February Fever (21 page)

Fifty-One

Reed was on the
scene within minutes, Doghn shortly after that. They found Dana and Aimee holding me. I was too broken to cry.

When we reached Coeur d'Alene, the police and an ambulance were waiting. Terry was whisked away. A helicopter had already been sent to search for Jed's body before dark fell, but based on my description of where he'd been tossed from the train, they weren't hopeful. It sounded like Jed had fallen into the Silver Valley, a ten-mile stretch of railroad bridge that rose several hundred feet above the ground.

I was diagnosed with a concussion and a sprained wrist. I didn't care.

Reed explained that he was a federal marshal tracking Dana and Aimee. He said that the feds couldn't force them into police protection, but that they could stay close and try to catch Carlo Danza's goons in the act. His best guess was that Terry was working for Danza and had boarded the train as soon as they'd discovered Dana's location, probably in Chicago. He'd chosen poison as his weapon so it was less likely to be traced back to Danza.

It was Carlo's bad luck that Terry had killed the wrong person.
Sofia Ramos had been Dana's housekeeper and close friend back in Brooklyn. Terry hadn't known that. The two women looked enough alike that he'd believed she was Dana.

Chad was the one who'd told Jed where to find me. Apparently, Chad had been keeping a close watch on my whereabouts. After he sent Jed after me, he sent Reed, and then Doghn. The kid had good instincts. I was lucky to be alive.

I didn't have the energy to nod as Reed filled me in. I just sat in the back of the ambulance. It wasn't until Johnny showed up that the tears came. He'd been waiting in Coeur d'Alene, frantic, since he'd gotten word about the train.

“Oh, honey,” he said, lifting me up and gathering me into his arms.

The EMTs stepped back. Reed disappeared. I melted.

“I killed Jed,” I whispered.

Saying it out loud was too much. My knees buckled, and Johnny held me in his arms, murmuring soft words, not letting go. He told me I hadn't killed Jed, that I'd never hurt him, and I wanted to believe it, but I knew better. I was cursed, along with those I loved. Mrs. Berns joined us, and the three of us all wept.

When I was wrung dry of tears, my face swollen, my heart empty, I convinced the EMTs that I would be fine. When they protested, I asked if they could force me to stay. They couldn't. I let Johnny take my hand as we returned the blanket wrapped around my shoulders. The three of us were walking toward Johnny's rental car, Mrs. Berns holding my other hand, when I spotted them.

Dana and Aimee were standing near Johnny's car. Reed was talking to them, but their conversation stopped when they saw me approach. Aimee ran up to me and hugged my waist. Before I knew it, she had shoved Mr. Bunny in my hand and ran back to her mom.

I held the animal in the air. “I can't,” I said. It didn't sound like my voice.

“Please,” Dana said, her eyes also big with tears. She stepped forward but stopped herself. This wasn't over for her. It probably never would be. Her entire life would be devoted to jumping at shadows and worrying for her daughter. “You saved us. Please. Aimee needs to thank you. Let her.”

They turned away, walking toward an unmarked car, mother with her arm around her daughter, their heads leaning close. Reed spared me one last glance before following them. What else was there to say?

People were leaving the train in droves. I expected most of them would never board another. A pink coat caught my eye. It was Ms. Wrenshall standing still amid a moving throng. Her make-up was flawless, and she appeared both strong and vulnerable as she scanned the crowd. I realized I'd never know if she connected with her grand-nephew, and if she had, if he'd deserved her.

I clutched the Velveteen Rabbit to my chest and wept for things lost.

Fifty-Two

I stood outside his
door, a light snow falling on my shoulders. It was a February snow, more ice than fluff, but lacking teeth. Mrs. Berns and Johnny had offered to come with, but I'd turned them both down. I needed to do this alone.

I'd gotten her last name from my mom. It's funny. She'd always been Noel to me. Five-year-olds don't care about last names.

My mom had told it to me in a hushed tone.
Noel Flanigen. I haven't thought of that poor girl in years. Why are you asking?

I had called my mom from a bedside phone in a cheap motel somewhere in eastern Montana. I'd made Johnny pull over once I'd made up my mind. I think he and Mrs. Berns were happy to hear me finally talk. Once I had Noel's last name and last known address, I needed a computer. The hotel manager had been reluctant to let me use his, but a whispered conversation with Johnny changed his mind.

Using the research database I subscribed to for investigative work, I tracked Tom and Corinne Flanigen. They'd moved to St. Cloud immediately after Noel had been abducted, and then to Willmar, and then divorced. Mrs. Flanigen had either changed her name or fallen off the face of the earth because I couldn't track her after that. Mr. Flanigen stayed in the Willmar house, where he still lived.

I brought that information back to the hotel room and sat on the corner of the bed. My whole world felt shrunken, no bigger than a box around my head. When Mrs. Berns appeared in my sightline, I couldn't give her my attention. She shoved a brown package in my hand anyways. It was the box Kennie had asked me to deliver to Seattle.

“What do I do with this?”

“Open it.” Mrs. Berns looked like I felt—sad, deep in her bones sad.

“It's not addressed to me.”

The slightest toss of her shoulder was the only physical response she could muster. “Kennie said you're supposed to open it. She told me to tell you that when we hit Portland, but that ain't gonna happen.”

She disappeared into the bathroom. Johnny was out getting us food. I opened the box.

Inside was a note. The handwriting was flowery, full of unnecessary swirls and flourishes, just like Kennie Rogers.

Mira: I figured you'd need this after spending a week on the train with Mrs. Berns. Don't ever tell anyone I never did anything for you. And stop judging people so quickly. —K

I pushed aside the tissue paper under the note. Inside were a dozen Nut Goodies. I cried again, my tears rolling over the red and green wrappers and pooling at the bottom of the box. That's when I emembered Jed's note. I pulled it tenderly from the jeans I hadn't changed. The scratchy handwriting read like a message from beyond:

Mira: I wanted to tell you my secret, but you're so busy. Don't feel bad about that. You help everyone, and that's cool. Anyhow, my secret isn't that big a deal, and I figgered I'd write it in a note and we could talk about it later. Here it is: I want to move to Colorado to be a snowboarding instructor. Do you think it's stupid? Do you think my parents will be mad?

The air went out of the room. Johnny found me on the floor. He helped me to the bed. He read the note. He held me until Mrs. Berns finished in the bathroom, and when she did, we drove through the night to reach Willmar, a medium-sized town a half an hour from where I grew up. Mrs. Berns and Johnny parked the car at the coffee shop up the block and waited for me.

I knew I needed to see Tom Flanigen and ask him the question, but I couldn't bring myself to push the doorbell. The snow continued to fall. I stood there. Tiny drifts formed on my shoulders. I may have stood there until I was buried if not for the gentle cough behind me.

I turned, disturbing my private snowfall.

He looked exactly like I remembered him, but older.

Noel's dad.

I fought back the tears. I'd already cried enough for two lifetimes.

The words came out in a child's rushed monologue. “Mr. Flanigen? I'm Mira James. I knew Noel. We were best friends the summer before she disappeared. I was the one who let her be taken.”

His face tightened, and it was a terrible thing to see, but it only lasted a moment. He collected himself, nodded, and took me by the elbow to led me inside. Over tea, he caught me up on his life. He and his wife had divorced. Their marriage hadn't survived their grief. She
died in a car wreck a year later. He believed she'd been driving drunk, though it hadn't been proven. She'd drank so much after Noel disappeared.

He ran for state legislature and won. He'd had a quiet political career, characterized mostly by his tireless work on behalf of child safety. He raised their two remaining children on his own. One was a pediatrician in Willmar. The other was a marine biologist in Hawaii. They were happy.

Noel had never been found. There were sightings every few years when a news special that had been recorded after her absence was replayed, but for the most part, the world went on without his beloved daughter. He assumed she was dead, had believed so for years.

His story took over two hours. He paused every few minutes, staring off as if looking for someone, and then he'd return his attention to me. He asked me about myself, too. He was happy that I was a librarian. He was also not surprised I was becoming a PI.

“Makes sense,” he said, as if he heard it every day.

“What do you mean?”

He refilled my tea cup. “You had something traumatic happen to you when you were five. Someone was kidnapped right in front of you. Now you're trying to fix that wrong. You can't though, you know that, right? It wasn't your fault Noel was taken, and you can't bring her back.”

A single tear leaked out. I wiped it away. “I want you to know that I'm sorry. I could have yelled. I could have fought that man off. I just let him take her.”

He'd been staring off in one of his moments, but my words brought his face back to mine, his expression startled. “What?” If not for the gruesome topic, he looked as though he would have laughed. “Honey, you were five years old. Five. Do you remember that age? Shoot, you were a baby.”

He leaned across the table and put his hand on mine, his expression concerned. “You haven't felt responsible for her being abducted, have you? Not all these years?”

My tears answered him. Dammit, I needed to figure out how to get control of myself. He didn't hold me—I sensed he hadn't held anyone since his divorce—but he also didn't look away from my tears. We sat like that for several minutes, me a puddle and him a rock.

When I felt I could control myself again, I reached into my bag. I'd intended to tell him the story of Aimee, but it didn't feel like the right time. Maybe he and I would cross paths again. For now, though, I had a rabbit to give him. He looked confused when I pulled the doll out, but that quickly turned melancholy.

“Noel used to have a doll like this,” he whispered. “It was her favorite.”

I nodded. There was nothing else to say. I kissed him on the top of his head, thanked him for his time, and let Johnny drive us back to Battle Lake.

Fifty-Three

Jed's funeral was held
two days later. The church was so full that speakers needed to be set up in the lobby, and then another set in the parking lot, despite the cold temperatures. People told stories and laughed, and held each other and cried. We celebrated the life of someone pretty incredible.

I held it together until Jed's parent's spoke. They helped each other to the podium, and the church went silent as the congregation became one huge, aching heart. Jed's dad was a salt of the earth guy, a farmer until his wife convinced him to buy the resort. He let his wife step to the microphone.

“I—” The screech of feedback made her stop speaking. The pastor rushed over to adjust it, and she leaned forward again. “I want to say thank you all for coming. Jed was … he was my boy. I know you loved him. We did, too.”

That's all she could get out before the sobbing overtook her. Her husband held her, and I thought he'd lead her away. Instead, he spoke into the microphone, his voice deep and hoarse. “My son taught me about being happy, and about always treating people well. We'll miss him every day of his lives, but it's our job to make sure the best parts of him—his spirit
and his innocence—never die. And I want to especially thank those of you who were his friends. You made his life better. ”

He made eye contact with me. His eyes were so full of sorrow, for Jed and for me, that it was hard to hold that gaze, but I did. And then he did something that I'll forever be grateful for: he smiled. It was small and sad, a shadow of his regular, boisterous grin, but it told me that he understood.

There was not a dry eye in the church. As the choir sang “You'll Never Walk Alone,” I glanced around at the good people of Battle Lake, the big-hearted citizens who'd welcomed me into their town, chaos and death on my heels, and who still accepted me despite how many times I'd turned their lives upside down.

I had a single thought: it was time for me to leave these people alone. They were incredible and kind. They were also mad as hatters, it was true, but there were no better people. They'd always looked out for me.

And that's why it was time for me to move on.

But first, I would celebrate the life of a wonderful man and friend, and I would drink wine with Mrs. Berns, split a Nut Goodie with Kennie, and sleep in the arms of Johnny Leeson.

About the Author

Jess Lourey spent her formative years in Paynesville, Minnesota, a small town not unlike the Murder-by-Month series' Battle Lake. She teaches English and sociology full-time at a two-year college. When not raising her wonderful kids, teaching, or writing, you can find her gardening and navigating the niceties and meanities of small-town life. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and the Loft. You can find out more at www.jessicalourey.com.