From Scratch (26 page)

He kneaded his shoulders and neck, closing his eyes as the final pages screeched through the ancient machine.
Father, I know you brought us, Maggie and me, together for a purpose. One that is probably bigger than I can even imagine. Help me to draw on her faith—allow it to inspire deeper love for You, in me. And Dear God, please keep her safe. I know I can't do it alone. I need You. She needs You. She's right. I'm just a small town cop, but You have used small town people before. Please use me, Lord. Please use me to keep her safe.

He opened his eyes as silence filled the room. Pulling the stack of paper from the fax, he sipped his early morning, pre-Maggie, fast food restaurant coffee. Reviewing the front page, he walked back to his office. Skimming the top sheet in the stack, he discarded the cover page and began scrutinizing the details of page two: Mitchell O'Donnell's first arrest.

After he'd left Maggie's, he'd called Chuck and asked him to pull O'Donnell's whole file, tapping into the cooperative law enforcement database that the fine council of Gibson's Run denied needing. His old partner had volunteered for the midnight-to-eight shift Thanksgiving night into Friday morning and easily accessed O'Donnell's history.

Sean read through his various arrests beginning with D.C. and weaving through Miami, Chicago, Houston, and every other major city in the lower forty-eight. Maggie hadn't embellished. Each report detailed a pattern of escalating violence and skilled pursuit. The scum-bag was relentless in his desire for Maggie.

But, she wasn't his first. O'Donnell had a run-in with the police when he seventeen.

The bust should have been expunged from his record, but Chuck was a determined detective and a little thing like statute of limitations and sealed records rarely stood in his way.

O'Donnell had been charged with malicious assault and stalking. To this day, his victim remained in a vegetative state in upstate New York. Based on the charges and his actions, he should have been tried as an adult, but his father's expensive lawyers made certain he didn't suffer the consequences. The court sentenced him to time served, three hundred hours of community service, and mandatory therapy for six months. His therapist was Rich Falcon, founder of The Mission. From his old PO's records, O'Donnell displayed genuine remorse and seemed to have “turned over a new leaf.”

Parole officers who reduced their parolees to clichés turned Sean's stomach. Nothing in life, especially criminal behavior, was that easily remedied.

But O'Donnell became a model citizen. He joined The Mission and started leading Bible studies during his under-grad years at Georgetown. He became a graduate assistant at the University of Maryland a year before Maggie started school, but other than the occasional write up for noise violations due to a couple concerts The Mission group threw, he kept his nose clean. Or kept his tracks very well hidden.

Sean studied the rest of the file, absorbed in the details of his arrests and releases. He knew O'Donnell had been in town. But how long?

He compared some of the details with Sissy's in-depth journal and photos. Sissy catalogued O'Donnell's movements for two weeks. The thought that he had been watching Maggie made the acid rise in Sean's stomach.

The more he reviewed the arrest patterns, the frustrations that seeped through the various officers' detailed notes, the more Sean was convinced that O'Donnell already laid the ground work a month ago for whatever his next move would be.

Despite her diligent efforts to conceal her identity, he'd found her. The obsessed rarely found obstacles they couldn't overcome.

A single thud at the front door caused Sean to jump up reflexively, checking his weapon in his shoulder holster. Leaning across his desk, he angled to see who was at the door. A bright blue arm of what looked like a wool jacket was visible, but the owner was a mystery. His hand was twisting the lock open when a smile stretched across his cheeks. “Well, this is a good morning surprise.” He leaned forward and pecked a kiss on Maggie's cold lips.

She swept into the station with a coffee carrier and a box that was filled with something cinnamon and spicy. Its warm aroma permeated the tiny space. “I saw your light on this morning when I set the first round of bagels to proof and was worried you cheated on me with fast food coffee.” She peeped over his shoulder and shook her head. “I feel so betrayed. Maybe you don't want my coffee anymore?” She pivoted toward the front door.

He quickly clamped his hands on her shoulders. “Don't you even think about taking that wonderful smelling stuff you have back out that door. I may starve and my insides might stop working from trying to process old coffee. Then how would you feel? Me, all crumpled up at my desk with only a cup of stale coffee for nourishment.” He lifted the box and carrier from her hands, nudging her toward his office.

She slid onto the seat opposite his desk, causing a quick flash of their make-shift picnic to swipe through his mind, warming his heart.

“Now, what did you bring me?” He set the drink carrier and pastry box discreetly over the pile of fax papers and Sissy's notes. Plopping onto his chair, he popped open the box and inhaled. He couldn't suppress the corners of his mouth lifting. “Cinnamon pecan rolls? Do you want me to get fat?”

“You could stand to gain a few pounds.” Her cheeks flared a subtle pink as she lifted one of the cups from the carrier.

“You'll have me chubbier than Alvin.” He sank his teeth into the sticky sweetness of his favorite breakfast treat. The pecans were slightly salty and the cinnamon-sugar filling was still warm. He was in breakfast heaven.

“That would take a whole lot more than a couple cinnamon rolls.” She paused. “So, what do you think?”

“I guess they're OK.”

She slammed her hand on the table. “You guess they're OK? I got up a half-hour early to make those stupid things, in my own kitchen, mind you, and I all get is, ‘they're OK'?”

He chuckled. “Man, you're easy, McKitrick.” He couldn't resist leaning across the desk to kiss her. He was off balance and the kiss was a little awkward, but having her here, bantering with her, all of it was so right. And he wouldn't let anything or anyone threaten what they had. He had sworn to protect and serve. And that was just what he was going to do.

19

With another Thanksgiving weekend behind them, the bustling weeks of pre-Christmas shopping and parties barreled in like a train. Dozens of recommendations, based on Maggie's successful Thanksgiving desserts, swirled around town and even into Columbus. She was blissfully inundated with requests for cookies, cakes, pies, and the occasional yule log to celebrate the season. The increase in business allowed her to hire a couple college students, who were home over their long winter break, to run the café during the day. That gave Maggie free reign to play in the kitchen with minimal distractions.

Sean missed seeing her during the daylight, but he was able to focus more research on O'Donnell and set preparations for his eventual return to Gibson's Run. He contacted O'Donnell's parole officer, his half-way house, and the computer repair shop that hired him. All agreed that he was a model ex-con, whatever that meant.

His PO volunteered to share O'Donnell's work history and his notes on their weekly meetings. “But I'm not sure what help they will be,” Officer Riddle offered in a brief phone conversation a week after Maggie shared her story. “I think you may be chasing a ghost who no longer exists. Mitchell's been great. Easiest parolee I've had and I've been doing this more years than I care to remember.”

“Riddle, did O'Donnell leave the state recently?” Sean asked as their conversation drew to a close.

“Well, now that you mention it, Mitchell's grandmother passed away about a month ago, and he was out of town for the funeral. Gone a little over two weeks, but back before he was originally scheduled. Checked in every day, even volunteered to meet with a court-appointed officer while he was out of town, but I didn't think it was necessary.”

Sean's belly burned with anger, but he kept his voice steady. “Why wasn't it? Necessary, I mean. The guy's a convicted felon, not the pope.”

“Yep, I get all that, but the guy wears an ankle monitor, part of his early release protocol. I was able to track him every minute of the day if I wanted. Those things are impossible to break or remove. It's a wonder they don't just replace all of us parole officers with those things and save the government a chunk of change.”

Sean thanked the PO for his notes and his time, but didn't bother to let the officer know that a simple home block created with aluminum foil and some ingenuity could break the best ankle bracelet's effectiveness. After the call, he was less convinced that O'Donnell was reformed than when he had picked up the phone.

No one with the well-documented history of violence and ego changed overnight or even in three years. And someone fitting his description had been camped out in Gibson's Run at the same time O'Donnell's grandmother was supposedly interred.

Sean didn't believe in coincidences. Through all of his research and digging, he'd developed a fairly rounded view of the man who had tortured and terrorized Maggie for over six years before his conviction and imprisonment. Based on their history, O'Donnell couldn't seem to resist taking quick and violent action each time he tracked Maggie. So why had he apparently watched her for weeks only to vanish? What was his ultimate game?

Sean knew he should warn Maggie about O'Donnell's “visit” to town, but some sense of doubt or fear held him back. Maggie loved him. She was wholly committed to him, to their relationship, and even to this town, but he couldn't be certain that she wouldn't run. And as wrong as it felt, he didn't want to give her the choice, at least not until he had a fully formed plan.

On Saturday, the week following Thanksgiving, Sean and his brothers drove into Columbus for dinner and what Maggie referred to as “brotherly bonding” before the Taylor boys went their separate ways until Christmas. The brothers settled into a backroom booth at a family-owned sports restaurant located in the South-end of Columbus bordering the Historic German Village.

The restaurant was third generation, had the best pizza for three counties and boasted fourteen televisions to watch one's favorite team. Ohio State football or basketball most days between September and March, baseball in the summer and a smattering of games throughout the winter. The walls of the old restaurant were jammed with photos of coaches, players and momentous events. Shoved onto the free space were pennants and mementoes from Ohio colleges and local high schools. The memorabilia included various programs, autographs, and pictures of famous people who had dined at the local establishment—including the three Taylor brothers, made famous by the youngest.

They placed their order: two large pizzas and a pitcher of soda. Then relaxed, chomping on popcorn from the complimentary basket. A basketball game played on the TV and the brothers watched a few minutes in companionable silence. Their drinks were slid wordlessly in front of them and they each filled a glass without breaking their invisible link to the game.

Joey swung his focus from the TV to Sean. “So, what's the full skinny between you and the baker? Anymore visits to Smooch-town?”

“Hey, that's the woman I love, Sprout.” Sean kicked his brother in the shin. “Don't you even think about talking about her in any way, shape, or form, other than with the highest respect, got it?”

Mac rolled his eyes. “That doesn't even make sense. I'm not sure it would even qualify as English. When did you turn into a fourteen-year-old girl?”

“I know. Sorry, Joe. There's just a lot going on right now and my brain's a little fried.”

“Whatever.” Joey popped a kernel of popcorn in his mouth. “I think it's great that you've got someone since you're stuck in Gibson's Run and everything. A least you've got a woman to keep you company.” His eyebrows lifted in a quick one-two causing both of his brothers to kick him in the shins. “Hey, I'm just saying, if Sean's happy with the cute little brunette, I'm happy for him.”

“Then why didn't you just say that? Why do you always place your stink-foot into your mouth before you say something like a grown human being?” Mac slid the empty red plastic basket toward Joey. “Just for being an idiot, go fill up the popcorn.”

Joey let out a sigh, but made his way around the bar to the popcorn machine.

Sean traced the rim of his glass with his finger, watching the slight beads of condensation chase each other down the outer edges. His mind wandered to Maggie. She was baking tonight, an elaborate Christmas cookie order for a party in Upper Arlington on Sunday afternoon.

Jenna was with her, staying after close to help with icing and final details.

He wasn't worried. He had it covered. He'd spoken with the county sheriff and arranged for an hourly drive by of her shop. He couldn't count on Alvin to stay awake, let alone watch over Maggie. Chuck had been helping him, keeping abreast of flights, buses and trains coming into all parts of Ohio and the surrounding states.

He'd enlisted some contacts with the State Highway Patrol to watch for any suspicious activities on 70W, the most direct route from Maryland. And a contact he'd made years earlier at an NAPO event, who now served with the Baltimore police department, was passing him regular reports on O'Donnell's movements via his ankle monitor.

Sean had done everything he could do within legal limits. But he wanted to do more. If he could lock Maggie up in a safe house until O'Donnell slipped up and landed back in jail, he'd happily do so, but that wasn't the answer.

O'Donnell might not make a move for weeks, months or even years.

The waiting was making Sean edgy.

A well-worn cowboy boot kicked his shin.