“That is why I won’t speak of it, Sharon. I won’t hurt my son by revealing this truth about his father. Justice doesn’t need these dark facts, only a guilty plea, and Eric will take that step. This will be closed without damaging more people. That’s what I want.”
Sharon understood more than Martha realized. A victim reclaiming her life happened in many ways, and it was Martha’s decision. “All right. With minor conditions, so that Eric doesn’t disappear on us.”
“This stays between us,” Martha insisted.
“John won’t hear about it from me,” Sharon promised.
John said a quiet good night to his mother, as she had elected to watch a Bette Davis movie until she fell asleep. He turned off lights in the hall, detoured to the kitchen to refill coffee cups. He hadn’t convinced Sharon to stay for a meal after the ladies’ shopping was done, but he had talked her into coming back over for dessert. He returned to the living room, saw Sharon’s face in repose as she rested her head back with her eyes closed, listening to the music.
“Everything all right?”
She sat up and took the mug he offered. “A long day, and things on my mind.”
“Anything I can do?”
“No. It was an enjoyable morning, shopping with your mother.”
Sharon diverting the subject . . . not a good sign. He settled on the couch beside her. “She’s already wrapped the gifts she had me carry up for her.”
“Mine are done too.”
“Mine are still in sacks in the closet.” His remark got a brief smile from her that faded again.
“Your mother told me a few things,” she said slowly.
“Good. I’m glad.”
“You’re not surprised.”
He shook his head. “I pushed pretty hard. I’m glad she could talk to you.”
“She said you nagged at her with your silence.”
He considered that comment and smiled. “I suppose I did.”
She paused, then said, “What happened had nothing to do with your previous undercover work.”
John studied her face with interest. “Then what?”
“Which would you rather have, the truth at the price of me breaking trust with your mom, or your mother continuing to talk with me?”
“It’s that serious.”
“Yes. I basically know what happened. Can’t prove it, but know it.”
“Would I be able to help you in the investigation if you told me?”
“Yes and no. It would go faster with you fully aware, but I don’t know that’s such a good thing right now. Martha needs this Christmas with you. Enjoy the holidays. Leave the rest of it to me. Trust me enough to do that.”
“You’re asking more than you realize.”
“I’m very aware of how much I’m asking. She was abducted for two days. That fury you feel, that need for justice, is there because it has to be satisfied. Society can’t survive without justice. You were born to be a cop. So was I.”
He was hearing the tone under the words. “You don’t like knowing what you do.”
“Let’s just say I’ll enjoy putting the handcuffs on when the day arrives.” She set her mug on the end table. “Give me some time. I’ll either convince your mother to tell you more or be in a position to act on what she’s told me.”
John leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”
“It’s not solved yet.”
“It will be.” He trusted her. “Want another slice of pie?”
“Maybe. If it’s small.”
“We could pretend this wasn’t an evening with you basically on the job and me standing guard for my mom . . . maybe edge it toward a date? Watch a movie. Sigh at appropriate times. See if you happen to giggle at something funny.”
She smiled. “We could, John, but I need to get home.”
“Another time?”
“I would like that. But, sorry, I don’t giggle.”
“Ever?”
“Mostly ever.”
“My fantasy is shattered.” He set aside his coffee, got to his feet. “We’ll do a movie another night.”
He helped her slip on her coat, drew her into a hug, resting his chin against her hair. “It matters that you got Mom to trust you. More than I can put into words.”
“My job.”
“Hmm. And more than that.” He drew back. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“So are you going over to see his new house, Sharon?”
“I’m thinking on it, Martha,” Sharon replied, pouring herself a mug of hot cider from the pan on the stove. She was their guest for the evening meal, and enjoying herself. “John’s talking built-in bookshelves and storage units. I think I might appreciate it more after he has finished his remodeling plans. Since he gets to move out of your apartment when the work is done, he’s got some incentive not to be idle once closing day arrives.”
“I heard that,” John called from the living room.
Sharon laughed. She hoped he enjoyed the Christmas gift she’d bought for his new backyard.
There was a knock on the door, and John went to answer it.
“I came to pay my respects to your mother—I mean, if it’s okay with you. I heard she was back home safely.”
“Come on in, Eric.”
Martha tensed, and Sharon stiffened. The two women shared a look. Martha left the kitchen. Sharon set down her mug of cider before she followed.
“Eric.” Martha’s expression faltered. “I didn’t realize you would be stopping by. How’s June this Christmas?”
“Martha, it’s okay to tell them now. My mother passed away two nights ago in her sleep. It was a peaceful passing, thanks to you.”
John stared at him, then at his mother. Martha carefully wiped her hands on the kitchen towel she held.
“Tell us what, Mom?”
Eric answered, “Your mother was with me, with June, the two days she was gone.”
Sharon saw the glance John gave his mother, and then he was moving. Sharon quickly stepped between them before a fist could get thrown, more for Martha’s sake than Eric’s.
“You knew.”
“Yes,” Sharon said quietly. “Let him finish.”
Eric gave her a brief nod and warily watched John. “I wanted my mother to be at least at peace, if not happy, in her last days. I’ve spent years watching her slip away. I could tell the rift between your mother and mine mattered deeply. I arranged for Martha and June to have two lunches together, to have time to talk in private.”
Sharon could feel the fury in John and understood it. She’d been battling her own anger since Martha told her what had happened.
Eric said, “I drove Martha to the library Wednesday. I waited and watched until the police came. I had asked Martha not to tell anyone until Mom passed away. It was obvious to me, to her doctors, that it was going to be soon. If I was arraigned and jailed before Mom passed, she’d be put in a nursing-home care facility, be frantic without me around, and I asked Martha not to do that to my mom. I’d confess to what I’d done once she passed away. Martha honored that request, and now I’m honoring mine. I’ll plead guilty to whatever the DA wants to charge—aggravated kidnapping, whatever—and do the time.”
Martha moved over to John and laid a hand on his other arm as if apologizing to him for her silence of the last weeks. Sharon could feel the tremor as John absorbed the gesture. John didn’t take his eyes from his mom as he said one quiet word. “Sharon.”
This was her jurisdiction. She did what he would most want to do himself. “Eric Holland, you’re under arrest for the kidnapping of Martha Graham.” She pulled handcuffs from her bag and cuffed him while she finished reading him his rights. Then she opened the door and led him out of the apartment, made a call to a patrol unit in the area.
“Will you tell me the rest of it, Mom?” she heard John ask.
“No. What he said was truthful and enough for me, enough for the justice that you and I need. Forgive him, John. I already have.”
Sharon pulled the apartment door closed behind her. John and his mom deserved privacy for their conversation. “Eric, you and I are going to walk through a very detailed confession in the next hours, and you’re going to sign it so they can have a decent Christmas.”
The man simply nodded, and she directed him toward the stairs. She was sorry his mother had died, but right now there wasn’t much sympathy in her, given what he had done.
John pulled out a chair at the table in the precinct annex interview room, next to the city jail, nodded his thanks to Bryon. Ten minutes later, Eric was led in. He looked diminished in the jail shirt and pants, the polished nature of the man already wearing off.
“I need details, Eric, every last one of them.”
“My statement is written. Everything is there.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
Eric ran a weary hand across his face, then nodded. “It wasn’t planned, John. It was my mother’s birthday. I pressed Martha to come over for a few minutes when I saw her at the store, because Martha and June needed to talk. She said no, but then changed her mind and came over to see June. Mom got . . . very upset. Martha wanted to leave, and I needed her to stay. It wasn’t planned. But once it went south, I didn’t give your mom a choice.”
“How?” John demanded.
“I didn’t hurt her, John. I swear. There’s a spray, approved in Europe, but not yet by the FDA. You breathe it in, it puts you to sleep. I paid to get a prescription of it from France for when my mother got really agitated and might hurt herself. It would put her to sleep and she’d wake up past the crisis. I had to use the spray on my mom that night, and I didn’t realize Martha breathed in enough of it to also go to sleep. I put her in the guest bedroom till the effects wore off.
“I knew people would soon be looking for her, and I didn’t think I could have her home that soon. Your mom’s car couldn’t sit in my driveway when the search began. So I drove your mom’s car back to the Village and put her purse in her apartment. I left, walked to the corner store, and caught a taxi to a house two blocks from mine, then walked home. Both our mothers were still sleeping.
“John, you have to understand how it was,” Eric pleaded. “While she was alive, I couldn’t leave my mother alone. She would wake at odd times and wander. I had to lock doors with keys or she would have wandered out of the house, gotten lost at night. I use the cell phone I carry with me rather than have a house line. This wasn’t planned, but the situation made it possible. I suppose your mother could have tried climbing out a window, but short of seriously hurting me, it wasn’t going to be possible for her to easily get away.
“Your mother woke up about midnight. We talked for two hours, I fixed her something to eat, I explained what I needed, and I assured her I’d take her home afterward. Martha and June had lunch together on Tuesday and again on Wednesday. I used the spray again on Mother to make certain she would stay asleep while I delivered Martha to the library Wednesday evening.
“I’ve apologized to Martha for what I did and how I did it. I know what I did was wrong. I told her I would turn myself in, and I have. I won’t disagree with what the DA charges as my crimes. I’ll plead guilty.”
“Why did you have to keep her the second day?” John asked.
Eric sighed. “Monday night had been a disaster, and the first lunch on Tuesday didn’t go well. Tears on both sides, more raised voices. It would have made me sick to leave it like that, worse than it was before. I insisted Martha stay one more day, one more lunch, and I promised I’d then take her home. The second lunch . . . it was better than I had hoped, whatever they said to one another. It was more than just your mom humoring mine—there was genuine calm between the two women when the meal ended. I told Martha I would take her home as soon as it was dark, and she spent the last hours before I took her to the library taking a nap.”
“Was this all worth it?”
“My mother died at peace.”
“What you did . . .”
“I know, John.”
“What was the rift about? What did your mother need to say to mine?”
“I can’t answer that. Their conversations were private.”
“You know. You didn’t go to these elaborate lengths because they drifted apart over some disagreement.”
“I can’t say, John. It’s not my place.”
John wanted to slam his fist on the table. He needed to hear the answer to the last piece of this awful puzzle. “You’ll tell me, Eric. Because at the core it’s why you did this. You’ll tell me, not my mother.”
Eric told him.
“Are you okay?”
John stirred as Sharon joined him on the couch. “I will be.” She’d stayed with Martha while he went to hear Eric out.
He’d been staring at the crystal ornaments on the tree, the faint sparkles they sent dancing around the walls and ceiling in reflections from the tree lights. “I didn’t see this coming. Of everything I had imagined, it didn’t look like this.”
“A son’s love for his mother. A mother’s love for her son.”
“Yeah. I see those parallels.”
“Do you wish Martha had told you about your father?”
He didn’t answer for a while. “No. Not knowing was easier than the truth.”
Sharon rested her head against his shoulder. “Is this a date?”
He half smiled. “I didn’t want to put it in words in case you took exception to it.” He settled his arm around her.
“I think that allows me to make a personal observation.”
“All right.”
“Your mom loved your father, forgave him. Your mother loved you, protected you. She did those hard things because her love is strong and resilient. She’s got backbone, that mom of yours. And good judgment. She did what she believed was right as this unfolded. You have to respect that.” She lifted her head and looked at him. “Don’t tell her you know.”
“I won’t. I love my mom. She needs my silence. She’ll have it.”
They sat quietly for a moment. Everything had been said on the subject.
“It’s all tied up before Christmas,” she finally offered. “That’s a good outcome, John.”
“It is.”
Sharon rubbed his arm. “Come see me out. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
“You caught a case?”
“My California runaway is coming home for a visit. I’m meeting her at the airport in the morning.”
“I could give you a lift if you like.”
“Let me think about that.”
He helped her with her coat. “I’ll find my shoes and come down with you.”
“I’m good for tonight. I’m still armed.”
He’d step on her cop’s pride if he insisted. He shook his head as he held out his gloves. She was without hers again.
She took them with a laugh and put them on. “A little big, but thanks.” She paused at the door to hug him. “Be happy,” she said.
He smiled and rested his head briefly on hers. “I’m finding that happiness right now, right here.”
She pushed him half a step back, and he saw the blush. “Good night, John.”
“Good night, Sharon.”
He watched from the window as moments later she started her car and backed out. The year was coming to a close, a new one ahead. It was peaceful here in the shadow of the blinking lights on the tree, the festive decorations, and the reminder of the reason for the season. He felt like truly praying, for the first time since this had begun. “You walked with me, with Mom, through the valley of the shadow of death, and we both came out okay on the other side.” He felt God’s comfort, His understanding, when he finished.
Next year would bring a different job, a different home, an awareness of how much family meant to him, and a woman in his life he was looking forward to knowing better. God had fashioned something good out of a dark valley.
John took his mug into the kitchen and refilled it. He returned to sit on the
couch and pick up his Bible. Another dark valley and a very hard three days had ended with a resurrection. He found the section in Luke and read the Christmas story for when it had begun. The night outside was quiet with a dusting of snow. His mother slept safely in the next room. Thank you, Father. He relaxed and let himself be the son he was, safe in the care of his heavenly Father.
JULY 1979
GULF OF ALASKA, OFF THE COAST OF YANCEY, ALASKA
Libby sliced through the frigid water, her limbs burning and weak . . . so weak after a dozen miles. Two to go.
One, two, three. Rolling her head to the side, she inhaled and then back into the deep, dark blue water, bubbles fizzing around her on the exhale.
Her wet suit clung to her like a second skin, but the forty-two-degree water seeped through, burrowing into her bones.
Just swim.
They can’t catch you if you keep moving.
Her lungs burned—ice shards stabbing her chest, each breath torturous, but she had to keep going.
She was surrounded by swimmers, but had one of them been sent to kill her?
ONE
THE WEEK BEFORE . . .
Libby’s sunflower-patterned rain boots sloshed through the deepening puddles as she made her way down the pier to the I>Waves.
Who named their ship using a mathematical symbol, let alone calling it I Greater Than Waves?
She couldn’t wait to meet this guy.
Rain pattered about her, her yellow raincoat hood shielding her hair and new Sony Walkman as Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” played over the headphones. It was a rather extravagant gift, but one her parents sent after she won her last tournament.
Unfortunately the hood blocked her view, and the only time she appreciated tunnel vision was when she swam—just her and the sea, rhythmic strokes and breaths, singular focus. Today she wanted to see the world—well, the wildlife—around her.
Flipping back her hood, she let the cool Alaskan summer rain wash over her and slipped her Walkman and headphones into her jean coverall pocket, the melody still dancing through her mind.
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