Every Fear (28 page)
AY
S
IX
T
he next morning a massive crisp photo of Maria rescuing Dylan from Nadine’s death grip commanded the
Mirror’s
front page.
It ran under the headline
BABY RESCUED
AS ABDUCTOR FALLS TO DEATH
FROM BRIDGE
The paper had cleared eight inside pages for its exhaustive coverage, which included large, stunning news pictures. There was one taken by the birdwatcher showing Nadine waist-high in the river with Dylan in her arms. There were maps, graphics, a time line, and some 12,000 words of coverage. Spangler assigned fourteen reporters to the story and designated Jason as the lead writer.
He got a photo byline.
Key to the
Mirror’s
reporting was the fact that, other than Nadine’s chance meeting with Lee because of Beth Bannon’s car trouble that rainy night, she had no link to the Colsons.
Canadian authorities confirmed that Nadine Sienna
Lasher had been convicted for killing the baby she’d had as a result of her relationship with a married man in Toronto; the court found she was in a disassociated state when it gave her a five-year prison sentence.
“Obviously, her mental instability had reemerged after her release and upon her arrival in Seattle. We are satisfied she is responsible for the murders of Beth Bannon and Axel Tackett and the abduction of Dylan Colson,” Grace Garner was quoted as saying in a release issued by the Seattle police.
It went on to state that Nadine had moved to Washington after starting a relationship with Axel Tackett, a convict she’d met through a website for inmates seeking pen pals. However, investigations by the FBI, Seattle Police, and King County medical officials failed to confirm that she had ever delivered a child in Washington State.
In the wake of Dylan Colson’s dramatic rescue, balloons, flowers, cards, and stuffed toys began arriving at the Colson home in Ballard.
Relatives, friends, neighbors, and a string of politicians visited to share the Colsons’ joy at being reunited with their son.
Elated in their relief, Maria and Lee received them all, accepting the good-natured observations of how Maria refused to let Dylan out of her sight, even in their home.
At every turn, Maria and Lee thanked every police agency, every person who searched, called, and prayed for Dylan’s safety. Maria also offered sympathy for the families of the homicide victims and for Nadine.
“No, I don’t hate her for what she did,” Maria told CNN. “She had a troubled mind and I hope she has found peace. If anything, what she did has made me love my son even more, if that’s possible.”
In answering follow-up questions from Grace, Perelli, and Dupree, Lee had accepted that given the evidence that police had at the time, they had reason to suspect he may have been involved.
“I understand. No hard feelings.” Lee shook hands with all of them.
Subsequent investigations through e-mails and phone records generated by Axel Tackett led the FBI and Royal Canadian Mounted Police to make several arrests on both sides of the border of people suspected in black market baby-buying and adoptions. Joy Montgomery’s confidential cooperation also helped. Officials saw no need to challenge the Montgomerys’ adoption of Emily.
As they stepped from the Colson house, Grace spotted a familiar red 1969 Falcon parked across the street.
Leaning against it with his arms folded, Jason Wade smiled as she approached him alone.
“You’re looking mighty pleased with yourself, Jason.”
“Could say the same about you.”
“What’re you doing here, haven’t you milked this story enough?”
“Actually, I was looking for you.”
“Why? The case is closed.”
“Not where we’re concerned, Grace.”
Her smile grew a bit as she eyed him, brushing away the silky strands of hair a breeze pushed across her face.
“I don’t date,” she said.
“Do you eat?”
“Sometimes.”
“How about one of those times, we just eat together?”
She searched his eyes and liked what was there, but she wasn’t sure.
“Grace, don’t you sometimes get a bit tired of eating alone in your apartment?”
She looked away and smiled. Jason followed her gaze down the street to her partner, Perelli, sitting behind the wheel of their unmarked Malibu, nodding big nods.
“But not a date, because I don’t date.”
“Hell no.”
“Sure, I’ll eat with you, Jason.”
He nodded.
“I’ll call you.”
“Maybe I’ll call you first.” Grace Garner gave him a bigger smile as she walked away.
That night, Jason drove to his old man’s place south of the airport. They drank Cokes while a couple of steaks sizzled on the barbecue and they watched the jets lifting off and landing.
They didn’t speak much, sitting there listening to the planes, enjoying the sun setting over the Pacific.
“Thanks for everything, Dad.”
His old man shrugged.
Jason stared at the ice in his glass, waiting for the right moment, then decided it might never come. After watching a 767 climb out over the ocean, he said, “So what happened all those years ago when you were a Seattle cop?”
His old man squinted toward the horizon from under his ball cap.
“I mean, Boulder was getting into it with you. I know you were on the job for a few years, then quit. Dad, what the hell happened?”
His old man removed his hat, looked into it as if the answer were there, replaced it, and continued staring at the jet that was disappearing in the horizon. Probably headed to Tokyo, Hong Kong, or Hawaii—someplace far away.
“I’m going to tell you about it.”
That surprised Jason.
“Over the past years, a day hasn’t gone by that I haven’t thought about telling you.”
“Shoot.”
“Just not today. I’m just not ready, son.”
He turned to face him and the unease Jason saw in his old man’s eyes was enough to convince him that he had to let his father tell him when he was ready.
“Sure. Steaks look about done.”
One of Beth Bannon’s church groups claimed Nadine’s body in what one Seattle columnist called an irony worthy of Shakespeare.
The columnist had learned that the group maintained
a small cemetery in a remote reach of Washington State where it saw to the burials of miscarriages, orphaned runaways, street people, and paupers.
It had arranged for a small headstone that would read:
N
ADINE
S
IENNA
L
ASHER
“Heaven’s door opened
and
washed away every fear”
Getting this story to you was not a solitary effort. My thanks to my editor, Audrey LaFehr, and everyone at Kensington who played a role in the production, promotion and distribution of the book. Again, my thanks to Wendy Dudley, Mildred Marmur, Jeff Aghassi, John and Jeannine Rosenberg, Shannon Whyte, Donna Riddell, Beth Tindall, Therese Greenwood, Prime Crime in Ottawa and the Florida gang, who always save me a seat at Bouchercon. A special thanks to Barbara, Laura and Michael.
I would also like to thank my British publisher, MIRA UK, for their fantastic work. And I tip my hat to the crew at www.shotsmag.co.uk. As well, my thanks to my Toronto agent, Amy Moore-Benson, and my London agent, Lorella Belli.
Thanks to friends in the news business for their overwhelming support and thanks to the staff of some of crime fiction’s leading publications,
Crime Spree, Mystery Scene, Deadly Pleasures
and
Mystery Readers Journal.
And my special thanks to sales representatives, bookstore managers and booksellers I’ve come to know for putting my work in your hands. Which brings me to you, the reader. Thank you for your time, for without you, a book remains an untold tale. I hope you enjoyed the ride and that you’ll be back for the next one.
Don’t miss the next Jason Wade novel,
PERFECT GRAVE.
Read on for an exclusive look at the first chapter
For Sister Anne, death was always near.
But tonight, it
felt closer
and she didn’t know why.
Tonight was like any other in the Compassionate Heart of Mercy Shelter at the fringe of Seattle’s Pioneer Square District, where she was offering tomato soup to those who had lost hope. Their pasts haunted their faces. The pain of their lives stained their bodies with lesions, needle tracks, and prison tattoos.
Moving along the rows of plastic-covered bingo tables, Sister Anne saw how her “guests” occasionally looked up from their meals to the finger paintings on the basement walls, pictures taped there by the children of the shelter’s day care program. Portraits of happy families holding hands under sunny skies and rainbows.
No dark clouds. No frowns. No tears.
Glimpses of heaven.
She was moved by the juxtaposition of the dreamy images and the cold realities of these unfortunate souls, handcuffed to mistakes, tragedies, and addictions, searching the artwork of inner-city children for answers.
Silent cries for help.
Offering help was Sister Anne’s job. Her mission was to rescue broken people. To give them hot food, hope, and the courage to mend themselves.
“Would you like more soup, Willie?”
A gravelly whisper emerged from the crumb-specked beard of the former aircraft mechanic, who’d lost his job, his house, and finally, his family, to gambling.
“I don’t want to trouble nobody, Sister.”
“It’s no trouble, dear. Sister Violet tells me you’re doing well in recovery.”
“Haven’t missed a session in two months.”
“Keep the faith, dear heart. You’re my hero.”
Sister Anne gripped his shoulder and pulled him close, indifferent to the smells of alcohol, cigarettes, body odor, and despair that were common here. The nuns of the order met the challenge of their mission, but Sister Anne embraced it.
For whether she was handing out wrapped sandwiches to homeless men, or comforting runaway teens and abused women, or whether she was entering prisons to counsel inmates, Sister Anne was a tireless warrior for charity.
She never lectured or preached; she served with humility, for she, too, had made mistakes. Yet none of the other sisters knew her story, or how she came to have her “God moment,” which had inspired her devotion.
Sister Anne was private about her previous life.
In fact, upon first meeting her, few people figured Anne Braxton to be a nun. An easy thing to do since the Vatican’s push in the 1960s to modernize the church. For the sisters of this small order, it meant they did not live a cloistered life behind the stone walls of a convent or maintain the tradition of wearing habits, wimples, and veils.
Tonight, Sister Anne wore faded jeans and a Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt, dotted with gravy and smelling of tuna casserole. With her scrubbed face and cropped hair feathered with gray, it was easy to peg her as a fortysomething volunteer from a middle-class suburb. The small silver cross hanging from the black cord around her neck and her simple silver ring betrayed none of the inner fire that had fused her to her community.
For she had shouldered the anguish of those she’d worked so hard to help. Next to Willie was Beatrice, who’d been a schoolteacher in Ravenna when she accidentally backed her minivan over a six-year-old girl on a school trip. The girl died. Beatrice fell into a depression and was slipping away until the night police were called to the Aurora Avenue Bridge and talked her out of jumping into Lake Union. Since then, Sister Anne had been helping Beatrice forgive herself.
Sister Anne did the same with Cooper, a haunted soldier, whose tank took a direct hit in the rear. Everyone in the crew died. “Cooked alive.”
Only Cooper got out.
Sister Anne prayed every day for Cooper, Beatrice, and Willie, refusing to let them believe they were worthless, unloved, and at fault for what had happened. No one is to blame, she would tell them, and the new people who arrived with similar tragedies every day at the shelter. Each one of them mattered and she wanted them to know that, especially at the end of the evening before they vanished into the night.
“Thank you for coming. God bless you and good luck.” She hugged each of them as they departed.
Later, while collecting plates, her thoughts turned inward as she reexamined her past, her guilt clawing at her until she pushed it away.
But it kept returning.
Tonight, Sister Anne was the last to leave, staying behind to study the next day’s menu. Again, the odd feeling drew her back through the years to the time when everything changed. It had been happening more and more over the past weeks, as if something was closing in on her.
Was God telling her something?
As she locked up, she stopped at the door and considered the line of prayer from St. Francis posted there: “It is in dying that we are born into eternal life.”
She thought about it for a moment, then headed for the street. On the bus, she looked at the banner ads for unwanted pregnancies, condoms, distress centers, police tip lines urging people to report suspicious behavior. We live in a world of pain and we all have our crosses to bear.
She closed her eyes.
Her bus ascended the hills between First Hill and Yesler Terrace, toward a small enclave of clean, modest buildings straddling the eastern edges of the two neighborhoods. Mercifully, it was a short ride.
Echoes of distant sirens and a far-off car alarm greeted her at her stop, reminding her of a recent rash of car prowlings and a few break-ins at the fringes of her neighborhood.
Walking along the rain-slicked sidewalk, she saw the high-rise luxury condos of First Hill towering over the public housing properties of Yesler Terrace. Beyond them, across I-5, Seattle’s glittering skyline rose into the night. To the north she saw the Space Needle, to the south, the stadiums where the Mariners and her beloved Seahawks played.
Sister Anne’s home was a few short blocks away in the cluster of well-kept town houses. A generous parishioner had donated one to the archdiocese. Hers was the middle building. She reached for the door and stopped cold.
