Emotion forms a knot in Sharice’s throat as glasses are raised. Her eagle eye double-checks Madison—just sparkling cider. Sharice sips a Diet Coke, her new drink of choice so that Madison can see you don’t need alcohol to have a good time. Reinforcing behavior by example, not by lecture. She’s determined not to screw this up, not to let her last child slip through her fingers.
“And Merry Christmas, one and all!” Dr. Jump adds, beaming a grin from the head of the table. Now that his hair is growing in he looks younger, more like one of John’s contemporaries, though Sharice still cannot place him from her memories of John’s years at Rutgers. As soon as the holidays are over, she’s going to dig in the attic for John’s yearbooks and sneak a peak at the younger version of Dr. Jump.
For her part, Sharice is reassured just knowing that this man was a friend of John’s, that Charles Jump stood by her eldest boy on the football field as well as the open desert battlefield. Basking in this knowledge, she feels that her son would approve of their embarking on the very personal, very trusting therapeutic relationship with Dr. Jump.
John, honey, wherever you are, thanks for sending us this savior.
Chapter 51
Fort Lewis
Suz
This was not the way she planned to spend Christmas Eve—building a tricycle while Abby and her friend sat back and sipped wine. In fact, she didn’t even know Abby was friends with Charles Jump, the company field therapist, until he appeared at dinner tonight with a box of chocolates and a look of lust in his eyes.
Or was she imagining that? Maybe it was the mutual “I got your back” deal she had going with Abby that made her so protective of her friend. Over dishes in the kitchen, Abby whispered that he was just a lonely soldier at Christmastime, but if that were the case, why didn’t he stay for dinner and then get the hell out to a bar or the Officers’ Club or his couch, where all the other lonely soldiers were spending their Christmas Eves. Not to be selfish or anything, but Jump was going to go home and sleep in while her kid was going to wake up in six hours fully anticipating toys and presents under the tree. Toys with “some assembly required.” And it’s nearly midnight and Suz has just removed the metal rivets from the box housing the ninety-nine pieces of Sofia’s tricycle.
Sucking on the finger that got scraped while opening the box, Suz settles on the floor in a yoga child’s pose and spreads the nuts and bolts out on the rug. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” she says, squinting at the diagram.
“Oh, wow. Let me help you.” Abby sets her wineglass on a table and slides to the floor beside her. “I’m pretty good at this stuff. As a kid I always loved puzzles.”
“Well, good, because Scott was the assembly-line foreman of our family. I was Director of Purchasing and Acquisitions.” Suz starts lining up nuts and bolts by size, while Abby unfolds the directions.
“Last time I was here, your living room was full of boxes,” Jump says, leaning back and folding his long legs. “What did you do with them?”
“They’re stashed in the attic now. My friend Flint and I went through them, but the army confiscated most of the things I really valued, like John’s journals. I was so eager to read them. I guess I thought they might reveal who killed him.”
“Really?” Jump seems surprised. “Do you think he knew the insurgent?”
“I think the sniper was someone in your platoon. In fact, I know it was. The question is, who?” Abby rises and, stepping over loose screws, tiptoes toward the kitchen. “We’re going to need the tool kit.”
“Really? Well, that’s scary,” Jump says thoughtfully.
“Two, four, six, eight…” Suz counts the bolts. “Oh, good. At least we’ve got all the pieces we’re supposed to have. Let’s see if they fit together.” She reaches into the box, lifts out the shiny silver handlebars with pink streamers hanging from the handgrips, and pretends to drive. “So cute!”
“Excuse me, ma’am, but do you a license to drive that?” Abby teases Suz, kneeling beside her with a red toolbox. “You know, Jump, I realize you didn’t see anything in that warehouse, but you must have had a sense of the dynamics at play in that platoon.”
“I did my best. It was a big part of my job.”
“So if you were profiling John’s killer, what would you say?” Abby presses him as she finds two pink metal pieces and starts to attach them.
“Well…” Jump clears his throat, and Suz glances up at him as he recrosses his legs. “I can’t reveal anything the troops shared with me in confidence.”
“Of course.” Abby spins a nut. “I wouldn’t expect that. My question is why? Why would someone want to kill John?”
He sucks in a deep breath. “Hmm. Jealousy? Not to name names, but John was quite the celebrity when he joined our little platoon. When the media was around, the journalists wanted to shadow John—anyone else in the platoon was second-rate. Some of the guys may have resented that.”
“Resentment is one thing,” Suz says, handing Abby a bolt. “But motive enough to kill a guy?”
“Not to mention the fact that John’s celebrity status put extra pressure on our commanding officers to do the right thing. And, I’m sure you noticed that our esteemed lieutenant is fairly cocky. A West Point graduate with a Napoleon complex.”
“Honestly, Chenowith does give me a very bad vibe,” Abby says. “If it was a matter of trusting my instincts, I’d pursue him as the prime suspect.”
Suz hands Abby a screwdriver. “That would be so awful if he was the one.”
“All this assumes that your theory is correct, Abby,” Jump says. “And to be honest, I’m not convinced you’re right.”
“But I—”
He holds up his hands to stop her. “Please, save me the details. Professionally, I’ve moved into another area and I’m trying to leave that last assignment behind me. Iraq took its toll on me, too, and it’s difficult for me to revisit. You forget, I lost my best friend there.”
“I’m so sorry,” Abby says. “Of course, you suffered firsthand.”
“It’s okay to ask. You know I want to help.” He leans forward on the sofa, his hands pressed together in prayer position. “Maybe it’s good for me to vent. I’m going to get going. But while we’re on this subject, there was another unusual dynamic in that platoon.”
Abby and Suz both stop what they’re doing and gaze up at him.
“There was also an extreme case of sibling rivalry. The younger brother seemed to think that his older brother led a charmed life. Their relationship was a constant competition. Not unusual for siblings so close in age, but rife with possibility.”
“Noah would never hurt John,” Abby says, her hands twisting the screwdriver. “I think his love for John was what sent him off the deep end after John died. I’ll never forget that day he ran from us at Arlington Cemetery. Just ran like the wind. He was so distraught.”
“They enlisted together, right?” Suz takes the large wheel from the box. “That sounds pretty close to me.”
“Statistically, most homicides are committed by someone who knows the victim well.” Jump’s eyes are cool as ice—his intellectual persona? Suz hands Abby a wheel, her eyes riveted on the shrink. “Husbands kill wives, gangs take out one of their members, lovers kill their exes. I’m not saying this is the case with the Stanton brothers but you can’t ignore statistics.” He stands. “And on that note…”
“Merry Christmas,” Suz says, rolling back on her heels and turning toward the clock in the dining area.. “I guess it’s officially Christmas Day.”
Abby stands up, leaving the screwdriver on the rug. “I’m glad you joined us,” she says, walking him to the door.
Suz grabs the screwdriver and grits her teeth as she tightens the screws. Abby’s almost got this thing waxed! She reaches under the seat to tighten a bolt and scrapes her hand in the process.
“Dammit.” Tears sting her eyes, not so much from the cut as from the sting of not having Scott here to assemble his daughter’s first tricycle. A l
ine of blood drips down the back of her hand. She’d better wash up before she turns the pink trike red.
While Abby and Jump chat on the threshold, she ducks into the bathroom. When she returns, Jump is gone, and Abby is on the floor finishing off the assembly job.
“I thought he would never leave,” Suz says quietly as she tiptoes down the hall, passing Abby’s prized family photos. She gazes past a photo of John in uniform, then does a double take. Beneath the glass frame, fat dots of liquid cling to the photograph under John’s eyes, like tears on his cheeks.
“This is weird.” Suz stares. “Did someone try to do 3-D art here?”
“What?” Abby joins Suz, leaning into the portrait. “What is that?” She removes it from the wall and holds it under the lamp for a better view. “Oh, God, it’s like he’s crying.”
Suz nods. “Tears on his cheeks.”
Abby shivers. “Very creepy.” She drops to the floor and pries off the clamps on the back of the frame to get inside. “How do you think it happened?”
“I don’t know, but none of the other photos have moisture under the frame. It’s very strange.”
Gently, Abby presses a tissue to the drops of moisture on the portrait. Fortunately, it absorbs the drops without affecting the surface of the photo. “I’ve never seen that happen before. Maybe it’s from the steam of the radiator.”
“Or maybe it’s a supernatural occurrence,” Suz says. “Crazy as that sounds, I gotta admit.” This one she feels deep in her gut. Drops of moisture did not randomly appear on the cheeks of dead men in photos.
“The thing that really creeps me out is that I just had to extract myself from Jump at the door,” Abby says, wincing. “He was trying to kiss me goodnight. I don’t know whether it was too much wine or just the spirit of the season but…I told him it’s way too soon.” She shivers. “And now this…”
“It’s a message from the next world, Abby.” Suz rubs her arms, warding off goose bumps. “He’s trying to tell you something. Wherever he is, John is crying.”
Chapter 52
Fort Lewis
Abby
Abby flips over onto her right side, stuffs the pillow under her neck, and clamps her eyes closed. As if that’s going to work.
After a tense moment spent willing herself asleep, she sits up and turns on the light. Maybe it’s because she’s trying to sleep on the couch, having given her bed to Sofia and Suz. Maybe it’s because it’s her first Christmas in so many years without John. Maybe it’s the teardrops on John’s photo, a sad reminder of him even if it was a sheer coincidence.
Or maybe it’s Charles Jump.
After the weird occurrence with the drops of moisture on John’s picture, she didn’t share all the details with Suz. In truth, Jump didn’t want to leave tonight. He played the “I’m alone at Christmas” sympathy card. And much to her surprise, Abby was sorely tempted to let him stay. When he pressed close to kiss her cheek, she imagined him beside her in the sofabed, blankets between them, of course, but his long, warm body stretched out just inches away made her skin tingle with awareness. Just having a warm body beside her would have been reassuring.
But crazy. She’s not ready for a relationship, even if her body craves the physical reassurance. It’s wrong to lead Jump on, especially since he’s a genuinely nice guy, John’s friend. If she could just place him from Rutgers…She’d searched John’s letters and electronic journal entries for any mention of Charles Jump, but his name never came up. Which is weird. John had mentioned Emjay as a friend. He’d mentioned Noah a few times, and had talked about wanting to take “the kid” Spinelli under his wing. But nothing about Charles Jump.
Wouldn’t your best friend appear in your written thoughts?
She tosses the covers back and goes into the kitchen to make some herbal tea. While the water heats she pulls a blanket over her shoulders and paces from the kitchen to the tiny dining area. As she tries to connect John and Charles, something Jump said earlier tonight hits her.
You forget, I lost my best friend…
Not just a good friend, but a best friend? Something is off balance there. Abby is convinced she would have known about anyone John considered a best friend. There’d been a few at the funeral…Spike Montessa from Rutgers, Kevin “Killer” Kelly from the Seahawks. Good guys, close friends. Even though John wasn’t able to be with them often, he spoke of them, e-mailed them, made plans for reunion weekends.
As she dunks a chamomile tea bag, Abby lowers her head and presses on with the debate.
If she knew John’s friends, why didn’t she know anything about Charles Jump before now?
It appears that Jump’s attachment to John was somewhat one-sided. So…was Charles exaggerating the relationship, or did he have a distorted view of himself?
She thinks of the people who, over the years, wanted a piece of John’s glory. The fans, the groupies, the players, the media, the girls. Before she and John were married, the girls were a worry. Beautiful blondes with kick-ass bodies. Cheerleaders in short skirts and go-go boots prancing across the football field. “Boobs to beat the band,” John used to say. But he’d also called them eye candy. “They’re fine to look at,” he whispered, pressing his thumb into that sensitive spot at the nape of her neck. “But I’m in love with you.”
A small cry jumps from her throat, and she presses the blanket to her eyes to wipe the sudden tears. God, she misses him.
The tea warms her inside, and she falls asleep remembering John’s words.
But I’m in love with you.
Sometime during the night she rolls over into a warm nook in the bed. Awakening, she touches the sheet, her palm smoothing over the glow there. The clean smell of his shaving cream, clove and soap, makes her smile.
He’s back…his ghost is back. She doesn’t know why, but for now, this Christmas morning, she finds it reassuring. Abby plants her body in the warm groove of the mattress and slides into a deep, sound sleep.
PART III
January–May 2007
Chapter 53
Washington Flint
As he drives through a sheath of gray rain on I-5, Flint rehearses the speech for the eighth or ninth time. “The thing is, Abby, I’ve been crazy about you ever since college. And in all the years since, what people perceived as failure to commit was really just lack of satisfaction; I was holding out for a real connection with a woman. Something I had with you…”
The windshield wipers swipe the splatter clear for a second, changing his line of thought.
Or something you thought you had with Abby, says the dark voice of his cynical self. What if she hadn’t felt that same spark back in college?
Attraction has got to be mutual to make it work, and he doesn’t know if Abby thinks of him as anything more than a friend. Does she like me? The question tugs at him like a band stretched tight in his gut, which makes it all seem totally adolescent.
It’s infantile relationship stuff, but he can’t seem to make it go away.
And so he’s driving to her place, straight from the airport, to straighten a few things out. The trial concluded in Atlanta this morning, and though he’ll return for the sentencing hearing in a few weeks, for now he’s done with the assignment. When the wheels of the plane ground into the runway, he felt nudged by relief. Christmas had been a bitch without her, despite the fact that his nieces and nephews in Chicago could be quite entertaining. His months in the desert had forced him to take a look at the things that last, the stones that remain after you sift everything through a sieve. In the shakedown of his life, Abby was essential.
He downshifts and takes the exit for Fort Lewis. In his beat-up leather laptop case is a marked-up copy of Abby’s account of what she believes happened to John Stanton in that dark Fallujah warehouse, and he figures it’s as good a reason as any to be driving down to Fort Lewis to see her.
The lights are burning gold inside her living room when he pulls up. Good, because he didn’t want to jinx things by calling ahead
.
The wiper blades straddle the middle of the windshield when he kills the engine. He grabs his laptop, shoulders the door open, and steps into the rain. Abby answers the door with a pair of men’s khaki boxers in her hands.
“I thought you were in Atlanta!” Her face brightens at the sight of him, her hands working to fold the shorts.
“The trial is over. I just got back.” He ducks in out of the rain and finds a wadded lump of clothes on the sofa next to a stack of T-shirts and shorts. “Is this more of John’s stuff? Wow, I thought we took care of all that before Christmas.”
“We did. This is just…” She folds the boxers into a small square and adds them to a stack of clothes. “A favor for a friend. So…did you get my editorial piece?”
“That’s why I’m here.” He eases his computer case onto the dining room table beside a nest of bundled men’s socks. “I thought we could go over some changes and get it submitted before you begin your internship. When do you start at the hospital?”
“Next Monday, so I really want to get the editorial squared away.” As Abby talks, she pulls back her silky hair, twists it at the nape of her neck, and arranges the twist on one shoulder.
The gesture is so lovely he has to bite his bottom lip to keep from saying something poetically adoring. Christ, he’s such a sucker for her. He hands her a marked-up copy of the editorial.
“I was thinking you could start with something more immediate.” He moves behind her, looking over her shoulder as she reads. “An image, like the shot exploding in the darkness, and then go on from—”
Just then the bathroom door pops open, startling Flint. He turns on his heel just in time to see a cloud of steam emerge, along with a tall, angular man clad only in a yellow towel at his waist. Drops of moisture bead over his chest and along his muscular shoulders. His dog tags dangle at his throat, along with a gold heart-shaped medal.
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