Disturbance (39 page)

Then there was the matter of the police failing him when he initially reported his daughter and his former mother-inlaw missing, a failure that nearly caused the death of Marguerite Page and put the child at the mercy of a man like Roderick Beignet. That, Dina said, was being looked at by the people in her firm who handled civil cases.

Perhaps the most convincing argument was the way the public embraced Donovan himself. Aside from his story, there was his unblemished record of service to his country. He had a handsome face and a beautiful child, and they both became instant media darlings. The—elected—D.A. is not a stupid man. Besides, the D.A.’s kindness toward Donovan guaranteed the cooperation of important witnesses in bigger cases.

Kai loudon awaits trial. He
has done a lot of talking about Quinn Moore from his jail cell.

Roderick Beignet, in a cell not far from Kai’s, does the same.
Roderick has the gift, Pete says, of never telling a story the same way twice. “And still manages to avoid including facts in any version.”

Quinn Moore has not been seen since he checked himself out of the hospital.

I spend a certain amount of time in my life trying to convince myself he is unlikely to come after me.

So many kindnesses came my
way.

Some that might seem trivial were important to me.

Travis, Ethan, and Jack went back to the mountains and made sure that no gear got left behind. Although law enforcement took everything in the cave, impounded the Subaru, and removed some of what was in our “camp” as evidence, there were a few items still there—and my guys made sure those items got taken out of the wilderness, and spared me having to revisit a beautiful place that was too freshly attached to nightmares.

I would be a liar if I tried to pretend that being able to fight back meant I walked away victorious and that was that. The mind plays tricks. Against fifteen minutes or so of action, I had hours of terror as Kai and Parrish’s captive. Even winning a brutal fight does not, it turns out, give a person a mental erase button. In fact, sometimes the replay goes haywire, and where you won in real life, imagination shows you a convincing picture of a different denouement. You pull the trigger and the gun doesn’t fire. The garrote breaks in two. A corpse rises and grabs you by the throat. You are held down by someone younger and stronger, who is reaching between you, and nothing you do stops him.

You wake or snap out of it, but not without moments of being unsure of the true outcome.

During those first weeks, Ben and J.C. called often, as did a
couple of other survivors of the first trip, talking me through the days when even therapy sessions weren’t enough to keep me from feeling the vulnerability and terror that follow being held hostage. Other friends helped, too.

No one was as good to me, or as essential to my getting through those days, as Frank. He was, I realized, always going to be the luckiest thing that ever came of any of my luck.

Because of them, I persevered.

I was surprised when I
went to visit Donovan, one day about a month after our adventures, to see that this one-time loner—who had already taken his former mother-in-law and his daughter under his roof—now had a tenant. Violet Loudon had moved in, along with an aide she had hired after selling her house.

Donovan and I sat on the patio, watching Miranda play with a calico cat—another addition. “This is quite a change for you,” I said.

“I find I do better with groups of women than I do living with just one.” He blushed. “That doesn’t sound right.”

I laughed. “I understood what you meant.”

“Miranda needs her grandmother. Violet needs all of us. I need all of them.” He paused, then said, “The universe is expanding, right?”

“Right.”

“You call on me, Irene Kelly, any time. I’ve got your back, however far out you stand on the edge of your universe.”

The universe expanded all about
me. I could adapt, change, acquire new skills, accept the kindness of friends, accept a new kind of friend. What had seemed to me an
impossibility—that I could prevail over such attackers—turned out to be within my grasp. And if that victory had a price, I knew defeat would have had a greater one.

A once utterly unimaginable possibility—that I would not be a newspaper reporter at this time of my life—was a reality. I still grieve the loss of the
Express.
In one way or another, perhaps I always will.

It turns out, though, that what we grieve can show us what we have truly loved and why we loved it, and what we should reach for again in the coming day, should we choose to reach at all.

I choose to reach.

I was once told by a college professor that no classroom lecturer could be held responsible for the mangled information that ended up in his students’ notes. Similarly, the individuals who helped with this book should not be blamed for my errors.

I am indebted to my friends who work or have worked for newspapers. To all of you, wherever you find yourselves now, my deepest gratitude for your help. Thank you for your work as professionals in a field that deserves to be better valued.

Edward J. Dohring, M.D., whose name my readers may recognize from previous books, is a board-certified orthopedic spine surgeon, a fellowship-trained spine surgeon, medical director of the Spine Institute of Arizona, and a researcher and teacher on the care of spinal disorders. His help with the passages about Parrish’s injury and recovery was invaluable, as was his review of information about Violet’s care.

Kitty Felde, a National Public Radio special correspondent and an award-winning playwright, was of immeasurable assistance when I asked her to talk to me about Irene’s career change. She was able to offer insights from her own experiences and brought her wonderful imagination to the task of anticipating the challenges Irene would face.

What Rachel taught Irene about self-defense comes from true leaders in the martial arts. Grandmaster Al Tracy (who has been teaching karate for over fifty years) and his wife, Kenpo karate black belt (7th dan) Pat Tracy, who run Tracy’s International Studios of Self Defense, generously shared their expertise, read and reread fight scenes, and offered excellent advice.

Among my journalist friends, I must take time to individually thank Debbie Arrington, who from the moment I decided I wanted to write about a newspaper reporter, never has failed to spare me the time it took to answer my questions.

Thanks also to my nephew, Detective John Pearsley, Jr., of the El Cajon Police, who answered my frantic late-night emails on police procedure. Forensic anthropologist Marilyn London answered my questions about age determination and frozen remains. Melodie Grace and my brother, John G. Fischer, helped with questions about legal procedures.

I am also indebted to
my sister Sandra Fischer, who read each chapter as it was written and caught many of my errors.

This book received shepherding from Marysue Rucci and Amanda Murray, and most especially from Sarah Knight at Simon & Schuster. I’m also indebted to Philip Spitzer, my agent, for his feedback. Thank you all!

Tim, who has met the challenge of living with me with both humor and bravery, has all my love.

Jan Burke is the national bestselling author of thirteen novels and a collection of short stories. Among the awards her work has garnered are Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar® for Best Novel, Malice Domestic’s Agatha Award, Mystery Readers International’s Macavity Award, and the RT Book Club’s Best Contemporary Mystery. She is the founder of the Crime Lab Project and is a member of the board of the California Forensic Science Institute. She lives in Southern California with her husband and two dogs. Learn more about her at
www.­janburke.­com
.