Sean.”
“Happy Holidays, Joe,” Sean said. He touched Laura’s shoulder, and then went to wait outside with the guard.
“That’s awfully nice of him,” Joe said. “Did you ask him to offer me that job?”
“No, that was Sean’s idea,” Laura lied.
“You sure you or the kids wouldn’t feel weird about me working there? I mean, after everything that happened?”
“If we do, we’ll get over it—and so will you, I hope.”
He smiled nervously. “I have a Christmas present for you, too, something I’ve managed to hold on to . . .” He reached into his arm sling, then took out an envelope and a small package wrapped in paper with a holly design on it.
Laura laughed. “Well, you’ve got a great little hiding place there.”
Joe blushed. “Open it.”
Laura opened the envelope first, and saw on the back of the thin card that it was from a veterans’ charity, one of those freebee greeting card sets people get in the mail along with a donation request. There was a Currier and Ives illustration on front. Inside, Joe had written:
Merry X-Mas to Mrs. Gretchell
& All the Gretchells!
—Joe
“Thank you, Joe,” she said. “That’s very sweet.” She unwrapped the present, which was about as big as the palm of her hand. She opened the box and saw the star she’d given Joe on his eighth birthday. His class picture was still on the front—though faded. On the back, he’d written: TO MY FAVORITE TEACHER – MRS. G.
“I saved it,” he said.
Laura had tears in her eyes, but she was smiling. “I love it. Thank you, Joe.”
“Thank you,” he said. He reached over and touched her hand for a moment. Then he shyly pulled away again. “I guess I didn’t get too many good breaks. But you were there for me, Mrs. Gretchell.”
“I wish I could have done more,” Laura said. “Maybe it would have made a difference in your life. Maybe you wouldn’t have ended up here . . .”
“Like I told you, it’s not so bad,” he said. “Besides, I could have ended up being just like Vic—if you hadn’t saved me. I’m a lot better off, Mrs. Gretchell. You made all the difference.”
Laura reached over and took his hand in hers.
Joe nodded. “Sometimes, all it takes is one really good teacher.”
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