Takeout on Christmas Eve seems wrong, as does the thought of missing midnight Mass, but at this rate, Lucy doubts she and Ryan will attempt to get there. The mayor has already announced that there should be no unnecessary travel in the city, prompting a number of churches to cancel Christmas Eve services. Lucy’s been keeping an eye out for Holy Trinity to appear among them on the cancellation crawl along the bottom of the screen.
“And now, let’s head out to Central Park, where our reporter Sammy Nguyen is braving the elements.”
Ryan groans and throws a pillow at the TV screen. “Lu—please change the channel.”
She tosses him the remote. “Here. All yours.”
“Got any movies we can watch on DVD?”
“There’s a whole library of them in the other room. Go pick something out. It’s a Wonderful Life is there.”
Ryan grins. “Hmmm. . . . I think I’ve seen that.”
Yeah, no kidding. They used to watch it over and over on Christmas Eve when they were both living at home.
“I’m going to send Phoenix a quick text,” Ryan says, taking out his phone, “and then I’ll find that DVD.”
Ever since he arrived here yesterday, he’s been going back and forth with his girlfriend, who’s stuck at work. Hers, apparently, is one of the few companies in the city that hasn’t closed due to the weather or the holiday.
Lucy leans her head back, stretches, and notices a tightening, again, in her lower stomach.
It’s been happening on and off all morning, though she’s done nothing but rest with her feet up.
“Another pain?”
She looks up to see Ryan watching her worriedly. “Not pain, just . . . it’s probably Braxton Hicks.”
Ryan—newly well-versed in obstetrical terminology—suggests, “Maybe you should call the doctor again.”
Lucy contemplates that. She called the office this morning, spoke to both Gloria and Dr. Courmier, and was told to stay off her feet.
“If it gets any worse, we need you to come down to the hospital and get checked out,” Dr. Courmier told her, and Lucy could hear the concern in her voice. “But I’d just as soon have you stay put for now. It’s so hard to get around the city, I don’t want you going out if you don’t have to. If you slipped and fell, it would be bad.”
Lucy wholeheartedly agreed. The storm coverage has shown endless footage of accidents at slippery Manhattan intersections. Cabs are reportedly scarce due to the weather and the holiday, buses are stranded, and even the subways are delayed due to buried tracks in outlying boroughs.
“It hasn’t gotten worse,” Lucy tells Ryan now.
“But it hasn’t gotten better, either?”
She shakes her head, not knowing what to do, which isn’t at all like her. If it were just about her own physical well-being, she’d simply sit tight and wait out any nondrastic physical symptom, assuming it will pass.
But it’s not just about her. It’s about another person, a tiny, fragile person whose life is in her hands.
She doesn’t want to take any chances.
But when you weigh the risks . . .
Leaving the apartment in the storm to get to the doctor is a definite risk—dangerous, even.
Staying here—especially since this symptom has been coming and going for days now, and there’s been no lull in the baby’s usual movement—seems to be the better choice.
She never even told Jeremy about the earlier cramping, or the phone calls to the doctor. She didn’t want to put a damper on Sunday afternoon and evening. They spent hours decorating the tree, talking and laughing as though they hadn’t a care in the world.
A few times, she saw a shadow cross Jeremy’s eyes, and knew he was thinking of Miguel. But he seemed determined to keep sorrow at bay that day, and Lucy was only too happy to go along with that. She was feeling absolutely fine at that point—no cramps—and she had already concluded that the face she’d glimpsed in church had been a hallucination.
What else did she have to worry about?
There was just one thing . . .
Before they went to bed, she heard Jeremy on the phone in the next room. He was leaving another message for Carl Soto, who had yet to return Saturday’s call.
But Carl didn’t respond to Sunday’s call, either. Nor did he get in touch yesterday.
Every time Lucy allows herself to think about that woman—Mary, Carl said her name was—she feels vaguely uneasy.
She was already asleep late last night when Jeremy finally came home and crawled into bed, but woke up to snuggle next to him. She told him briefly about her day and mentioned that there hadn’t been a response from the landlord yet.
Jeremy seemed so exhausted that he didn’t even seem to want to talk about it.
“Maybe he just went away for the holidays,” she said with a yawn, and drifted back to sleep.
She didn’t remember until this morning that Carl had promised to keep an eye out for packages at their old address this week. If he’d gone away, it must have been a last-minute plan.
Lucy sighs, watching the snow fall. It’s Christmas Eve, always her favorite day of the year, filled with traditions. Yet right now, the only thing that’s familiar is her brother’s company.
“I’m glad you’re here with me, Ry,” she tells him, and sees that he’s still holding his phone, texting again.
“Yeah, I’m glad I’m here, too,” he mutters.
“Is Phoenix still coming over later?” Maybe having company will make it feel a little more festive.
Ryan nods. “She says don’t worry, nothing would keep her away.”
Seated at his desk, Meade thrums the fingertips of his right hand on his mouse pad and holds the phone to his ear with his left.
“Mrs. Cottington,” he says patiently, “I understand all of that, completely. I wouldn’t be asking you for this information if I didn’t think your friend might be in danger.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment, he thinks the call might have been lost.
That wouldn’t be surprising. It’s taken him the better part of two days to track Marin Quinn’s friend to a yacht in the Mediterranean. It’s all very glamorous and exclusive—the yacht belongs to a Saudi businessman whose security is ridiculously tight. Meade probably would have had an easier time arranging to have Christmas dinner tomorrow with the first lady.
But at last, he’s got Heather Cottington on the line—at least had her on the line. The ship to overseas-shore connection has thus far been patchy and static-ridden.
But not disconnected; Heather Cottington speaks again, and he notes that she sounds groggy, or drunk, or both. It’s closing in on midnight in her corner of the world.
“How do I even know that you’re with the NYPD?” she asks. “For all I know you’re a reporter. Or someone who’s trying to hurt Marin yourself.”
“Omar!” Meade looks up to see Brandewyne standing over his desk and frowns, indicating that he’s in the middle of a call.
“It’s important,” she hisses, and he waves her off. So is this.
“Look, Mrs. Cottington, I don’t blame you for being cautious. I understand that you’re trying to protect your friend. I’m doing the exact same thing. Here’s what I propose. We hang up. You call the main switchboard number for the NYPD and ask them to put you through to me. Then you tell me where I can find Marin Quinn. Is that a deal?”
Another hesitation.
He drums the mouse pad. Brandewyne waits impatiently by his desk, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“Deal,” Heather Cottington says, and hangs up before he can get in another word.
He sighs and looks up at Brandewyne. “What’s up?”
“You know how I’ve been trying to track down the Cavalons’ landlord?”
Meade nods. Having failed t
o hear back from the Cavalons over the weekend, he and Brandewyne have been concerned. Yesterday morning, they made the treacherous trip up to the White Plains duplex, only to find it apparently deserted, upstairs and down.
Assuming the Cavalons might have gone to work, Meade tracked down their workplaces and attempted to reach them there. A call to Lucy Cavalon’s company went into an automated message that they had closed due to the weather.
And although he got through to someone at the group home where Jeremy Cavalon worked, he was told that Jeremy had left for the holidays. But he had been there, so at least they know he was safe. As of yesterday, anyway.
“I found him,” Brandewyne announces triumphantly.
“Jeremy Cavalon?”
“No! The landlord!”
Oh. Right. They were hoping to gain access to the apartment without having to get a search warrant.
“Where is he?”
“He’s—”
She breaks off as Meade’s desk phone rings. They both look at it.
“That’s Heather Cottington,” he says, reaching for it. “Just tell me—where’s the landlord?”
“In the morgue.”
Every time Jeremy thinks about what he did yesterday afternoon, he feels sick inside.
He was right here, in this very spot—sitting at his desk in his office, working on the grant—when the phone rang. Not his cell, but the desk phone, the line he and Jack share.
“Hello?”
He was greeted by an unfamiliar male voice. “This is Detective Meade from the NYPD. I’d like to speak to Jeremy Cavalon, please.”
His heart stopped.
“Is this . . . is it about Miguel?”
“Excuse me?”
“Miguel—is it about Miguel?” His head was spinning.
“I’m afraid it’s a confidential matter.”
Confidential—then it wasn’t about Miguel. The police had spoken to just about everyone here about his murder, which remains unsolved. It wouldn’t be a confidential subject.
They must know, Jeremy thought, as panic swept through him, about Papa. They must have done some searching into his past.
“May I please speak to Mr. Cavalon?”
It hit him only then—the detective didn’t realize he was actually talking to Jeremy.
In that moment, he reacted in much the same way he had that day on the boat fifteen years ago, when Papa fell into the water.
He saw an opportunity—an immediate escape—and he seized it without thinking about the consequences.
“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say, “Jeremy’s left for the day.”
“So he was there today? You saw him?”
“Yes.” His stomach was churning.
“Do you know where he can be reached?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. He’s . . . off until after Christmas.”
There was a pause.
The detective thanked him and hung up.
What he’d done—lying to the police—was wrong. But in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter? All he wanted—all he wants—is to buy himself a little more time.
Time to spend with his guys.
Time to spend with his wife.
Time to spend preparing himself for what inevitably lies ahead: punishment for a crime he committed fifteen years ago.
“Coach?”
He jumps, startled by the voice, and looks up to see one of the boys in the doorway of his office.
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, it’s okay, Dylan. What’s going on? I thought your grandfather was going to pick you up.”
The boy has talked of nothing but the holiday visit to his grandfather. Jeremy’s heart sinks and he wonders if maybe the weather kept Mr. Purtell from coming to get Dylan. And here he is with his hair neatly combed to one side, wearing a red sweater.
“My grandfather is waiting for me downstairs,” he says proudly, and Jeremy can’t help but smile. “But before I go, I just . . . I wanted to give you this.”
He holds something out.
It’s a clay ornament. All the boys made them in a crafts workshop last week, cutting them out with cookie cutters, baking them, painting and glazing them.
This one is shaped like an angel, painted in silver glitter, with the word “Coach” painstakingly lettered across it.
Speechless, Jeremy looks from the ornament up to the boy’s face.
“I know it’s stupid”—Dylan shuffles his feet—“but I wanted to thank you for making sure everything worked out with my grandfather, and . . . I don’t know, you’ve been kind of like a guardian angel to me.”
He mutters the last part, looking down at the floor, as though he’s embarrassed by his own sentimentality.
“Dylan—” Jeremy’s voice breaks. He tries again. “I’ll treasure it. Thank you.”
Every year, Wendy Nevid and her fellow Jewish colleagues volunteer to work an overnight shift on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day so that their Christian coworkers can spend the holiday with their families. In return, they work shifts on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, two of the most important holidays in the Jewish calendar.
The system works out well for everyone.
This year, though, Wendy can’t help but worry about Mark and the kids, snowbound in Hopewell Junction. Julia has been coughing since yesterday, and when Wendy called to check in a little while ago, Mark said she was running a low-grade fever. Meanwhile, Ethan kept begging to go outside and build a snowman.
“Last night, Daddy said we could today, and now he won’t.”
“That’s because Julia is sick and Daddy is taking care of her.”
“I can go out by myself.”
“No. No! Put Daddy back on the phone.”
Of all the days for her to be working and Julia to be sick . . .
“Whatever you do, don’t let him out by himself,” Wendy told Mark. “He might wander off and get lost.”
“I won’t let him go out by himself or get lost, don’t worry.”
“And make sure there’s enough Dimetapp in the medicine cabinet to get Julia through the night.”
“There is.”
“And if you’re not sure what to make for dinner, there’s some—”
“I’ve got it all under control, Wen,” her husband assured her. “Just worry about what you have going on there.”
The truth is, there isn’t much going on here.
Ordinarily, Parkview is bustling with holiday visitors on Christmas Eve, but the weather is keeping most people home.
Sitting at the fourth floor nurses’ station, Wendy bites into lunch—a slice of homemade gingerbread a patient’s daughter dropped off earlier for the staff—and flips through the New York Post, with its front-page blizzard photo and towering headline WHITEOUT!
For a change, the tabloid is almost devoid of the usual urban dramas—knifings, drive-by shootings, bridge suicides—in favor of snowstorm coverage.
Caught up in a feel-good article about a Good Samaritan who welcomed a busload of stranded tourists into her home, Wendy is barely aware of the elevator’s ding, signaling a fourth floor stop.
Then she hears a man clearing his throat and looks up to see a pair of strangers standing over her, flashing police badges.
Wendy immediately closes the newspaper and brushes the gingerbread crumbs off her hands.
“I’m Detective Meade,” says the distinguished-looking African-American gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, “and this is Detective Brandewyne.” He gestures at his stocky female partner.
“Wendy Nevid. What can I do for you?”
The female detective leans closer, her voice a near whisper. “We’re here about one of your patients, Marin Quinn.”
The name hits Wendy like an avalan
che of ice. No one is supposed to know she’s here. No one.
She just looks at the woman, not saying a word.
Detective Meade clears his throat. “We understand that Mrs. Quinn is registered under an assumed name to protect her privacy, Ms. Nevid.”
Does he want her to confirm that?
The few staff members who share this privileged information are under strict orders never to reveal the true identity of the woman in room 421.
What should she do?
“Maybe we could talk in a private room?” Detective Meade suggests. “We understand that this is a sensitive matter.”
“We have reason to believe your patient might be in danger,” Detective Brandewyne adds.
Danger.
The magic word, given what Wendy knows about Marin Quinn’s past.
She nods briskly and stands. “Just let me find someone to cover the desk.”
“Good—you’re still here,” Cliff says, sticking his head into Jeremy’s office as he’s packing to head home—Dylan’s precious gift wrapped in layers of tissue and stashed in his pocket.
Jeremy looks up, alarmed—then sees that Cliff is smiling. He wouldn’t be, if the police were here to take Jeremy away.
“I just called and Garrett’s is open. How about coming down with me for some Christmas cheer? We could use it, I’d say, after the last few days.”
It’s so unlike Cliff to be jovial that under ordinary circumstances, Jeremy might almost be tempted to accept the invitation.
But today, his circumstances are anything but ordinary.
“Sorry, Cliff, but it’s Christmas Eve—I’d better get home.” Jeremy can’t help but think that Cliff—with a wife and three children at home in Brooklyn—should want to do the same.
“I don’t know how you’re going to do that,” Cliff tells him. “I’ve been checking the MTA Web site and there are massive delays on all the elevated lines in the Bronx.”
Jeremy contemplates that. “What about the underground lines?”
“They’re running, but the closest B and D station is a couple of miles from here. How would you get over there?”
“Cab?”
“You’re kidding, right? There’s no way you’re going to find a cab around here on a night like this.”
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