by Chris Mooney
“I’m not following.”
“Terry’s group hated Jonah because they knew he granted forgiveness to women who had had abortions. Jonah represented—and I’m quoting here—‘the continuing moral decay of the Catholic Church.’ They believed Jonah had no business being a priest, so what this group did was pin the disappearance of the three girls on him.”
Wait. Was Ferrell saying Jonah was innocent? That couldn’t be right.
Mike said, “Merrick found the items underneath the floorboard in Jonah’s bedroom. He found audiotapes.”
“Terry planted all of it,” Ferrell said. “And Lundi planted the jacket on the cross. It was pure coincidence that Jonah walked around the top of the hill that night, but it didn’t matter if he found the jacket or if someone else did. When the jacket was found, you would ID it, and then the police would head straight to Jonah’s and put him under the microscope again.”
Jonah’s voice from the night he had called: I’m going to die in peace. You’re not going to take that away from me. Not you, not the police, not the press. You stay away from me or this time I’ll send you to rot in jail.
“So why go through all this when Jonah was already dying?” Ferrell said. “They wanted to prolong his suffering. Jonah admitted to Terry that he was terrified of dying alone in a jail cell. All he wanted was to live out the last part of his life in peace, to die in his home. When it didn’t look like the police were going to arrest Jonah, Terry and Lundi concocted the idea of burning him. Of course, Lundi knew the police would start an investigation, so they had to pin it on someone.”
“Lou,” Mike said.
“You got it. Lundi knew your old man was poking around Jonah’s house, so Lundi set him up. It was Lundi who was waiting behind the shed that night, Lundi who threw the Molotov cocktail. Lundi drops your old man’s lighter and some cigarette butts and guess who the police are going to nail to the wall? We’ve already contacted your father’s lawyer.”
Mike’s attention was still focused on Jonah. “So Jonah was …” He couldn’t get the words out.
Ferrell nodded. “Innocent. His suicide was staged. Terry loaded him up on morphine, and Lundi slung Jonah over his shoulder—not hard to do since Jonah was so emaciated at this point. Police come in, find the tape with your daughter’s voice on it, do their work and find the single ligature mark around Jonah’s neck and given Jonah’s history, it looks like they have a suicide on their hands. Case closed. The extra morphine in his system didn’t raise any red flags because Jonah was using it to treat his cancer.”
Then Mike remembered Terry’s words about Jonah: When the rope was slipped around his neck, he didn’t fight it because he knew he had sinned by forgiving those murdering whores. He will face God’s punishment because God’s punishment is swift.
Mike pictured Jonah struggling against the noose tightening around his neck as the knowledge of what had really happened to him screamed inside his head. Mike tried to imagine how Jonah confronted that last moment of his life.
Only God knows what is true.
Innocent. All this time Jonah had been innocent. All this time he had been telling the truth.
And I tried to kill him—twice.
Mike felt a cold sweat break across his skin.
Ferrell said, “They made this poor son of a bitch suffer right up until the very end. When Lundi fitted the noose around Jonah’s neck, Lundi confessed to Jonah what they had done to him and then kicked him off the stump. It’s all detailed in the emails between Terry and Lundi.”
Ferrell’s cell phone rang.
“This whole operation is so amazingly simple it borders on brilliant. Excuse me for a moment,” he said and then walked over to the far corner of the room, Mike watching as the agent pressed the phone against his ear and spoke in whispers.
Only God knows what is true.
Mike’s eyes felt heavy. He shut them and kept himself awake by focusing on the agent’s voice, the clicking of his shoes. They were going to find Sarah. Mike knew that. No God would bring him this far, this close, only to make her disappear again. God wouldn’t be that cruel twice.
Mike fell asleep.
“Mr. Sullivan?”
The FBI agent’s voice. Mike opened his eyes and saw that the room was dark.
“I just got the word,” Ferrell said, and broke into a smile. “We’ve got her. We’ve found your daughter.”
Faraway, So Close
CHAPTER 51
I’m not one of those, you know, nature dudes, but even I appreciate a view like this.”
Bill was right. The view was impressive. Everywhere you looked were valleys of blooming trees. The Vermont farmhouse, with its sprawling maze of rooms, was completely isolated. It was a safe house, Special Agent Mark Ferrell had explained, a place generally used as a temporary shelter before people were placed into the Witness Protection Program. With the media frenzy surrounding Sarah’s story, the FBI thought it would be better to have the reunion here, someplace without cameras and microphones, give Sarah some time to adjust.
Behind him, coming from inside the house, a phone rang. Mike whipped his head around and through the windows saw Agent Ferrell walking across the hardwood floor as he talked on a cell phone. The woman dressed in the black suit was the child psychologist, Tina Davis. Mike had spent yesterday afternoon and a good portion of last night talking with Davis, listening as she explained how to approach Sarah, what to expect.
The most important person in all of this is Sarah, Dr.Davis emphasized. She’s going to be very confused right away. There’s a lot she has to adjust to: that her parents are alive, that you and your wife are divorced. She may even be angry. She may not want to talk. That’s all normal. The Myer family has been very good to her.
The Myer family. Catholic, no children, Dina Myer unable to conceive and unable to afford adoption, Dina and Albert Myer part of Terry Russell’s radical pro-life group. It was the lead story on every news program, every newspaper—and, according to Ferrell, was only going to get bigger. Mike couldn’t absorb what was going on; he couldn’t imagine how Sarah was dealing with all of this.
Bill said, “You talk to Jess yet?”
“Not yet.” Jess had been halfway through her twenty-four-hour flight to Australia when the news about Sarah broke. When the plane touched down, the Australian police came on board and explained the situation. Right now Jess was on a flight back home. Her plane was due to touch down sometime later tonight.
Mike’s cell phone rang. He was keeping it on in case Jess decided to call.
It was Sam’s office number.
Nancy Childs came on the line: “How you feeling, Daddy?”
“Excited. Terrified. You name it.”
“It’s all going to work out.”
“That’s what they keep telling me.”
“It will. Now, as I’m sure you’re aware of, this thing you’ve uncovered is huge. You’re going to be inundated with phone calls—Oprah, Diane Sawyer, literary agents wanting to tell your story and sell it as a movie of the week. My advice is to get a media rep to handle all of this so you can focus your attention on your daughter. I’ve got the name of one who’s excellent. Her name is Lucy Waters. I’ll have her call you later on your cell. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine. Nancy, I want to thank you—”
“I kept digging because you asked me to. Everyone, including myself, told you to quit and let her go, but you didn’t. You, Mr. Sullivan, kept on believing, so if you want to thank someone, go look in a mirror.”
“Can’t let a man get a word in, can you?”
“Another thing Sam and I have in common. Speaking of which, here she is. Hold on.”
Sam came on the line: “I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to tell you how happy I am for you.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks, Sam. For everything.”
The back door opened and Agent Ferrell stepped out, his suit and tie gone, replaced by jeans, a white shirt and a
fleece vest.
Mike said, “I’ve got to run. Can I call you later?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Neither am I,” Mike said. He thanked her again and hung up.
Ferrell was smiling this morning, his blue eyes bright and unclouded. Mike liked Ferrell. No question seemed too stupid or too repetitive. The first two days, Mike kept asking, between Ferrell’s questions, “You’re sure the girl you found is Sarah? You don’t have any doubts?” and Ferrell would always flash a smile and then reaffirm what he knew: There’s no question it’s your daughter. We matched her fingerprints, and as we like to say, fingerprints don’t lie.
Still, Mike felt that creeping fear bleed back into him. I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan, but there’s been a mistake. And then they would drive him back to Belham, back to his empty house where the reporters would be waiting, and he would get up in front of those microphones and have to say, Sorry, this was all just a big misunderstanding.
“Your daughter’s en route,” Ferrell said. “She’ll be here in an hour. Mr.O’Malley, you understand that—”
“I know, strictly family, we don’t want to confuse her because she’s going to be confused enough. Dr. Hot Legs in there already gave me the four-one-one.”
“Car’s waiting for you out front,” Ferrell said, then turned his attention to Mike. “Dr. Davis would like to speak to you, go over a few things before your daughter gets here.”
Your daughter.
Sarah was on her way here.
To see him.
To come home.
And the joy filled Mike up to the point where he thought he was going to burst.
With the joy came a new set of fears.
“What if she doesn’t recognize me?” Mike asked Dr. Davis.
“She might not at first. She was six when she was taken.”
“And a half.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sarah was six and a half when she was taken.”
Dr. Davis smiled. She seemed genuinely empathetic to the situation and wanted to help. Mike found himself wanting to open up to her, put his heart on the table and dissect it—anything she wanted.
They were sitting in the living room, Dr. Davis in a chair facing a window overlooking the long, winding driveway. Mike sat on a couch, leaning forward and rubbing his hands between his knees as he stared at the floor.
“How many memories do you have from when you were six?” she asked.
Mike could only cough up fragments: wandering across the street to the neighbor’s yard; getting into a rowboat with Lou; arguing with his mother at a store, wanting two coloring books instead of one.
“Sarah may have memories of you and your wife, but they’re most likely buried,” she said. “But that’s temporary. These memories will come back to her, but you’ll have to give it some time. What Sarah’s going through right now is very traumatic. She was brainwashed—all those kids were. That’s why this group only took young children. Sarah was told by Dina and Albert Myer that you and your wife died. She’s living with a new family in a new country and then, out of nowhere, the police barge in and take her away. Not only does Sarah find out that you and your wife are alive, she also finds out that the Myer family kidnapped her. It’s possible Sarah overheard bits and pieces about the Myers being a part of this radical Christian group. In any case, it’s a lot to absorb. And Sarah may not want to absorb it right now. That’s okay. Remember how you felt when you found out the news of your mother.”
Mike nodded. He had told Dr. Davis all of it yesterday.
“What if she wants to go back to them?”
“That’s not going to happen,” she said. “They’re going to jail.”
“But she may want to go back to them. It’s possible, right?” Mike raised his eyes to hers.
“You’re her father,” Dr. Davis said, her tone gentle but firm. “Nothing is going to change that fact. Yes, there will be some bumps along the way. Yes, there may be times when you get frustrated and angry at the unfairness of what has happened. But it will work out. She’s coming up on twelve. She’s still young. You can still have a childhood with her. You have time. That’s a gift that some of the other families don’t have. Remember that.”
Mike thought of Ashley Giroux in her late twenties, a graduate student living in Italy; Caroline Lenville was in her forties, married with two kids, living a mile down the road from her adoptive—was that even the right word?—family in New Brunswick, Canada. Would he rather be in that position, trying to reconnect with an adult?
“They’re here,” Dr. Davis said.
Mike turned and saw two black Lincolns came to a stop in the driveway.
He stood up, his heart pumping so fast he was sure it was going to quit on him. He could see the headline now: FATHER OF MISSING GIRL REUNITED ONLY TO DROP DEAD OF A HEART ATTACK.
Why was he so scared? He had prayed for this moment how many thousands of times, and now it was here, right in front of him, just beyond the front door, and his skin was clammy, his stomach doing double flips.
Deep, slow breaths. It was going to be fine. It was going to work out.
“Mr. Sullivan?”
Mike wiped the sweat away from his forehead. He tested his legs. A little wobbly, but okay.
“You’re her father. Don’t forget that.”
And with that Mike opened the door to meet his daughter.
CHAPTER 52
Sarah was tall—much taller than he had imagined.
And thin—not from lack of food but from all the growing she was doing.
Her glasses were gone.
So was the pigtail. Her hair was cut short, shoulder-length, just as he imagined. Her hair was so blond, so fine, the sun made it seem white.
No earrings. No jewelry. She was very plainly dressed, jeans and white Keds, a pink, long-sleeve T-shirt with a small bow printed on the center.
What he loved most—what made him almost crumble right there in front of everyone—was seeing her face. He could still see the stubborn traces of the six-year-old girl who had refused to grab his hand that night on the hill.
Sarah stood among the three agents, her hands folded in front of her, her head bowed, staring at the tops of her sneakers. She was upset. When she knew she had done something wrong, she would bow her head and stare at her feet, the floor, anything to avoid looking in your eyes. Seeing her like this made him want to run over to her, grab her, hug her close, take the fear and pain and all the questions she carried in her eyes and transfer it to him—like he did when she was little, when she was his.
Only it wasn’t going to work that way.
Mike gripped the railing and took the steps one at a time, wanting a chance to absorb her but more afraid that if he moved any faster, he’d trip and crack his head open, have the reunion in a hospital room. When he stepped onto the gravel, he kept his hand on the railing, squeezing it.
Dr. Davis addressed the crowd: “Why don’t we give them some room.”
Everyone nodded and moved away, Sarah’s eyes coming up and tracking a chunky woman in jeans and a powder-blue shirt. Probably the psychologist, Mike thought. The woman had moved only a few feet, stopped, and leaned against the hood of the Lincoln.
Mike walked over to his daughter but didn’t get too close, wanting to give her some breathing room from all these eyes pinned on her—and him.
“Hi,” he said, pleased that his voice sounded confident, strong.
“Hi,” she said softly.
Hearing her voice for the first time made him want to reach out and touch her, make sure she was real.
“How was your ride?”
“Long,” she said quietly, her eyes still downcast, locked on her sneakers.
“You want to stretch out, go for a walk?”
Sarah’s gaze cut to Mike. Those eyes had once looked up from her crib into his, had once sought him out in their house, been excited to see him when he came home—these eyes he had helped create and shape now stared back
at him, studying him, wondering who he was.
Sarah, remember our last Christmas together, you were so excited that you came and woke me up at four and whispered in my ear, “He came, Daddy, Santa came again!” Remember how we didn’t want to wake Mom up so you and I went downstairs and made pancakes and burned them and you tried one and said yuck so you gave it to Fang? Remember how you don’t like olives but you always kept trying them and kept making that grossed-out face? Remember that Saturday morning when you brought all your dolls and stuffed animals downstairs into the TV room and seated them on the couch and then stood up on top of the coffee table because you thought it was a stage?
He had hundreds of little memories like that. But they didn’t mean anything right now. What she had were the memories from the Myer family—memories and stories and events he didn’t own.
Sarah remained quiet.
Tell me you remember, Sarah. Please.Give me something.
“I could use a walk,” Sarah said.
Behind the house were a barn and a stable for horses. No horses though. There was also what Mike believed to be a small skating rink. Sarah was eyeing it too, probably wondering the same thing.
As they walked down the slope,heading toward the trails, he debated whether he should talk first or wait for her to say something.Right now she seemed to be enjoying the peace and quiet. She probably hadn’t had much of it during the last few days, so he decided to wait for her to initiate the conversation.
Ten minutes passed, and then he decided he couldn’t bear the silence any longer.
“I know you’re probably very confused—maybe even scared. That’s okay. If you don’t want to talk, I understand. This is about you. What you’re feeling.”
Sarah didn’t nod, didn’t respond; she kept walking, eyes straight ahead. He wanted to take the ache he had been carrying inside him for these past five years and shape it with words she would understand, words that would form a bridge she could travel across, see the hell he had gone through.