The twenty-fourth of December dawned clear and crisp. Connor dressed in jeans and the red sweater Lara had given him, then slipped out of the house and headed to the library. A quiet stillness reigned over the UVA campus; most of the dorms had emptied out a week before, at the beginning of Christmas break. The only students remaining on campus were those too far from home or too poor to travel, and Connor knew they would soon be arriving at the library in search of a morning newspaper and a fresh cup of coffee.
In honor of Christmas Eve, the library would close at lunchtime, but Connor wouldn’t have minded working a full day. Christmas was as lonely for him as for the dorm-bound students. His parents had died in the years since Lara left, his mother in the winter of 2001, and his father the following spring. His sister had invited him to spend Christmas with her family in Alaska, but something in him wanted to remain close to the library in case Lara e-mailed him. He had warned her not to contact him through his personal account on AOL, but to send all messages through the library. The UVA reference desk received inquiries from all over the world; even Sloane’s people would have a hard time recognizing her messages in the flood of electronic mail.
The library was quiet when he arrived, with most of the staff out on vacation, and Connor imagined that half of his coworkers were milling around in the mall. The other half were probably at home, happily decorating Christmas trees and baking Christmas cookies—things he might have been doing if God had set his feet on a different path. But though sometimes the air in his little house felt thick with the dullness of despair, he did not regret his decision to send Lara and Hunter away. They were safe in Florida, safe even from Devin Sloane.
Though his Sloane project for the FBI had ended three months after Lara disappeared, Connor had continued to collect articles, information, and gossip about Charlottesville’s resident billionaire. While the other librarians’ computers powered down at night, Connor’s combed the Web for new mentions of Sloane’s name. Every morning an updated list of Web pages and news reports flashed on Connor’s screen.
He poured a cup of coffee, smiled his thanks at Ethel, who had been thoughtful enough to start the antiquated machine, then moved to his computer and tapped the touch pad, waking the machine. The screen flickered as the monitor powered on, and he glimpsed his watchdog screen saver before the password query appeared. He typed in the password, then picked up his coffee and sipped it as the hard drive whirred to life.
The Web spyder had plucked nearly thirty articles from the Web, many of which Connor had seen before. He clicked on the first link, then settled back and frowned at his coffee as the page loaded.
“Ethel, don’t we have sugar?” he called over his shoulder, keeping one eye on the monitor.
“We’re out of everything,” the librarian cheerfully answered. “Martha usually stocks the coffee cabinet, and Martha’s—”
“Out for the holidays.” Connor finished the thought and leaned toward the screen. The link had taken him to a PR release from the Ethan Jefferson Pediatric Hospital for Genetic Research. According to the report, Dr. Gene Wilkerson, one of the hospital’s leading doctors, had successfully cured a child with cystic fibrosis. “We were able to inculcate the patient’s lungs with a new gene, one that effectively ‘turned off ’ the defective gene which causes CF,” the doctor said. “We have every hope this treatment will soon become available to hospitals across the country. None of our work would have been possible without the generous support of Devin Sloane.”
“Three cheers for Saint Devin,” Connor murmured, moving to the next article. “What else has the man been up to?”
The next article was about Sloane support for angiogenesis, a treatment in which genetically altered cells were injected into diseased heart muscle. Doctors at the Ethan Jefferson Pediatric Hospital for Genetic Research have discovered that new cells cause the damaged heart tissue to repair itself, leading some researchers to predict that immortality—or at least longer life—might become a possibility within the next fifty years.
Intrigued by the prospect, Connor propped his elbow on the desk and studied the screen. Immortality? Sloane had voiced some bizarre opinions in the past, but this was a new wrinkle.
“Excuse me?” A pretty coed stepped up to his desk, a microfilm cassette in her hand. She gave Connor a slanted brow and a pouting smile. “I’m all thumbs when it comes to these things. Can you help me?”
“Sure.” Connor left his desk and led the way to the microfilm player. He remembered this girl—she had been hanging around the library for at least a month, asking him to help her find books hidden in plain sight and begging for computer help. Any literate six-year-old could have figured out the computer system by reading the printed instructions, but Connor held his tongue. Even foolish and flirtatious young women had a right to assistance—especially at Christmas.
“Connor?” Ethel Jones waved for his attention, then pointed at the telephone on the reference desk. “Call for you.”
“Be right there.” Connor took another moment to make certain the coed understood how to thread the microfilm cassette properly; then he moved toward the desk. Telephone callers didn’t usually ask for librarians by name, but occasionally a patron he’d helped before made an effort to single him out.
Connor picked up his extension. “Reference desk.”
“Connor? It’s me.” The voice on the other end set his nerves to jangling. He hadn’t heard that voice in five years.
“Lara?” Wave after wave of shock slapped at him. This couldn’t be good. Lara wouldn’t call unless the risk of not calling outweighed the risk of contacting him.
He sank into his chair and braced himself for the worst. “What’s wrong?”
“They found us yesterday. Hunter and I barely got away.”
“Where are you?”
“Roanoke. We flew out last night and I took a hotel room. I figured Sloane would never dream I’d run back to the one state where I could be arrested on sight.”
Connor lowered his head as a wave of sheer black fright swept through him. “How did you pay?”
“It’s okay—I’m Mary Tobias now. I have set of credit cards in her name, and I used them to pay for the flight and the hotel.” She laughed. “You taught me well, Connor. The bills go to a mail drop in Los Angeles. I used the cards a couple of times to establish a pattern.”
He took a deep breath. “Okay—how can I help?”
“Can you come here?” Her voice was low and controlled, but Connor heard an undertone of desolation in it. “I hate to ask, but I really need a backup. E-mail won’t cut it this time.”
He glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock; so he had plenty of time to get to the airport. He could swing by the house and pick up a bag, and get to the hotel before nightfall . . . unless they were watching. He’d have to drive by the house and make sure before going in.
“I’ll take the next available flight,” he whispered, surveying the reference area. Every person in the library had suddenly taken on a sinister aspect, and he wondered if Sloane’s people had thought to cover his movements. They had certainly tailed him the last time they lost Lara.
“We’re at the downtown Hilton.” Her voice broke with huskiness. “Thank you, Connor. I—we—we can’t wait to see you.”
“I’ll be there tonight.”
He hung up the phone, then pulled his jacket from the back of his chair. He could probably drive to Roanoke before he would be able to find a flight, but Sloane’s people might be looking for his car. And though the airport was bound to be jammed with holiday travelers, he might be able to fly standby . . .
He leaned into the doorway of the head librarian’s office. “Ethel? I’m sorry, but you know those fifty vacation days I’ve accumulated? I’m taking them all.”
Ethel looked up, too surprised to do more than gape at him.
Connor rapped the door frame. “If anyone calls for me, tell them I’ll be back in ten weeks or so.”
Ethel pressed her hand to her ample chest, her face a study in concern.
“Is everything okay?”
Connor gave her an apologetic smile. “It’s a family emergency. I’ll explain when I return.”
Before she could protest, he strode out of the reference area, pushed his way through the glass doors, and braced himself against the blustering wind.
The young man at the hotel registration desk gave Connor a plastic smile. “May I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to meet my wife, Mary Tobias. I believe she’s already checked in.”
“Certainly, sir.” The clerk glanced down at his keyboard, then paused. “I’ll need some identification.”
Connor automatically reached for his wallet, then froze. He had nothing to indicate he was related in any way to a woman calling herself Mary Tobias.
Act like you know what you’re doing.
He opened his wallet, fished out his license, and flipped it over the counter. The clerk eyed the photo, looked up at Connor’s face, then frowned as he peered at the name.
“Mr. O’Hara?”
Connor leaned casually against the counter. “My wife is a very modern woman.”
The clerk’s mouth pulled into a thin-lipped smile. “That’s fine, sir. Would you mind if I called to confirm that she expects you?”
“Not at all.”
The clerk picked up the phone, punched in a number, and murmured something in a low voice. Connor turned, trying to appear bored and disinterested, though a creeping uneasiness stirred at the bottom of his heart. Had Sloane’s people followed Lara? Had they followed him from Charlottesville?
His gaze drifted over the people gathering, greeting, and waiting in the large lobby. A group of businessmen in dark suits huddled over drinks at a corner table; a grandmotherly woman struggled under the weight of Christmas packages while next to her a younger woman tried to restrain a squirming toddler. Across the tiled lobby, a dripping teenage girl darted by in bare feet and a towel under the concierge’s disapproving eye—
“Connor?”
Electrified by the sound of her voice, he turned. Lara stood by the door, brunette and beautiful, her brows raised. A blue-eyed boy clung to her hand, his head crowned with a cap of shining blond hair.
Within a moment she was in his arms, one hand warming his neck, her cheek soft against his. He rubbed her back, conscious of the clerk’s eyes upon them, then pulled away and gave her a quick kiss.
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be needing your help,” he called to the clerk as he slipped his arm around Lara’s waist. They must have looked like any other happy couple, an ordinary husband and wife catching up after a brief separation.
The clerk smiled and hung up the phone, then turned his attention to the next guest.
Connor saw the question in Lara’s eyes. “I told him I was your husband.”
“That’s not true.” Hunter’s voice rang through the lobby, cutting through the noise of passing guests and noisy luggage carts.
Connor looked at Lara, but she only took his hand and pulled him toward the parking lot.
“I’ve already rented a car,” she said, reaching out to Hunter with her free hand. “I’ll explain everything as we drive. We have a lot to tell you.”
Hunter slept on a faded couch while Lara and Connor feasted on fried chicken in a country cabin well off the main roads. She had been afraid of late-breaking news reports, Lara explained, and the hotel was too crowded and too public a place. So she’d searched a local phone directory and called a real estate agent about renting a cabin for a week. The owner of this little place had been happy to rent it over the holiday, and he had taken Mary Tobias’s credit card number without hesitation.
“I arranged the whole thing over the phone,” she said, wiping her hands on a towelette, “so he doesn’t even know what I look like.”
Delighted by how well she’d done, Connor grinned at her. “You’re getting good at this,” he mumbled around a chicken leg.
“I had a good teacher.”
A fire burned in the blackened fireplace while carols played from the old black-and-white television in the corner. With a shock Connor remembered the date—Christmas Eve. Despite the tense circumstances, he couldn’t think of a better way to spend the holiday. Lara seemed to have relaxed since they entered the cabin, and Hunter had promptly fallen asleep on the sofa. Lara sat next to her son, one hand occasionally brushing his hair as if to reassure herself he was safe.
On the floor, Connor sat on an orange shag carpet that had probably been installed at the peak of the Monkees’ popularity. “Do you remember that other Christmas?” he asked, wrapping his hand around his cup of diet soda. He felt a subterranean quiver go through him when she smiled. What was wrong with him? He was as nervous as a sixteen-year-old on a first date, yet he had delivered this woman’s baby!
“The Christmas before Hunter was born?” Laughing softly, she leaned her elbow on the arm of the couch, then rested her cheek against her palm. “How could I forget? You decorated that entire tree in booties and rattles. It was the most creative tree I’d ever seen in my life.”
“Yet none of those things did you any good.” Connor lowered his cup, then rubbed his damp hand against his jeans. “I felt so bad about sending you away with so little. I can only imagine how difficult those first few weeks must have been.”
“The experience was good for me. I learned how unimportant things really are.” She looked down, her lashes hiding her eyes. “Those first weeks were tough, but God helped us through those times. He seemed to guide my steps, and I was more fortunate than a lot of women who might have been in the same situation. I had skills, and you had given me the tools I needed to make a fresh start. Any guilt I felt about my false identity paled in comparison to my fear that Sloane might find us.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No, but I was still scared. I used to run from the craziest things. Once when I was standing in line at K-Mart waiting for a baby photographer, I realized that the setup was an ideal way to search for kids of Hunter’s age. So I pulled him out of the line and ran through the parking lot like a madwoman. I worked in five different hospitals or nursing homes while I lived in Pinellas County, and I moved us to a different trailer park every year so we wouldn’t get attached. It meant less money, because I never stayed in any place long enough to build seniority, but I had already learned that things don’t matter. People do.”
Connor set his cup on the floor and reached for the suitcase he had packed in a hurry. He withdrew a brown paper bag and handed it to Lara.
A smile crinkled the corner of her eyes. “A Christmas present?”
“Something like that.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “When the landlady insisted I empty your apartment, I couldn’t stand the thought of not keeping anything for you. So I kept this, because it was one of my favorites. I hope it was one of yours.”
She reached into the bag and pulled out one of Michael’s better watercolors. The framed picture depicted the sunlit park as brilliant with spangled foliage, accented by the pond shimmering against the distant horizon.
Her blue eyes softened. “Mirror Lake in Summer.”
“I donated most of your things to your church thrift store.” He sank back to the floor. “I gave the other paintings to Michael’s mother. She was thrilled, and who knows? Maybe Michael will still be famous some day.”
“I doubt it.” Lara’s mouth curved with tenderness as she set the painting on the wooden end table. “Michael was a good artist, but I don’t think he would have ever been great. All the great ones seem to be troubled, dark souls, and Michael was too happy. Too content. And with Eva’s money behind him, he never had to worry about actually selling any of his work.” She shifted her position and tucked her feet under the crocheted afghan on the sofa, then looked down at her sleeping son. “But thank you, Connor, I appreciate the gift. Hunter likes to draw pictures, too, and some of them are about as good as Michael’s. Not that Hunter is terribly artistic— but I’ve come to realize Michael really wasn’t.”
Connor ran his fingers through the stiff carpet, not sure how to broach the subject of the boy’s genetic manipulation. Hunter seemed like a normal little boy, but from the guarded look in Lara’s eye, Connor suspected there was something . . .
“What about Hunter? Is he . . . what you expected?”
She looked down at her son, the fringe of her lashes hiding her eyes. “Hunter is unique.”
“Of course. He’s your son.”
“No—he’s really special. I don’t know what Devin Sloane and Dr. Braun expected from their bizarre experiment, but I’m not sure if they’d appreciate what I’ve discovered. Hunter’s gift isn’t great strength or knowledge or health, though he is a bright kid and a fairly healthy one.” She looked up, and the look in her eyes pierced Connor’s soul. “He judges truth.”
He stared at her, baffled. “I don’t understand.”
She grimaced in good humor. “I can’t explain it, either, but I noticed it when he first began to talk. If I ever told him something that wasn’t quite true—you know, something like ‘Hunter, be a good boy or Mommy will never buy cookies again,’ he’d look at me in dead seriousness and say ‘no.’” At first I thought he was just bent on saying ‘no’ to everything, then one afternoon I realized he wasn’t rebelling—he was disagreeing.”
A trace of unguarded tenderness shone in her eyes as she looked toward her sleeping child. “When he became a little more verbal, he’d say, ‘That’s not the truth, Mommy.’ One afternoon he was watching a television preacher who said God wanted everyone to be rich. Hunter looked right at the television and yelled, ‘That’s not true!’ and I—well, I nearly fell off the couch.”
A smile nudged itself into a corner of her mouth. “You probably think I’m crazy, but others have seen it too. His kindergarten teacher noticed it, and the manager of our trailer park. Hunter can tell when people are lying—and that’s the only reason we escaped yesterday. A deputy sheriff was checking cars that entered our trailer park, and by the time I saw him it was too late to turn back. I asked him what the trouble was and he said something about skateboarders. He lied, and Hunter knew it.”
Connor experienced a blank moment as a swarm of thoughts buzzed in his brain; then he scratched his chin. “But truth is sometimes subjective, Lara. This ability can’t be infallible. If I believe something, I’m likely to sound sincere, and my beliefs become truth to me. That’s why lie detectors aren’t admissible in court. They can’t judge between subjective and observed truth.”
Lara shook her head. “What you believe doesn’t matter. Hunter seems to be clued in on some universal truth, and sincerity doesn’t sway him. Last summer we ran into a group of Buddhists at the beach. One young man stopped to give Hunter a flower and he said something like, ‘All paths lead to God, little boy.’ I don’t doubt that he was sincere, but Hunter stared at him and very politely said, ‘That’s a great big lie.’”
Connor stared at her, then burst out laughing. Lara tilted her brow. “You think I’m kidding? I remember his words exactly because that was such an unusual thing for a kid to say. I’ve never talked to him about Buddhism, yet he seemed to know what God himself would say in that moment.”
She shivered slightly and rubbed her hands over her arms. “Sometimes his ability frightens me a little. I’m not afraid of him, for he’s a sweet and obedient boy—not perfect by any means, but completely truthful. I’m more afraid of what might happen to him if Sloane finds us.”
Connor leaned back against a chair and rested his arms on his bent knees. His thoughts darkened as ideas he dared not verbalize whirled within. Lara had every right to be frightened, but the world posed more danger than Devin Sloane. If she was correct about Hunter’s unique gift, what would the world do with such a child? A human truth detector— the concept was staggering. Some would disbelieve and seek to discredit Hunter; others might want to worship and elevate him as some sort of evolved human being. Bald truth, unadorned and uncompromising, was politically incorrect. Diplomacy was the language of this century and inoffensiveness its creed. People who feared truth the most were those who held the most dangerous secrets . . . and the means to protect them.
Those thoughts had barely crossed his mind before another followed. If Hunter was somehow tapped into the source of truth, how had the connection been made? Was genetics solely responsible . . . or something else?
Outside, the sun had begun to set, sending streamers of blue-veiled twilight into the room. Connor stretched out on the floor, then looked at Lara through the fire-tinted darkness. “Do you remember what we talked about that last Christmas we were together? We wondered when Jesus understood his mission and how much he realized as a child.”
A melancholy frown flitted across her features. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought of that conversation. But Hunter is not the Son of God. He’s fully human and he’s not perfect. He disobeys sometimes, he loses his temper, and he can’t seem to learn the difference between an inside voice and an outside voice. But I can honestly say he’s never told me a lie. And I have never, ever known him to be wrong when he says someone else is lying.”
Connor opened his mouth to protest, then suddenly clamped it shut. Lara was one of the most sensible women he knew, and if she said Hunter was never wrong, he had to believe her. After all, just yesterday she had staked her life on Hunter’s gift.
“We’ll take some time to think about this.” He turned and rested his arm on the seat of the chair behind him. “Why don’t you come over here. You look like you could use a shoulder to lean on.”
She came without hesitation, taking her place beneath his arm and resting her head on his chest. He cradled her gently, stroking her hair while he prayed for wisdom and the words to ease her burden. “Lara, honey, you’ve come so incredibly far. For some reason, God has given you this boy, unique though he may be. I suppose the best thing to do is trust God to show you what to do next.”
Her body shook in a dry, choked way, but she did not weep. “I’m so tired. So tired of running. And I can’t help but see the irony in my situation— I have a son who tells the truth, and I’m forcing him to live a lie.”
Connor’s spinning thoughts came to an abrupt halt. “What have you told him about his father? If he can tell when you’re hiding the truth—”
“I told him that God is a father to the fatherless.” She turned the catch in her voice into a soft cough and went on. “That is the truth, and he’s never questioned it.”
Connor settled back, enjoying the feel of her in his arms. The television’s gray light blended with the orange glow of the fire, and Lara’s breathing relaxed and deepened as the local news came on. Silence, calm and peaceful, filled the room as the news anchors bantered with each other and wished their audience a merry Christmas.
The news reports were brief and mostly nonviolent. A traffic accident had snarled I-75 through downtown Atlanta; a snowstorm over Chicago had stalled twelve hundred holiday travelers departing from O’Hare. The president and first lady had tucked themselves away at Camp David to observe the holiday with their children, and the mayor of Roanoke used the occasion of his community Christmas concert to call for peace and racial harmony.
Connor was beginning to think Lara had fallen asleep until Devin Sloane’s face flashed on the screen. “This just in from Florida,” the news anchor said, her eyes wide as she read the teleprompter. “Financier Devin Sloane nearly brought his son home for Christmas, but the woman formerly known as Lara Godfrey slipped away from police yesterday. Living in Osceola as Rose Shepard, the woman and her five-year-old son led police on a four-hour chase before disappearing into the throngs of holiday tourists.”
“That’s certainly not the truth.” Lara’s voice cracked the silence. “I drove to the beach and took a taxi to the Tampa airport. I was out of Pinellas County in less than thirty minutes.”
A photo of Lara appeared next. It was an old photograph from her Charlottesville days, when she wore her hair long and blonde. She must have been pregnant in the picture, for her face was rounder.
“Is it true that blondes have more fun?” he quipped, not taking his eyes from the screen.
“The jury’s still out on that one,” she answered, sitting upright. “Being a redhead wasn’t bad, though. I tried that for about a year.”
“If you have seen this woman,” the reporter said, “please call the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children at 800-555-3957.”
Lara’s photo disappeared, replaced immediately by a shot of Hunter.
Alarm rippled over Lara’s face. “No! How’d they get his picture? I was so careful!”
The news report continued: “The woman will be traveling with this child. The boy is blond, blue-eyed, and approximately three feet, nine inches tall.”
“The kindergarten.” Lara groaned and dropped her head to her hands. “School picture day—why didn’t I think?”
Connor ran his hand over her back. “It’s okay. We’re safe here and we’ll think of something.”
She lifted her head but remained upright and tense as the news broke for a commercial. “Hunter deserves better than this,” she muttered. “Children need security and stability. This isn’t good for him.”
“He seems happy.”
“He is—but you wouldn’t notice the things I’ve seen. He has begun to walk on the outside of one foot, so I need to take him to the pediatrician to see if he needs orthopedic shoes. And I think the stress is getting to him—sometimes I see him grimace for no reason. It’s like a nervous tic. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.”
Connor searched for soothing words and found none. The television news anchors lit up the corner of the room again, and this time the screen filled with images of children milling around a smiling Santa who wore the traditional red suit minus the white beard. This Santa’s beard was short-clipped and silver.
The news reporter explained why. “I’m here with Roanoke attorney Franklin Blythe,” she told the camera, her eyes sparkling, “who, when he’s not practicing law, devotes his time to the city’s less fortunate children. Attorney Blythe collects contributions from his clients during the year and distributes those gifts each Christmas Eve.”
The camera zoomed in on Santa, whose dark eyes twinkled above a gentle smile. Moving through a group of youngsters, he pulled gaily wrapped packages from a huge black bag and placed them in the hands of grateful youngsters.
“Did you ever tell Hunter about Santa Claus?” Connor asked, hoping to distract Lara from the news.
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “How could I? I tried to once, but he wouldn’t even consider a story about a man coming down the chimney.” Her smile deepened as she glanced toward her son. “Not that we had a chimney, living in a mobile home. When I realized he would never accept the myth, I told him the truth about Saint Nicholas. He accepted that story, but he never wanted to visit the Santas we saw at the mall.”
She turned back to the television and sighed. “Although,” she whispered, her voice softening, “I think that Santa is the kind of man Hunter could believe in. Look at him, Connor—what drives a man to spend his Christmas Eve with children he doesn’t even know?” She turned, her steady gaze boring into him. “What brought you here to help us, when we haven’t seen you in years? You should have gone on with your life; you should have told me you had other plans. I didn’t want to drag you away on Christmas Eve when you could have gone to visit your parents—”
“Hush.” Entranced by the sadness in her eyes, he brushed the back of his fingers along her cheek. “Don’t you know life stopped for me when you left? I struggled, too, just to get through the day, until you sent me that first e-mail. Then life had meaning again, because I could help you. Because you needed me.”
“I always will.” She leaned back, nestling beneath his arm again. “I’m tired of running and I’m tired of living without you.” She chuckled with a dry and cynical sound. “I think I’m tired of being a lying Baptist. It’s time to tell the truth.”
A pulse beat and swelled at the base of her throat, as though her heart had risen from its usual place. Connor pressed his fingertip to that pulse point, luxuriating in the texture of her satin skin. The touch of her breath sent an involuntary chill through him, and his heart thudded in response.
His lips brushed her cheek. “It’s time to stop running.” Lifting his head, he gazed into her eyes and found the answer he’d sought for years.
Lara Godfrey had come home.