“Every time?”
“Pretty much.” He gave her a hug. “I remind myself that he is dead and I am alive. We won that battle, Ginny.” He took a breath. “We can’t let what he did destroy our happiness. Marry me and live happily ever after.”
Ginny smiled, then sighed. “If I marry you, you won’t get much sleep.”
He leaned down, his mouth next to her ear. “If you marry me, I plan to make sure you get no sleep at all.”
His breath on her neck tickled and she started to giggle. He hugged her, kissing her ear and cheek and neck. She found herself laughing, relaxing in his arms.
He settled back against the headboard, pulling her with him, and sighed, a deep, masculine, comfortable sound.
“Dreams are the way our brains handle the things that happen to us,” he said. “They try to make sense of it all, to organize and file it away. We can help by calling up the images and assigning meanings to them.”
She could smell his skin, not fresh and scented as if he had just stepped out of the shower, the man himself. It surrounded her, warm and earthy and subtly sweet.
“The gunman is obvious. The threat was real and you know exactly what a bullet can do. You also know he is back in prison. Let’s try a little experiment. Shall we?”
Ginny nodded.
“Take a deep breath for me and hold it. Now visualize his face behind bars and let the breath out all the way. Feel satisfaction.” Jim’s voice was warm in her ear. “He’s no further threat. File it away.”
“Okay. Done.”
She closed her eyes and turned her head so she could rest her cheek on his chest. In this position she could hear his heart beating, calmly, steadily.
His voice was still warm, but softer, almost as if it was coming from farther away, but she could feel his breath on her cheek as he spoke.
“The chasm is a symbol. You must cross it to get on with your life, but you have no idea what will happen if you try.”
Ginny tensed. “I fall.”
He tightened his arms around her. “All humans dream of falling. It goes back to the time when we lived in trees. The symbol, the chasm, is using your survival instinct to keep you where you are. You must learn to ignore the symbol and concentrate on what’s on the other side.”
Jim was on the other side.
“Close your eyes. Now look at the cliff edge. You cannot fall because it isn’t real. Turn your back on it and walk away.”
Ginny pulled up the image of the cliff in her mind. She tried to turn away, but couldn’t. She suddenly felt as if she was plummeting into the darkness and started to shake.
“Stop.” Jim’s voice was warm in her ear, the command gentle and persuasive. “Stop falling. It’s not real. You’re standing on solid ground. Feel the earth beneath your feet. Look up, Ginny. Where am I?”
She swallowed. “On the other side.”
“Can you feel my arms?”
“Yes.”
“If my arms are around you, I must be on the same side you’re on.”
Ginny pulled in a breath, then nodded slowly.
“I have my arms around you. I’m here, with you. Can you see me?”
She was struggling. The image was fuzzy, but the sensation of his arms was strong.
“I can feel you.”
“I’m holding you. We’re both standing on solid ground. You are not falling.”
She sucked in a ragged breath. “I am not falling.”
“Turn your back on the cliff. We’ll walk away together.”
Ginny felt a shiver go through her body, but she was able to hang onto the image. She turned away from the cliff and into his arms. He bent down and planted a kiss on the top of her head.
“It’s not real, Ginny. I am.”
She let the warmth of his arms seep into her soul.
“I will protect you. I will take care of you. I love you.”
He must love her very much to work this hard to help her. And he had helped. The next time that cliff showed up, she had a plan for dealing with it. As long as she could feel his arms around her, she could face it. She relaxed against him, yawning.
“Do you think you can go back to sleep?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Then you should. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
He helped her settle down, then turned off the light and closed the door behind him. This time there was no sensation of being deserted.
* * *
Chapter 22
Friday Morning
I-81, headed northeast
Jim stashed his overnight bag in the SUV while Ginny climbed into the passenger side seat. Charlie had settled into the back, his eyes alert, his expression relaxed. He almost looked as if he was enjoying himself.
“What did she say?” Ginny asked.
“She loved it.”
Their hostess gift this time had been a large box of pecan pralines and an assortment of jalapeno suckers for the youngsters. Jim handed Ginny another cup of coffee then climbed behind the wheel of the SUV.
The highway department had had a full day to plow and the conditions were passable. The sun was out and the temperature already above freezing.
The shorter route, I-95, would dump them smack into D.C. traffic, so Jim had decided to use Interstate 81, which took them first into Staunton, Virginia, a picturesque little town on the edge of the George Washington and Jefferson National Forests. He found a gas station and pulled in to top off the tank and give everyone a chance to stock up on edibles before starting the long drive north.
He’d been thinking quite a bit about the possibility of being pulled over by the police, either on the Virginia border, as part of a search for the escaped convicts, or as a result of the investigation into Charlie’s movements.
Jim had no idea how they were going to avoid an eventual charge of aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice, but, just in case, he needed to be ready to hide Charlie and make sure the car could be searched. That meant disposing of the hijacker’s weapon.
He pulled the car around to the side of the station, then slipped on a pair of gloves and reached into Charlie’s overnight bag to retrieve the weapon. It was clearly not a gun he would want. The serial number had been filed off and there were spots of rust on the contact surfaces. So he wouldn’t feel any regret at what he planned to do.
He disassembled the weapon, dropping each piece in a separate baggie, then did the same with the magazine and ammunition. That left him with six baggies of gun parts.
He located Ginny’s cleaning solution and poured some of the ammonia-based liquid into each bag and finished by scooping a handful of snow in on top of that. It made a blue slush that felt oddly toxic in his hand. He carefully closed each baggie and stashed them in the storage compartment between the two front seats. He planned to drop them in six different garbage cans between here and the border. The first should be in Staunton, but not at the same place where his credit card would show they stopped for gas.
When the other two got back to the car, Jim explained his plan. Charlie’s face took on a hard edge when he heard.
“You don’t trust me with a gun.”
“I don’t trust the state police to believe it’s not your gun if it’s found in your possession. We’re trying to make sure they don’t think you and I are the other two escaped convicts, remember?”
Charlie relaxed. “Right. Okay. So what do we do?”
“I want you to drive until we get almost to the Virginia border, then Ginny.”
“What’s gonna happen at the border?”
“Nothing, I hope, but if they’ve set up a road block, that’s where it will be.”
“How are we going to find out?” Ginny asked.
“The phone. We can see if there are stopped vehicles on the roadway.”
She nodded. “Okay. So, first stop, a likely looking dumpster in Staunton. There must be a low rent district in this town. Let’s go find it.”
They did, then repeated this
plan in Harrisonburg, New Market, Mount Jackson, and Woodstock, being careful not to leave fingerprints on any of the deposits.
Winchester was the last town in Virginia on Highway 81. They disposed of their last baggie of contraband, then found a comfortable café and had lunch. They checked the image of the state line just north of Winchester and found a string of cars stopped on I-81.
“We’ll have to find another way.”
The three of them bent their heads over the device.
“How about over here?” Charlie pointed to a series of back roads that wound along a creek bed. “They won’t have plowed this section.”
Jim nodded, zooming in for a closer look. “They may have barriers in place.”
“We can go around those. The SUV can handle off road.”
“Okay. We’ll have to move over to 11 here, then pick up the backroad, then take our chances on running into someone who wants to know why we’re off the highway.”
“I need a fishing pole,” Charlie said.
“What?”
“No one questions a man with a fishing pole. It’s obvious what he’s doing and that nice little creek probably has good eating in it.”
Ginny nodded. “We need to get you a better coat, anyway. Let’s find a sporting goods store.”
As it turned out, they had no trouble outfitting Charlie in waders, a winter weight jacket and a pole and gear suitable for fishing an icy stream along the Virginia/West Virginia line. They loaded their gear in the car and headed off.
* * *
Friday Morning
Waco, TX
Detective Tran looked around the restaurant and approved Mr. Gibson‘s choice. It had taken her the full two hours to drive to Waco for this meeting, and would take her two more to drive back to Dallas, but she had decided it would be worth it. Failing an opportunity to ask Mr. Monroe himself where he had been while the man who destroyed his family had ceased to be a serial killer and become a body in a boat, she needed to speak with anyone who might be able to fill in the gaps.
The warrants on Mr. Monroe had come back promptly, allowing her to search his house, and financial and phone records. The credit cards indicated a trip to Waco that covered the time in question and the call records showed him contacting his former in-laws. She could have questioned them via phone or computer link, but if what she suspected was true, and he had visited them before he skipped town, they might know something they didn’t know they knew. She wanted to see their faces.
“Mr. and Mrs. Gibson.” She held out her hand then took the seat indicated. “First, please accept my condolences on the loss of your daughter and granddaughters. It is a terrible tragedy.”
Mrs. Gibson nodded, unable to answer, but Mr. Gibson did.
“Thank you. We’re still trying to wrap our heads around it.” He reached over and took his wife’s hand.
“Was she your only child?”
“No, there’s another girl, Patsy. She’s in Houston.”
“I am so sorry to bring up the subject, but I need your help finding Mr. Monroe—Charlie.”
Mr. Gibson nodded. “When the police called, they told us he was missing. That’s why we’re here. That’s a very nice young man. I would really hate it if something happened to him, too.”
“They told you it looks like a boating accident?”
Mr. Gibson nodded.
“What we are trying to do is reconstruct his movements up until the time he disappeared.” Tran pulled out her notebook and opened it to a fresh page. “His records indicate he came to visit you three weeks ago.”
Mrs. Gibson nodded. “That’s right. He brought us some things that belonged to Mandy, and pictures of the girls.”
“Please forgive me, but I have to ask. Did he seem depressed to you?”
They both nodded.
“He was saying things. It was as if he didn’t expect to ever see us again.” Mrs. Gibson put her hand on her husband’s arm, then looked over at Tran. “We told him how we felt about him, like a son. We loved him that much. We asked him to stay with us, and he did, for a few days.”
“He was at your house?”
“Yes. We talked almost the whole weekend, late into the night. I made up the couch for him, but I don’t think he actually slept. He had breakfast with us on Monday morning, then excused himself, saying he was going to try to catch some shut eye at the hotel.”
“You did not spend Monday together?”
“I had to go back to work,” Mr. Gibson said.
“Yes,” Mrs. Gibson said. “But he came to dinner that night and we spent Tuesday together, going through—”
Mr. Gibson finished for her. “Going through Mandy’s things. He picked out a few to take back with him.”
“Was he still here Tuesday night?”
Mrs. Gibson nodded. “Yes. He was planning to leave, but I had called Patsy and arranged for her to have dinner with us on Wednesday. She especially wanted to see him and we talked him into staying one more night.”
Mr. Gibson nodded. “I’m off on Wednesday. No classes. So I could come and be with him and Martha. I wanted to be there on Tuesday, but I couldn’t break away.”
“When did he arrive in Waco, can you recall?”
“Saturday, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Gibson looked at her husband.
He nodded. “Yes. We had dinner that night at the club, then took him to church with us the following morning.”
“That’s right.” Mrs. Gibson’s expression cleared, then clouded again. “That was hard on him.” She looked over at Tran. “They were married in that church.”
Tran set her notepad down and folded her hands, softening her body language. “We think there is a possibility it was not an accident.”
Mrs. Gibson looked Tran in the face, unsurprised. “Suicide, you mean.”
Tran nodded. She described the scene in the park.
“Oh! How horrible! Annie’s birthday, of course!”
“But someone stopped him. They put him in the hospital?” Mr. Gibson asked.
Tran nodded. “He was evaluated and released on medication.”
“He shouldn’t have been left alone,” Mr. Gibson said.
“Are you familiar with the Scottish community in Dallas?”
“Loch Lonach? Yes, of course.” Mrs. Gibson nodded.
“Angus Mackenzie accepted responsibility for Monroe’s safety. We think Monroe—Charlie—slipped away from his escort the night he went fishing.”
“You think he might have drowned himself.” Mr. Gibson’s face was grave with the implications.
“Except, we have not found his body, or a suicide note. It is also possible he hit his head and has wandered off. Or there may be another explanation.”
“You’ll tell us, if you hear anything?”
“I will.”
“Send him to us,” Mr. Gibson said. “We’ll make sure he gets the care he needs. If you find him.”
“When,” Mrs. Gibson corrected.
Mrs. Gibson stood up and the other two followed suit. “We’ll be praying for his safe return. You let us know if there’s anything we can do.”
“Thank you very much for your time. I will be in touch.”
Detective Tran settled down behind the wheel and headed back toward the freeway, turning the interview over in her mind.
The credit card records indicated four nights in the hotel, Saturday afternoon through Wednesday morning, which corroborated what the Gibsons had told her. There were also receipts for restaurant meals. She would compare those to the notes she had taken about the meals supplied by Mrs. Gibson. She should also check purchases of gas and cross-reference them with date/time stamps and mileage on the car, also any calls he may have made.
If there was no discrepancy, she could probably accept the story as true. Which would leave her with a very big question. If Charlie Monroe wasn’t responsible for that man’s death, who was?
* * *
Friday Afternoon
I-81, headed north
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br /> Jim took over the driving, happy to find the SUV had better traction than the van. As expected, the roads were covered in ice and snow, the conditions muddy and treacherous, and warnings had been posted, along with a few barriers, suggesting that reasonable caution included turning around and going home.
They slid their way through all of these, arriving on the West Virginia side without encountering a living soul. At that point 671 turned into West Virginia Route 28, though the road conditions did not improve, and they were able to follow 28 into Inwood, WV, then get back on I-81, headed north. All three breathed a sigh of relief.
An hour and a half later they were in Harrisburg, PA. They paused long enough to fill the gas tank and pick up some drinks, then got back on the highway.
The plan was still to make Albany before the gates closed. They pushed through the long hours, sharing the driving, and keeping a close eye on the weather. The day had gone surprisingly well and Jim was beginning to get his hopes up.
They were only twenty minutes south of Albany when they got stuck. The snow wasn’t the problem this time. This time it was the wind.
* * *
Chapter 23
Friday Night
New York state
The night had settled around them soon after leaving Harrisburg. In Scranton, they topped off the tank again and grabbed burgers to go. Charlie had curled up in the back and gone to sleep. Ginny had done the same in the front passenger seat, leaving Jim alone with the cold night air.
Snow was still falling. New Yorkers were used to this sort of thing in February, but Jim was not. His shoulders ached from the constant tension and his eyes burned from too little sleep.
By ten p.m., Jim was wondering if he should give up trying to get to the Homestead and find a hotel instead. But, the traffic was still getting through and the best strategy seemed to be to keep going.
He had planned to turn east on the Berkshire Connector to cross the Hudson River south of Albany, then head north, which would put them on the correct side of the river as they approached the Albany Homestead.
He made the exit and headed toward the Castleton-on-Hudson Bridge, noticing there were cars on the side of the road and people walking toward him along the verge. He was stopped before he could see what the problem was. A man in uniform approached, indicating he should roll down his window.
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