He looked at my leg in concern, and put his mouth to my ear. “One whole wall was devoted to Camille, Gus. Photographs plastered all over the place. Really creepy. A real sicko, just like we thought.”
I exchanged a grave look with Joe, shook my head in disgust, accepted his arm, and hobbled into the chorus room beside him.
The room smelled of pizza and hairspray. I leaned my aching body against the wall. The pills started to take effect, and I began to feel groggy.
Joe pushed me toward a chair. “You okay, buddy? Adam will be here any minute. He’s got something to show you and Camille.”
I wondered what new atrocity Adam had discovered about Jonesy. Monty , I corrected myself.
“What about the nursing home and the police station? What happened?”
He nodded. “We bussed the seniors to the armory, and transported a few in ambulances as well. The bomb was defused an hour ago and most of them have been returned to their rooms. The National Guard was holding drills this weekend and helped us manage the whole thing. Thank the good Lord they were in the area.”
“I’m glad no one was hurt. Pretty scary stuff. What about the station?”
Joe passed a handkerchief over his forehead. Exhaustion showed in the deep smudges beneath his eyes. “We weren’t so lucky there. Shortly after he made the call, Jonesy detonated the bomb at the back door. Two officers were injured and the whole back entrance of the station collapsed. We’ll have to rebuild. I think he set that one up as a warning so that we’d take him seriously over at the nursing home.”
“Unbelievable. Did the one at the nursing home have a timer on it?” I asked, wondering if Jonesy was cruel enough to risk the lives of hundreds of senior citizens.
“No. No timer. But it was real enough and could have been detonated remotely at any time. The bomb squad took care of it in about an hour, but it was very cleverly designed. Not a cut and dry situation, to be sure. Apparently he picked up some of these skills in the Gulf. Pretty devious bastard. What a way to get us out of the school, huh?”
“Incredible,” I said.
My beloved stood at the far end of the room. She held bobby pins in her mouth, re-pinning for the third time the mike threaded under Maurice’s costume, behind his ear, and into his hair, where it hung suspended in the air about three inches from his mouth. She worked intently and her hands flew.
Molly, Candy, and Lisa stood before the mirror fixing their hair, their cheeks flushed with excitement. Takeema and Nelson sat on the small loveseat salvaged from the living room of last year's production of God's Favorite. The hungry cast and crew had attacked several boxes of pizza. Enthusiastic laughter filled the room. I marveled at the resilience of the troupe.
Adam’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Anyone recognize this fella? ”
He stood in the entrance with a small bundle in his arms. Boris began to yip frantically when he recognized Camille. Her head shot up when she heard him. A wide smile spread across her face. “Boris!” she yelled. “Oh my gosh, you found my baby!”
She climbed over the students who were sprawled about the room and ran toward the little dog in Adam’s arms. Boris whined and barked alternately, unable to contain his excitement. He looked thinner. His deep brown eyes were riveted on Camille with an expression that seemed almost haunted. Poor little guy must have thought she deserted him forever.
Adam passed the wiggling canine to Camille.
She plopped onto the floor and held him on her lap. Boris raised his head to her chin and licked her face. She ruffled his ears and hugged him to her. “Gus!” she said, “Boris is back! Can you believe it?”
I smiled with my aching face muscles and limped toward her. She took my hand and held it against her cheek, looking up at me. “Are you okay, honey?” she asked. “How’s your leg?”
“Just a flesh wound.” I said. “The bullet passed right through. Doc said I’ll be riding horses again in the spring.”
I leaned on the cane and helped her up from the floor. We embraced with Boris snuggled between us. She laid her head against my chest and let out a huge sigh. “Thank God it’s over.”
“I know. I still can’t believe it, Camille. Unassuming, quiet, Jonesy. I mean...Monty. He was like the invisible man, wasn’t he?”
In seconds, a throng of fussing actors surrounded us. Dozens of arms flailed in the air, reaching over to pat their mascot’s soft fur. Several of the girls cried when they stroked his ears.
“How did Act 1 go?” I asked.
They exploded with answers, all reporting positive results. I recognized the hollow look lurking behind their brave expressions and the stamp that terror and pain had caused. I was tremendously proud of them. They were a courageous bunch.
Two members of the crew walked into the room, calling “Five minutes!” for Act 2, scene 1. The black-clad figures murmured into their headsets and melted through the back doorway. The cast stood and shuffled toward the stage, ready to resume the show.
Camille thrust Boris into my arms. I shifted him to the crook of my left arm and leaned on the cane with the other. His tail wagged madly against my side.
“Could you possibly—”
“Sure. I’ll hold him. He’ll probably sleep through the whole act anyway.”
She turned to go, then spun back toward me. She raised herself to her tiptoes and placed a fluttery, light kiss on my sore mouth. Gently touching my lips with her forefinger, she whispered, “You know you’re my hero, honey. You and your remarkable brother-in-law.”
With a sweet smile, she turned on her heels and trotted toward the backstage door. My heart dissolved into mush.
Chapter Eighty-Two
T he cast party was held at Molly’s big colonial on Crossett Road, a sprawling new home that hugged a circular driveway. In the back, I heard the sound of kids laughing and horsing around.
Camille carried Boris—no way was she leaving him behind again—and I hobbled beside her.
She stopped a few feet from the door. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“I’ll be good for a little while. We should at least make an appearance. You know they’ve got gifts for you, right?”
She pouted. “They shouldn’t do that. They’re the stars tonight, not me.”
“It wouldn’t have happened without you, hon. Come on, let’s get inside.” I limped up the recently shoveled walk using Doc’s cane. We entered a high ceilinged room with a chandelier embraced by an elegant, curving staircase. Camille set me on a couch with Boris, a bowl of nuts, and cup of punch.
In seconds, her students surrounded her, pulling her over to the table where they’d piled the cards and gifts.
We had just finished the fourth round of teary-eyed speeches and gift giving when the doorbell chimed. Joe Russell was let in by Nelson Santos, and a hush fell over the room when Joe held up his hand to speak.
“Folks, I have something to say. I know this will come as a bit of a shock, but we did what we had to do to protect her.”
A flurry of quizzical looks and who’s he talking about? whispers sizzled around the room.
Joe went on to explain about the unusual process of sheltering a victim and faking death to protect them from their predator. By the time he was almost through, Cindi burst into the room with Adam at her side .
Takeema started to cry. Nelson slumped against the wall and went white. Molly shrieked and ran toward Cindi, and when the shock wore off, the entire room gathered in a chattering crowd around her.
When they finally got their fill of hugs, Cindi’s voice high above the others. “Where’s Boris? Where is he?”
I realized that as much as Cindi wanted to see the kids, she really had come for her new best friend. She found him with me, settled beside me, and started to pat the little dog whose tail whipped back and forth rapidly.
I gently moved him over to her lap.
She took a dog biscuit from her pocket and held it in her palm. “There’s my good doggie. There you are. I knew you’d c
ome back to me.”
Boris looked at me as if to say do I have to? He’d been spoiled on dried duck filets over the past year and had graduated from biscuits long ago. But to please her, he picked it up in his mouth and practically smiled. She hugged him again and again.
“I tried to tell you where he was,” she said to me. “I saw him at Jonesy’s apartment.”
“You did, Cindi, and that was very brave.” I smiled and watched her for a while. “How are you feeling now? Are you recovering from your injuries?”
“I’m better.”
“That’s good. Miss Coté and I were worried about you.”
A few tears slipped down her cheek. “I know. My mother told me.”
Molly and Takeema sat on the couch beside her, but now the tears were falling in earnest.
Takeema grabbed her hand. “Cindi? What’s wrong?”
Cindi hiccupped her answer, all the while stroking Boris’s fur. “I—I missed the show!”
Takeema shushed her and handed her a tissue. “No, honey. No you didn’t. Tonight was just opening night. We do this again two more nights and once on Sunday afternoon. ”
Cindi stopped crying, lifting her face to the girls beside her. “Honest?”
Molly leaned over and chimed in. “Honest to Pete. We’re counting on you to be there.”
With that settled, the party continued. I dozed on the couch for a while, and was startled awake when Camille gently shook my shoulder, whispering in my ear.
“Time to go home, honey.”
I looked up, bleary-eyed and still dopey from the drugs. “Okay. I’m ready.
Safely settled in the car, she hummed a few tunes from Spirit Me Away while navigating the snowy roads.
Watching her, seeing the light in her eyes and the satisfied expression on her face, I knew she’d never been happier.
Neither had I.
Chapter Eighty-Thre e
S pirit Me Away was pronounced a smash by the local papers, and we’d heard rumors that the Stars of Tomorrow committee, who’d been in attendance Sunday afternoon, were highly impressed and considering multiple nominations.
The story of what happened backstage became the subject of a major news feeding frenzy. We ducked reporters for days, but also packed the house every night for the remaining nights of the show. Jonesy had certainly not upstaged the show—he’d ensured that every seat had been filled.
The month of December marched rapidly toward Christmas, and our family slipped back into a comforting rhythm blending hectic childcare with large family dinners and boisterous laughter.
Winter break began after the third week in December. I spent hours with Johnny, re-affirming our relationship and making up for lost time. In between feedings, I held my granddaughters, Marion and Celeste, for warm, soothing hours each day. I began to look forward to their personalities maturing, and wondered what kind of little girls they would be at two, three, and four years old. I looked forward to taking them outside in the garden next summer, and introducing them to the delights of nature.
Siegfried and I took advantage of an unusual two-week warm spell that followed a major windstorm, and caught up with the outdoor chores. We split and stacked wood, finally moved the porch furniture into the barn, planted the tulips I’d just about given up hope of getting into the ground, and staked the young apple and cherry trees blown over in the high winds. We gathered hundreds of branches that had fallen to the ground, raked up leaves, and burned everything in the campfire pit.
Jonesy—or Monty—had been jailed and was doomed to life behind bars. We all dreaded the trial predicted for next spring, and wondered which of us would be called upon to testify. Although the memory of the ordeal began to fade ever so slightly, each time I crossed over the bumpy lawn near the clothesline where he’d driven the four-wheeler, a faint, cold tremor passed through me.
It had been so close.
Joe Russell and his department got some flack from locals over faking Cindi’s death. But eventually, the joy of discovering her alive outweighed their complaints, and she settled back into her routine at the school.
Oscar and Millie Stone, Joe Russell, Adam Knapp, Cindi, Maddy, and even Lou Marshall and his wife Daisy visited often. The Marshalls had apparently repaired whatever marital problems they'd had, and to my great relief, Lou refrained from looking at Camille with those puppy dog eyes of his.
We spent many an hour in good company, enjoying roasted chickens, homemade applesauce, and Mrs. Pierce’s shortbread biscuits. The healing had begun, and although I was left with a limp, Doc Mattson said it would eventually be gone with regular therapy and exercise.
Camille and I visited Shelby every few nights. We educated her, treasured her, and simply sat by her side. But she remained the alabaster china doll who lay in the big white bed in a room full of buzzing, whirring equipment.
Chapter Eighty-Four
A t seven-fifteen on Christmas Eve, I held Celeste Elsbeth in my arms, gathered around the baptismal basin with the family. She and her twin wore long white dresses for the christening. We’d spent the first half hour of the service singing Christmas carols and taking turns reading the story of Jesus’ birth. Fortunately, Celeste and Marion had both slept through most of the service.
Johnny leaned against his mother’s leg and tugged on his new dress shirt and necktie. He’d be three in January, and this was his first Christmas where Santa’s visit caused a real stir. We took him to the mall the day before. His eyes had sparkled when he sat on Santa’s lap, spilling all of his secrets about what he hoped Santa would bring. He asked where the reindeer were, and looked around for the sleigh.
Freddie circumvented the questions; completely satisfying his curiosity. I decided in a few years it’d be time to bring all three children to the North Pole near Lake Placid. Elsbeth and I took Freddie there when she was seven, in the long-standing tradition of our family.
Freddie leaned down and whispered in Johnny’s ear. His eyes lit up and he stood straight as a soldier. Freddie, too, straightened, and carefully watched Marion as Reverend Nahum Hardina sprinkled water over her hair.
Siegfried stood proudly by Freddie's side. Watching him, a wave of gratitude stole over me. If he hadn’t come back to the chorus room, climbed up the catwalk, and jumped at the right time…I flashed him a smile and he returned it with a wide grin.
The aroma of pine needles rose from the wreath attached to the back of the sanctuary. I breathed in the scent, savoring the moment.
“Marion Brigit LeGarde, I baptize thee in the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior. ”
The Advent candles flickered on the altar, sending reflections over the water in the basin and sparkling in the eyes of my family. I ran a finger over Celeste’s fine, copper hair. It was still damp. She stirred in my arms, pursed her lips into a tiny cupid’s bow, and fell back to sleep.
Johnny piped up in a loud voice, “Mari doesn’t like da water, Mummy.”
As if to agree, Marion began to wail. The congregation chuckled. Reverend Hardina handed the baby back to Freddie. She lifted Marion to her shoulder, bounced her up and down, and shushed her softly, but the crying persisted. Siegfried stood across from me on the other side of the baptismal basin with his hands folded before him. He held out his arms for Marion, and Freddie placed the baby in his massive arms. He rocked Marion from side to side, smiling and clucking to her. She finally settled down and fell back to sleep, and the reverend concluded the ceremony.
We headed for our seats in the front row pew. Mrs. Pierce and her sister Eloise, Oscar and Millie Stone, Adam Knapp, Joe Russell, and Maddy took up the rest of the row. I saw Doc Mattson and his wife in the back, and nodded to them when we sat down. Although most of our friends attended various churches in the area, they had accepted the invitation for the baptism on this special night. I handed Celeste to Camille and settled back down on the hard pew to listen to the rest of the service.
Two dozen red, white, and bi-color poinsettias flanked the altar. Their ve
lvet petals and ribbons glimmered in the candlelight. Garlands stretched along the sills of the stained glass windows beneath the glass chimneys protecting the flickering candles and the railings enclosing the choir chairs were laced with twinkling white Christmas lights. White silk ornaments were fastened in strategic locations along strands of garland, prisms of color danced on the purple altar cloth, and candlelight reflected in the crystal vases filled with holly sprigs on either side of the piano .
A pile of wrapped presents filled the space beneath the tiny, leafless tree that the children of the parish had decorated for those whose Christmas would likely be empty without our help. After the service tonight, they’d be distributed to the needy in the community.
We rose to sing, “What Child is This.” Lillian Philips, our elderly church organist, played the first strains of the chorus on the piano.
When we sat down after the hymn, Johnny squirmed out of his seat, dropped to the floor, and crawled over to me. He placed one hand on my knee, whispering loudly, “Opa. I’m hungry.”
There were chuckles from the pews behind us, and the reverend indulgently smiled down at him. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a roll of peppermint Lifesavers. His eyes lit up when I unwrapped the roll and pushed one of the white candies into his eager hands. He popped the Lifesaver into his mouth and smiled. I ruffled his hair and patted the empty seat to my left. He crawled up onto the bench and sat beside me, kicking his feet back and forth and making loud sucking noises with his candy.
“—May the Lord bless you and keep you on this special and holy night. And now, will you please form a circle around the sanctuary so we can sing ‘Silent Night.’”
Reverend Hardina’s melodic voice carried over the congregation. He raised his hands to bestow the final blessing on the crowd and we rose to form a circle around the church. The Wilson girls—the sweet trick-or-treaters who had visited our home on Halloween—handed out short white candles and paper rings. The circular guards would prevent hot wax from dripping on our fingers.
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