Deadly Holidays Read online

  "Oh, God."

  "Sorry, Blake. The car's license plate checks out to Eve Isaac. The coroner is the only one who can say for sure, but I think it's them."

  "Thanks, Lance." Blake disconnected the call and sat stunned for a couple of minutes. He thought of Jennifer and how much he didn't want her to hear about this from the media. He dialed home and waited for her to answer.

  "Hi, I was just thinking of you,” said Jennifer. “When are you coming home for dinner?"

  "Soon, honey. I'm coming right home," Blake said, then added, "Please do something for me and don't ask why. Turn off your laptop and television. I'll be right there."

  "Sure. Just come home to me."

  <><><>

  Blake could see Jennifer waiting for him, leaning against the frame of the front door, when he pulled into the driveway. He turned off the car's engine, got out of the car and trudged through the snow to the front porch, where his very pregnant wife flew into his arms. Blake buried his face into her neck, inhaling the clean scent of her perfume. At this stage of her pregnancy, he should be bringing her only happy news. What he had to tell her was anything but happy. If he had a choice, he'd not tell her at all. The news media took that choice away from him. It was better he was the one to tell her that Eve and John Isaac were dead.

  Blake kissed Jennifer softly on the lips and said, "Let's go inside. You'll catch cold out here." He led her inside, closed the door and took off his coat, tossing it across a chair. Joining Jennifer in the living room, he sat next to her on the sofa, with his arm draped around her shoulders. She cuddled closer to him and they sat in silence for a short time, watching the snow falling outside the window.

  Finally, Jennifer kissed him and said, "Tell me. What's happened?"

  "We'll probably never know what really happened, but at some point after John Isaac's hearing, he and Eve ended up in her Firebird. They drove out of town and got on Covered Bridge Road, then drove off the bridge into the Wabash River. My dive team has been out there all morning. Lance just called me with their identifications. They're both dead." Blake tightened his arms around Jennifer as she buried her face against his chest. He softly stroked her hair until she straightened to look at him. Her face was very pale, and she had an odd expression on her face.

  "She was right. She knew this would happen, and I didn't believe her," said Jennifer, as a lone tear streamed down her cheek and neck.

  "What are you talking about?" He wiped at the tear on her cheek with his thumb.

  "Eve Isaac paid me a visit a few weeks ago. She told me she wouldn't live past the hearing."

  "She couldn't have known that."

  "Yes, I believe she did know exactly that," Jennifer began. "There's more, Blake."

  The last thing Blake wanted was for his pregnant wife to get upset, and she was looking more distraught by the second. She'd lost a baby five years ago. Jennifer couldn't lose this one. "Let's talk about this later. I'll go make dinner. Let's just relax for a while."

  "This can't wait. There is something you should know. Eve gave this to me." Jennifer pulled out an envelope from the end table drawer and handed it to Blake. "Open it."

  He opened the envelope and read the contents. Eve Isaac had prepared all the legal paperwork necessary for them to adopt her son. She was begging them to adopt Shawn. Blake's thoughts raced. Adopt Shawn? He loved the little boy and nothing would please him more than to be able to provide a good home to Shawn. But the timing was not good. Jennifer was due to give birth any day. Was this too much to take on right now?

  Blake glanced at Jennifer, but couldn't read her expression. "Honey, I don't know..."

  "What don't you know?" asked Jennifer.

  "I'm not sure the timing is good for us to adopt Shawn."

  His statement aroused and infuriated her. "I don't imagine the timing was great for Shawn to have to testify against his own father. I'll just bet the timing is off for this five-year-old to lose both his parents."

  "Jennifer..."

  She moved from the sofa to the window. "Don't ‘Jennifer’ me! If you don't think I can handle having a baby and caring for a five-year-old, you don't know me very well. You know my past. The past five years haven't exactly been a walk in the park for me." She paused, then continued. "I got pregnant by a man who didn't want the baby, abducted by a maniac and was nearly killed, lost my baby boy, got my degree, joined law enforcement, got promoted to detective, and shot and killed a serial killer. I survived all that. Do you really think I can't handle this?"

  Blake motioned for her to sit back on the sofa next to him; she indicated her refusal by shaking her head. "Honey,” Blake said, “the doctor told you to stay calm."

  "Stop telling me to stay calm,” Jennifer retorted. “I need for you to know how I feel. It is more than the fact I made a promise to Eve. I love that little boy. I loved Shawn even before he chose you to be his mentor for the Buddy Program. Every time you brought him home to play ball, watch TV or cook, I didn't want him to leave,” she said. “He is the most amazing little boy. He's smart and funny and my heart melts every time he throws his little arms around me for a hug. I love the way he hangs on every word when I read him a story. I love the way he looks at you, like you're his hero. He needs a hero in his life. Shawn needs a mom and dad who are going to love him with all the love they have, who will protect him and keep him safe. He's never had that, Blake. He's been ignored and abused for most of his life. We can change all that. I want him to be our son and our baby's big brother. I think you want the same. Don't you, Blake?"

  Wordlessly, Blake walked across the room to gather his coat and gloves.

  Tears blinding her eyes and choking her voice, Jennifer asked, "Where are you going? We need to talk about this."

  "I'm going back out to look for our son and bring him home."

  <><><>

  December 22

  Though his original plan was to talk to Cheryl, Shawn's former babysitter, Blake decided to go to Eve's apartment to check for Shawn. What could a babysitter, who probably hadn't seen Shawn for months, tell him, anyway?

  One of the deputies had already been to Eve's apartment, but Shawn could have returned there in the meantime. It was worth a look. Blake fingered the key that Eve's mother had given him, pulled it out of his pocket, pushed it in the lock and twisted. The door opened into a room darkened by heavy curtains. Inching his way into the room, Blake found a lamp and turned it on. A worn brown sofa was pushed against one wall. Across from it was a white Formica table holding a small television. Nothing else. That was the only furniture in the room.

  Something was off. He walked around the room until he figured out what his instincts told him was odd. He realized there were no toys in the room — no games, puzzles, miniature race cars, toy soldiers or any other toy. If you made a judgment based on the living room, a small boy didn't live here. But Shawn did.

  With barely enough room for one person to turn around, the kitchen was small by any standards. Other than a few dirty dishes in the sink, the kitchen was fairly clean. Opening the refrigerator door, Blake found it almost empty, except for a half-filled jar of peanut butter, a nearly empty jar of strawberry jam, and a six-pack of beer. On top was a plastic bag with four slices of white bread. He prayed that it had been grocery day and this wasn't the way Eve and Shawn lived, with not enough food to feed one person, let alone a young woman and her child.

  Blake noticed a basket of dirty laundry sitting on top of the washer and pulled some folded bags out of his back pocket. Wearing latex gloves, he sifted through the clothing until he found three of Shawn's shirts that he carefully placed in each of three paper evidence bags. Lane and Frankie were organizing a big community search for Shawn, and their search-and-rescue dog, Hunter, would need the little boy's scent.

  He walked to the back of the apartment to check the bedrooms. Pink gingham curtains lined Eve's bedroom window, and an old-fashioned chenille bedspread with pink flowers covered her full-sized bed. In her closet hung a couple
of waitress uniforms, a couple of jackets, two dresses and a few blouses. Folded neatly on an upper shelf were some jeans and sweaters. Only a pair of boots lay on the closet floor. There was no small, five-year-old boy in the closet, nor was he hiding under the bed.

  In Shawn's room, Blake's intuitive radar went off. The room was too clean and tidy. What little boy has a room completely devoid of anything on the walls, with only a few toys neatly arranged on a small bookcase? When Blake was a kid, his toys, much to his mother's dismay, could be found in every room of the house. One never knew when the need for imaginative play might kick in and where you'd be when it happened.

  Like Eve's, Shawn's bed was neatly made, with a plain white bedspread covering his bed. What mother in her right mind chose a white bedspread for an active little boy? When he opened his closet door, he found Shawn's clothing neatly folded or hung. Nothing was out of place — which he found to be the most odd.

  Blake looked under Shawn's bed and found nothing. Under Shawn's pillow was the first evidence of normalcy in the room, a flashlight and a worn encyclopedia. The discovery made him smile, but feel sad at the same time. Shawn loved to read, and often dragged Blake to the library on his Buddy Program mentoring days. Shawn would race to the children's section and sit cross-legged on the floor with a half-dozen books around him. He was just learning to read and was fascinated with words and pictures. Blake wondered then, as he wondered now, why Shawn always refused to get a library card so he could check out books to take home. Blake picked up the encyclopedia and opened the cover. Scrawled in child's handwriting was the name Billy Collins, the son of the babysitter. So Shawn did have a close friend. Blake headed for the door to pay a visit to Cheryl and Billy Collins.

  <><><>

  Anne bit her lip and stared at the ceiling as her gynecologist, Dr. Emily Sands, poked and prodded her breast.

  "Okay, Anne, you can sit up now."

  "Did you feel the lump?"

  "Yes, I did. Our next step will to be to get some tests to determine if your lump is a mass or a harmless, fluid-filled cyst," Dr. Sands began. "Get dressed and meet me in my office so we can talk."

  Once her doctor left the room, Anne's eyes blurred with unshed tears as she fought the fear battering her insides. Please don't let it be cancer. Please don't let it be cancer. She had to stay strong. Anne had two small children and a husband who loved her and depended on her. She didn't even have a final diagnosis, and she was already thinking about dying.

  In her doctor's office, Anne listened as Dr. Sands explained. "My nurse has arranged for you to go from here to the new diagnostic center across from the hospital. The technicians there will do an ultrasound exam. It's a painless, radiation-free way to determine if your lump is a mass. Very likely, it is a fluid-filled cyst, but this exam will tell us definitively what it is."

  "What happens next?" asked Anne.

  "If your lump is a cyst, testing stops there, because there is nothing to fear," she paused for a second, and then continued. "If it is determined that your lump is not a cyst, it still could be any number of non-cancerous lesions."

  Anne swallowed hard and asked, "What if it is cancer?"

  "Even if your lump is cancer, Anne, that doesn't mean it's a death sentence — not with new technology and medical research discoveries."

  "When will you have the results?"

  "Since it's the holiday season, that's tough to predict. But as soon as I have the results, I'll contact you, I promise."

  <><><>

  Behind the Women's Center was a small park with benches surrounding a small pond. Though the temperature had warmed up since the previous day, scattered flurries were moving through the area. Sitting on a park bench with her arms crossed, Anne tried to give herself a pep talk as she waited to leave for her ultrasound appointment. She'd decided not to tell her husband about the lump, nor the testing. It would ruin Michael's holiday, she reasoned. There was no good reason to do that. Anne could get through this alone. She'd been through worse things and survived. She would this time, too. If Anne had to pretend that everything was fine to keep the holidays joyous for her husband, children and friends, then that is what she'd do.

  A woman with long blonde hair in a camel wrap coat plopped down next to her on the bench. She had a tissue pressed to her nose, and she was crying.

  "Frankie?"

  "Oh my God, Anne, I prayed it was you sitting on this bench. If ever I needed my best friend, it's today," she sobbed.

  "What happened? Why are you so upset?"

  "I just found out I'm pregnant. I can't believe it. I'm pregnant. Talk about the worst timing in history."

  "Oh, Frankie, that is such wonderful news! You and Lane always wanted another child."

  "But not now! Thanks to the rotten economy, my private investigation business has almost slowed down to a standstill. Our budget is so tight; Lane's taken a second job." Frankie wiped at her tears and blew her nose.

  "Maybe a baby won't be as expensive as you think. I mean, if you have a girl, she can wear some of the clothes that Ashley's grown out of. If it's a boy, I still have Michael Jr.'s baby clothes," Anne said as she wrapped her arm around Frankie's shoulders. "Lane has great insurance through the sheriff's office."

  "I suppose."

  "What does Lane think about the new baby?

  "I just found out, and I don't know how to tell him. In fact, I dread telling him. First, he's working two jobs because of my business, and now I'm pregnant." She tucked the used tissue into her purse and looked at Anne.

  "What are you doing at the women's clinic? And why are you out here on this bench in the cold?"

  Anne looked down at her gloved hands, trying to think of what she could say.

  "Oh, my God. You're pregnant too, aren't you?" Frankie wrapped her arm around her friend and said, "I'm so happy for you and Michael. You always said you wanted another baby when the twins were older."

  "No, Frankie. I'm not pregnant." Sadly, Anne looked out over the pond, then back at her friend.

  "Something's wrong. I can see it in your expression. Tell me. Friends don't keep secrets from friends."

  "I have a lump in my breast," Anne blurted out as tears welled in her eyes. "My doctor just confirmed it. And I have to..." Remembering her appointment, she glanced at her watch. "I have to go. I have an appointment at the diagnostic center by the hospital."

  Frankie stood up and extended her hand to Anne. "What a coincidence. I do, too."

  "What?"

  "You don't think I'm letting you go alone, do you?"

  <><><>

  In his driveway, Tim Brennan sat in his car, finishing up a call to Lane Hansen. "Before you go to the community search for Shawn Isaac, send a deputy to the house of each registered sexual predator in the county. We're covering all our bases to find this kid."

  Tim disconnected the call and put his cell phone back in his pocket. He leaned back in his seat and studied every detail of his home. He and Megan had fallen in love with the pink Victorian house the first year of their marriage. Megan's inheritance from her grandparents and his working double, sometimes triple shifts, enabled them to purchase the home and move in on Christmas Day that first year.

  Built in 1900, the "Pink Lady" was three stories, with five bedrooms and three baths. A single-story, columned front porch held a white wicker swing, chair, loveseat and tables. He smiled as he remembered the many hot summer nights he'd wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders as they would swing and talk. Above the porch, a balcony perched outside their bedroom, outlined with a decorative railing. A round tower on the left side of the house rose three stories, where it peaked with a "witch's cap." Up front and center was a beautiful, oval, stained-glass window.

  The house was the object of many a curious Sunday driver, but to Tim it was the home where he and Megan had made a life that included raising his only daughter. His plan for its future was to fill it with as many grandchildren and friends’ children as he could.

  But his plans
could change very soon if Megan had her way. She wanted to transform the house into a bed and breakfast. They'd spent many a meal discussing the pros and cons of the plan, with Megan emphasizing the financial rewards that could enhance their retirement. He tried his best to be open to the idea, but wasn't quite ready to fully support it. The home was his heart. Even a hard-nosed sheriff clung to the many memories the house held for him. Tim was not sure he could share it with strangers.

  Waiting inside was an architect who had plans to renovate the second floor so that each guest bedroom had its own bath. He'd promised Megan he'd discuss the plans. So he took a deep breath, opened his car door, and headed inside.

  <><><>