The Face of Death

'I think it's a great idea.'

'Well, good.' She gives me a kind look. 'I'm pushing you on this because I know you. As long as you're not hiding from the truth of things, you won't let Bonnie down. It's just not who you are.'

'Thank you.'

It's all I can think of to say, but I can tell from her smile that she gets it as I meant it.

What about the deception, here? If you go to Quantico, if they aren't enough to give you the 'happiness' you think you need (and how selfish and ungrateful is that, anyway?), then you'll be taking a child away from Elaina. Elaina, who's never gotten to be a mom even though you and I both know she'd be better at it than anyone we know, present company included.

Even so, I think, and for now, the voice goes quiet. We sip our wine and smile as we listen to Alan's grumbling about being beaten at chess by a girl.

It's nine-thirty and Bonnie and I are back home, foraging through the kitchen together in search of munchies. She's let me know that she wants to watch some television, and made it clear that she understands I want to continue reading Sarah's diary. I find a jar of olives and Bonnie grabs a bag of Cheetos. We head into the living room and curl into our respective, well-worn spots on the couch. I pop the cap of the olive jar and bite into an olive, feeling the salty taste of it burst into my mouth.

'Did Elaina talk to you?' I ask her, talking around the olive.

'About homeschooling?'

She nods. Yep.

'What do you think about that?'

She smiles and nods.

I think it's just fine, she's saying. I smile.

'Cool. Did she tell you about Sarah too?'

Another nod, more somber this time, layered with meaning. I understand.

'Yeah,' I reply, nodding myself. 'She's in bad shape. How are you with that?'

She waves her hand, a dismissive gesture.

So not a problem it's not worth asking about, that wave says. I'm not selfish, that wave says.

'Okay,' I say, smiling, hoping the smile shows her that I love her. My phone rings. I check the caller ID and answer.

'Hello, James.'

'VICAP requests are in. Nothing yet, but maybe by the morning. The program on Michael Kingsley's computer continues to defy all attempts to unlock it. I'm home, going to reread the diary.'

I fill him in on the day. He's silent afterward. Thinking.

'You're right,' he says. 'It's all connected somehow. We need to get the information on the grandfather, that case from the seventies, Nicholson.'

'No kidding.'

I look at my trusty notes, reviewing what I've written. I grab the PERPETRATOR AKA 'THE STRANGER' page. METHODOLOGY:

I add:

Continues to communicate to us. Communication is in puzzles. Why?

Why not just say what he wants to say?

I consider this.

Because he doesn't want us to understand immediately? To buy time?

Attacked Cathy Jones, but let her live so she could deliver a message. Took David Nicholson's daughter hostage for two reasons: so that Nicholson would steer the Langstrom investigation, and so that Nicholson could deliver another message. Risky.

Message from Jones--her badge and the phrase: 'Symbols are only symbols.'

Message from Nicholson--'It's the man behind the symbol, not the symbol, that's important,' followed by his suicide. Why did Nicholson have to die? Answer: because his connection goes deeper than the Langstrom investigation. Vengeance. I reread what I've just written.

I'm just spinning my wheels here.

I put the pages aside. They're not going to help me anymore tonight. I grab the diary pages and get comfortable. I think, as I start reading, that I'm beginning to understand how Sarah's story fits into the bigger picture, not for The Stranger, but for her.

She's telling us what happened to her. That is a microcosm, a way of understanding the story of all those who've been ruined and harmed by The Stranger's actions. If we understand her pain, her story says, then we understand the Russian girl, Cathy Jones, the Nicholsons.

If we cry for her, then we cry for them. And we remember. I turn the page and continue reading.

Sarah's Story

Part Four

43

Some people are just good. Do you know what I mean? Maybe they don't have special or exciting jobs. Maybe they're not the most beautiful or the most handsome, but they're just, well, good. Desiree and Ned were like that.

They were good.

'STOP IT, PUMPKIN,' SARAH SCOLDED.

The dog was trying to stick his head in between her lap and the table, hoping to catch falling crumbs or (hallelujah!) actual pieces of food. Sarah shoved the dog's monstrous noggin away.

'I don't think he's going to listen. That dog loves cake, don't ask me why,' Ned said. 'Come on, Pumpkin.'

The pit bull left with great reluctance, stealing glances back at the cake on the table as he was ordered into the backyard. Ned returned and resumed punching candles through the frosting. Sarah had come to love Ned, just as Desiree had promised. He was a tall, lanky man, a little on the quiet side, but with eyes full of smiles. He always wore the same clothes: button-up flannel shirt, blue jeans, hiking boots. He kept his hair a little longer than was in vogue, he was inclined to meander, and had a slight scruffiness that was endearing; it spoke of a vague absentmindedness when it came to caring for his own appearance. Sarah had seen him get angry, both at her and at Desiree, but she had never felt endangered. She knew that Ned would cut off his own hands before he would ever hit either of them.

'Nine candles, gee-whiz,' he said, rueful. 'Better start checking for gray hairs.'

Sarah smiled. 'You're such a dork, Ned.'

'So I've heard.'

The last candle was placed just as Desiree came through the front door. Sarah noticed that she was flushed, excited. She's really happy about something.

Desiree was carrying a wrapped present, a large rectangular something, and she bustled into the kitchen, leaning the present up against the wall.

'Is that it?' Ned asked, nodding toward the present. Desiree smiled and glowed. 'Yep. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get it. I can't wait until you see it, Sarah.'

Sarah was mystified, in that good, birthday kind of way.

'Cake's all ready?' Desiree asked.

'I just put the last candle on.'

'Well, let me wash my face and cool down and we'll have a birthday!'

Sarah smiled, nodded, watched Desiree hurry off, towing Ned behind her. She closed her eyes. It had been a good year. Ned and Desiree were great. They adored her from the start, and after a month or two of this as a constant, Sarah tossed away the last of her distrust and adored them back. Ned was away a lot, as Desiree had first told her, but he made up for it when he was home, always kind, always attentive. Desiree herself was .. . well .