Genna woke just before dawn, her heart racing, her pulse pounding. It had been almost a week since she had fired the shots that had brought an end to the violence that defined the life of Michael Homer, but the memory of that night still haunted her. She’d never killed at point-blank range before, and though she had no regrets, she found herself questioning, over and over, the fact that it had just felt so damned good to pull the trigger, to have been the one to take him out. She’d finally admitted as much to John the night before.
“I guess it would feel good,” he’d told her. “Don’t lose sight of the fact that, in his lifetime, Michael Homer destroyed or damaged countless lives. And how many others might there have been, who, like Chrissie, never came forth to testify? I don’t think we’ll ever know just how many victims there really were. So, what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that, I don’t know, I guess I think it should have been harder for me to pull the trigger.”
“All right, then, give me one good reason why it should have felt bad.”
“It should never feel good to take a human life.”
“In my book, he was a few degrees less than human.” John’s jaw set tightly. “And I can tell you with all certainty that I would have been more than happy to have delivered the killing shot myself, Gen. I actually thought I had there for a moment, when I broke down the backdoor of the Millers’ cabin. If Michael hadn’t slipped out the side door when he did, the shot I fired could very well have taken him down. I was very sorry to have missed, though frankly, shooting him was a much kinder end than he deserved. It was a far better death than he permitted any of his victims. And it’s a far better world without him in it. For a lot of people.”
Genna couldn’t argue.
Interviews with the survivors had told a heartbreaking tale of starvation and neglect, terror and torture, chained for days to their beds, the most fortunate of them locked in the cabin with the leaking ceiling that permitted rainwater to cascade in during heavy downpours. By turning their heads a certain way, several of the women had been able to catch the water in their mouths, and it had proved to be their salvation, Michael’s rations being painfully insufficient.
Surprisingly, none of the women had been raped.
“I don’t think he could,” Genna had told John over dinner. “I think he couldn’t perform, but he didn’t stop trying. I think he thought it would be an indescribable thrill to relive the acts he’d committed years ago with the same victims. He’d even set the stage in exactly the same way, wearing the white robe and setting up the candles. But his prey were no longer children. He couldn’t make that the same. And I think that just fed his frustration and his anger. These were the same people who’d testified against him, the ones he needed to punish, but they were no longer the same, though in his mind, they were still children. I think it confused him and angered him. He wanted them to be the same as they had been, to feed his fantasies in the same way, so that he could be gratified and feel the same high. But I don’t think he was physically capable of having sex with an adult woman. And so they were spared, at least, that.”
“But he didn’t stop the abductions, even when he realized this.”
“He couldn’t stop. He had to take us all, all of us who had testified against him, in the same order he’d taken us before. And frankly, I don’t think he accepted the fact that he couldn’t complete the act. I think he thought that it was the victim’s fault, but perhaps the next one would be right.”
“I wonder what he planned to do with you all, after he finished with you.”
“I think he would have taken me to one of the cabins and kept me there, just as he was keeping the others.”
“For how long?”
“Till we died. Six of them had already died. It was only a matter of time before the others would die off, one by one. Though some were certainly more resilient than others and might have had a better chance to survive. The women in cabin seven, for example, were amazingly resourceful. There’s no doubt in my mind that Lani Gilbert kept several of her cabin mates from going over the edge by keeping them focused for several hours a day with her humming games.”
“Very clever of her.” John nodded. “Humming a few bars of a song, then stopping so that someone else would have to pick up and hum the next, and so on around the cabin until the song was ended. And then she’d start a new one.”
“Shannon Potter said that was the only thing that kept her sane, even though their vocal chords were ragged and barely functioning toward the end. It was the only diversion they had. Other than when Michael’s daily visit to bring them food and take them to the outhouse.”
“I’m still not certain I understand why he just didn’t leave them to die the way the other six did.”
“Why, that would have been killing. I don’t think he planned on killing anyone. Except for that young state trooper and Kenny Harris, it seems. Killing them was necessary. Killing the children would have been a terrible sin.”
“And raping children is not a sin?” John asked dryly.
“The Bible doesn’t say, Thou shalt not rape,” she told him. “But it does say Thou shalt not kill. I think he saw himself as some sort of instrument of the heavens or something. The entire time he was tying me up, he was muttering Scripture and praying and mumbling something about needing to consecrate the children.”
“Which was probably his means of justifying his pedophilia.”
“That’s as good a guess as any, since we’ll never really know what he was thinking,” Genna noted. “I guess that’s part of what’s bothering me. About having killed him, I mean. I think I’d have liked to have known why. What it was that made him what he was. How the same environment that made one son a pillar of the community could turn out another who was so evil.”
“Number one son didn’t wear his mother’s clothes and sleep in his mother’s bed,” John reminded her.
“There is that,” she sighed. “John, I think that when Michael was Anna he was—”
“Exploring his feminine side?”
“Not a joke, John,” Genna grimaced. “I think he was being his mother. Being nurturing. Maternal.”
“Do you think he really thought he was her?”
“Maybe. Who knows? But when he needed another persona to get close to me, it was easy enough to pass himself off as a woman. He’d been doing it for years. Of course, Patsy is totally beside herself that she hadn’t seen through him. Though I don’t know why she would have. She, too, was only in court that one day, with me.”
“But Crystal saw it,” John reminded her.
“Crystal saw something in Nancy that she recognized, though she didn’t immediately connect it with Michael. And to tell the truth, there had been something about Nancy that had struck a very distant chord with me, too, that first time I saw her. But it was so vague that I just dismissed it. I had no reason to think that Nancy was anyone other than who she professed to be. But for Chrissie, in her fragile state, well, seeing Nancy was enough to spook her and send her running back to Kentucky,” Genna said. “She thought she was having another breakdown when she looked up and saw Nancy walking down the driveway and had a flashback to seeing Michael walk across the clearing in the camp.”
“That’s what sent her packing?”
“That was it. But fortunately, Patsy was able to catch up with her. Of course, by the time she got the truth out of Chrissie, we’d already figured out that Nancy wasn’t. . . well, wasn’t Nancy at all.”
Now, in the early morning hours, Genna wrapped the lightweight blanket around her and tried to make sense of the past week of her life.
“Cold?” Without opening his eyes, John reached out a hand for her and caressed the first body part he touched, which happened to be her leg.
“No. Just restless.”
“There’s a cure for that,” he said drowsily, pulling her down to lay beside him and turning to cradle her in his arms.
John drifted in and out of sleep, never fully asleep, never completely awake, the thought never far from his mind that he’d almost lost her forever this time. For that alone, he wished Michael Homer’s soul a Godspeed to eternal fire. And he knew with total certainty that he would never again want to wake up without her next to him. While conceding that, all things considered, that might not be possible, he decided to opt for the next best thing.
“Will you come home with me next weekend?” he asked later that morning as they concluded a very late breakfast. “Sharpe’s offer of a few extra days off still stands, you know.”
“Well, I was hoping to get up to the cabin to help Patsy close up for the season,” she told him.
“If we can put that off till the following week, I’ll help too.”
“Really?” Genna grinned. Patsy would be delighted.
“Yep. I can winterize with the best of ’em,” he said solemnly, and she laughed. “My mother wants to celebrate that you escaped from the bad guy and that good has triumphed over evil.”
“What did she really say?” Genna’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“That it’s her sister Connie’s birthday and if I value my life I’ll be at Uncle Vinnie’s restaurant at seven on Saturday with the rest of the family. And if I know what’s good for me, I’ll bring you along.”
“Well, then, I guess we do know what’s good for you.”
“I guess we do,” he grinned, taking her by the hand and leading her back down the short hall to the cozy bed with the rumpled sheets.
The narrow street in front of the Grotto, one of many small Italian restaurants that sat tucked between two row houses in the genial neighborhood that made up South Philadelphia, was packed, bumper to bumper, with cars bearing license plates from six different states. John had had to park his Mercedes in the alley behind his mother’s house and walk the five blocks to the restaurant, but he didn’t mind, since it gave him a little time to think over, once again, what he was about to do, and the manner in which he’d do it.
John linked his hand with Genna’s, and together they strolled leisurely through the streets where John had grown up. There was a comfort in the familiar houses, with their window boxes overflowing with the last of that season’s petunias and the concrete urns that sported geraniums gone leggy so late in the summer. A car sped around the corner, its tires squeaking, its muffler bellowing, and John sighed with contentment. There was, for true satisfaction, no place like home.
In honor of his wife’s sixty-fifth birthday, John’s Uncle Vinnie had painted the front door of his restaurant sky blue—which she’d been after him to do for years though no one knew why—and closed for business for the night, choosing to open the doors only to family. When John and Genna arrived, the party was in full swing, and apparently had been for some time, judging by the number of cousins who had clearly been at the bar a little too long.
“Johnny!” His mother spotted them the minute they walked through the door. As he knew she would. “Genna! Everybody, my Johnny and his Genna are here!”
A cheer went up from the bar. Even the DelVecchio brothers raised a glass in their honor.
“You’re heroes, the two of you,” Rita Mancini grabbed them both, kissing each of them on both cheeks without missing a syllable. “Catching that pervert. . . Genna, to be as brave as you are! Madre mia, when I heard what was going on out there! I would have been terrified if Aunt Magda hadn’t put the eye on that Michael person. . .”
“That must have been what saved me,” Genna nodded solemnly, then tried not to register surprise when Rita grabbed her by the hand and called to her aunt, “Did you hear that? She’s crediting you with saving her, Aunt Magda! It must have been the eye, she said. Did my Johnny pick the right girl or what, I ask you?”
“Actually, I did pick the right girl,” John said, taking Genna’s hand and leading her to an empty seat next to his cousin Maria. “I’m hoping she’ll let me keep her.”
Trying not to blush, Genna looked up into John’s dark eyes that suddenly lost all hint of playfulness.
What in the world, she was thinking, as he dropped slowly to one knee in front of her, and seemed to search her eyes for the answer to a question he’d yet to ask. The voices in the crowd began to hush, as one by one, cousins and aunts and uncles elbowed each other into silence, and craned their necks to watch, not knowing exactly what John was up to, but certain that they didn’t want to miss a minute of it. Somehow, it was understood that the stuff of family legends was about to take place.
“Genna, over the past few years, we’ve been through so much together. We’ve shared the very best and the very worst of our lives and of ourselves. These past few weeks have made it very clear to me that we’ve spent far too much time apart. That I do not want to spend another day without you.” He paused and asked, “So I need to know. Do you feel the same way about me?”
The audience faded away, and all she could see was John.
“Yes. I feel the same way,” she said softly.
He drew a black velvet box out of his jacket pocket, and opened it. Taking out the gold band with the glittering solitaire and sliding it onto her finger, he asked, “Will you marry me? For better or for worse?”
All she could do, was nod.
“Oh, my God, he gave her a ring,” Rita Mancini declared, breaking the silence and clutching her left hand to her heart as she plopped back into her seat. “Tess! Did you hear that? Nate, are you taking notes? Is my Johnny a poet or not? Did you ever? Vinnie! We need champagne! My Johnny’s getting married!”
Music poured from the jukebox, and someone handed Genna a glass of bubbly wine.
“You certainly didn’t make it easy for me to say no,” she laughed above the festivities, touching John’s face and drawing it near for a kiss.
“True. But you can’t blame me for stacking the house. It was a chance I didn’t want to take,” he said, kissing her back. “Though you could always change your mind. I could turn off the jukebox and you could make an announcement—”
“In this crowd? I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Looks like I’m stuck with you.”
“Looks like you are.”
“For better or for worse.”
“So far this month we’ve had a little bit of both.”
“I liked the better part best.”
“So did I.” He felt in his pockets for change, then ducked over to the jukebox, telling her, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
He slipped a few coins into the slot and punched a few buttons, then returned to put his arms around her, and lead her in a slow dance as the music began to play.
“So, your Aunt Magda put the eye on Brother Michael,” Genna said, swaying to the sounds of harmony.
“That’s what she says.”
“Think she might like a job with the Bureau?” Genna asked.
“If they pay in gold bracelets, they might be able to work something out.”
“What’s this song, anyway?” Genna strained her ears to pick up the words.
“‘You Belong to Me,’” he whispered, pulling her close. “It’s an old South Philly favorite. . .”
“Okay, what’s going on here?” Genna stood on the back deck of the cabin, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. Below on the lawn, stood John, Patsy, and Chrissie, obviously conferring on something. “What are the three of you up to?”
“Just planning ahead,” John grinned.
“Planning what?”
“The future,” he told her, reaching up to the deck to take her hand and lead her down the steps.
“And what exactly do you see, when you look into the future?” she asked as he walked her across the grass to join Chrissie and Pats.
Taking her by the arms, he turned her toward the cottage.
“I see a second floor there,” he told her as he settled her into the circle of his arms, her back leaning against his chest, “with a couple of bedrooms and a bath.”
“I thought a little balcony across the back might be nice, in the event that whoever was staying there might be able to step out and catch a sunrise or watch the moon come up,” Patsy said.
“Hmmmm. Sounds lovely,” Genna murmured. “Who might be staying there?”
“You never know,” John said. “And Patsy mentioned that she’d been dreaming for years about a screened porch across the back. You know, so that she’d have a place to entertain on rainy days, or to eat on those nights when the bugs are so fierce.”
“Entertain?” Genna frowned. “Patsy, you never entertain.”
“Then she thought that maybe a slightly larger kitchen might be in order,” John continued on as if he hadn’t heard.
“So, of course, while she’s doing that, she might as well add a few more feet onto the other side and make the bedrooms a little larger,” Crystal added. “Maybe even add one more room downstairs.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” She twisted in his arms to look at the three beaming faces. “Just who do you think is going to be coming to stay?”
“Well, Patsy figured that Crystal needs her own room. And then there’s you and me, but we can share one room. Then there needs to be a guest room, so that there’s a place for my mother to stay when she visits—”
“Your mother?” Genna laughed. “When do you think your mother is going to visit all the way out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Well, I’m figuring that once we have children, we’ll want them to spend some time in the summer up here at the lake. And I figure that my mother will want to spend time with them, too, so we thought maybe we should plan on adding one more room, just in case.”
“I see,” Genna said thoughtfully. “And what do you think Mamma Mancini will think of Bricker’s Lake?”
“Oh, I think she’ll love it, once she gets over the fact that it doesn’t have a boardwalk and no one sells saltwater taffy like they do in Avalon and Ocean City.”
“Somehow, I just don’t see your mother out there with a fishing pole, tying May flies onto a hook,” Genna mused.
“Maybe not at first, but you know, Patsy’s pretty tough to get around. You know, when she sets her mind to something. . .”
“Which reminds me, John. Let’s get moving here. The day is passing and the fish are lively.” Patsy patted him on the back and headed for the lake.
“I almost forgot, I made a little lunch to take with us.” Crystal started for the house, but Patsy called her back.
“It’s already in the boat, honey.” She swung an arm over Chrissie’s shoulder and walked with her toward the dock, calling back to John, “Time’s wasting, John Mancini.”
“Right, Pats,” he called to her, then told Genna, “We can talk about the addition later. Patsy tells me there’s a big bass out there calling my name. She’s going to help me to find it. Want to come along?”
“No, I want to get the rest of my reports on my interviews with Michael’s victims e-mailed into the office. I want it all behind me, once and for all. After this weekend, I don’t want to have to think about it.”
“Now, you know, that’s not going to be possible. There’s a long road ahead of us, between now and the time that it’s all put away for good.”
“I know. But once my reports are done, I won’t have to dwell on the details.” She frowned, adding, “That is, of course, until the next case comes in. . .”
John bit his bottom lip. Now just wasn’t the time to share with Genna the phone call he’d had from Calvin Sharpe the night before. Three young boys had gone missing in a small Texas town. The team of four—Genna, John, Dale, and Adam—had been so highly praised that the Bureau thought they might just send them all down to look into it.
Well, she’d hear about it soon enough, John figured. She just didn’t have to hear it today, when she seemed more relaxed than she had for weeks. And she didn’t have to hear about it here, where the last bit of summer served up the scent of clematis and the first touch of gold on the maple trees that huddled close to the edge of the lake.
“Last chance,” Patsy warned as she started the engine of her flat-bottomed boat and prepared to shove off.
“You heard her.” John stole a quick kiss, then turned to the lake. Over his shoulder, he called back to Genna, “Patsy says there’s a ham supper down at Stillwell’s tonight, so we won’t be out on the lake too long.”
Genna laughed and waved, watching her city boy take long strides across the lawn and down to the dock, where he effortlessly boarded the boat just as Patsy prepared to pull away.
They wouldn’t be more than an hour or two, plenty of time to finish up that last report. She’d save it on a disk, then print it out when she arrived back at the office on Monday. She paused momentarily to sniff at Patsy’s yellow roses on her way past a flower bed, and savored the last little bit of summer, feeling infinitely grateful to be where she was.
Bricker’s Lake suits me just fine, she sighed with pleasure. And it seems to suit Crystal. Even John appears to be perfectly content here.
Genna continued her walk back up toward the cottage, trying to envision the changes John had talked about making. Another room would bring the back wall at least as far as that clump of hydrangeas there on the right side of the property. And the screened porch would bring it out even farther. Of course, there was plenty of room between the back of the small house and the lake, more than enough room for the proposed addition and then some.
A second floor would be lovely, a bedroom with a balcony overlooking the lake would be lovelier still.
Genna looked back over her shoulder to the lake, where Patsy was handing over the wheel to Crystal and, no doubt, giving her instructions on steering. Watching from the shore, her eyes misted with the knowledge that that little boat held everything that mattered most in her life, that there on its deck, her past and her present merged with her future.
The reports, she realized suddenly, could wait.
“Hey!” she called, breaking into a trot and heading for the lake. “Wait up. . . !”