“Only Major Bryant.”
“Major?” Christmas said.
My heart sank like some far-off balloon dipping below the horizon line.
“Yes. He came here the day before yesterday. He said that they had received her letter and needed to speak to her about what to do about this terrible thing with Craig.”
“What did this Major Bryant look like?” I asked.
“This is Tyrell Samuels,” Christmas said by way of a belated introduction. “He’s been helping me lately.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Samuels.”
I nodded.
For a moment Hope was quiet, waiting for something else pleasant. When she realized that something wasn’t coming, she said, “He was young and tall, on the thin side.”
“Dark complexion?” I asked. “Like he was from Sicily or Greece?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“We’ve met.”
“Did you tell him where Faith lived?” Christmas asked, trying his best not to lose his temper.
“She didn’t tell me where she was exactly,” Hope replied. “I only had a PO box.”
“Did you give the major her PO box?” Christmas asked.
“Of course not. I knew that Faith was in trouble. I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Aunt Hope,” a boy shouted, “Carmen won’t let me have some ice cream.”
Even from a distance I could see that Andrew had his mother’s beauty. When he grew up to be a sad man, he would be deadly handsome.
“You can’t eat until after swimming,” Hope said. “You know that.”
He came through the open door, drawn to the strangers in his aunt’s home.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, staring at Christmas.
“Do you know my mama?” the three-year-old asked the ex–government killer.
“Yes,” he said. “Very well.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“She’s very sad, Andy. But pretty soon she’ll be better and back with you again.”
I wondered if Christmas believed in God.
Andy didn’t know how to respond to the words, the man, or his tone, and so he hunched his shoulders, ran out to the pool.
When the boy was gone, I asked, “Do you keep a little phone diary?”
“Of course.” She was a woman of certainty.
“Is Faith’s PO box in that book?”
“Yes.”
“Would you mind looking to make sure it’s where you left it?” I asked.
“What are you saying?”
“Please,” Christmas said. “Do as he asks.”
Hope didn’t go far. There was a desk in the corner of the library. She opened it and took out a tiny red diary.
“See,” she said, “it’s here.”
“Look up your sister’s PO box,” Christmas directed.
Hope turned the pages deftly, frowned a little, turned them again.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “The page is missing, torn out.”
She looked up at us.
“Is my sister all right?” she asked.
“I hope so,” Christmas said.
It came to me then that all great soldiers had to believe in a higher power.
45
How we gonna hit Sammy?” Mouse asked from the back. He was sitting forward, both hands on the long seat, more like an excited child than a cold-blooded killer.
I didn’t know what to say. Bunting had fooled me, his youthful bravado covering up the lies. He had pumped me
