“Get some rest,” he advised. “Honestly, you look like death warmed over.”

When he’d gone, she checked all the doors to be sure they were locked, made certain the the landline was still unplugged, then lay down on the sofa to rest. The house was silent around her, something that should have made resting easier. But she found instead that she was listening intently, poised to leap into action at the smallest of sounds. She realized that she was, indeed, afraid. She recalled seeing a baseball bat, her old Louisville Slugger, in the back of the hallway closet. She got up, went and grabbed it, and was amazed at how familiar that stick of wood felt in her grip. Her father had given her the bat when she’d first started playing softball. He would toss the ball to her in the backyard, and she’d swing the bat. Eventually, she swung with great power and precision. When she hit a ball that shattered an attic window, they’d moved their practice to the park.

Bat in hand, she walked to the front window and drew the curtain aside just enough to look outside.

She hadn’t told Stephen the truth of her condition, but what she’d told him about walking arm and arm with Maria and others right up to the phalanx of soldiers was absolutely true. She’d felt some apprehension that day in Guatemala, of course, but mostly she’d felt exhilaration in the boldness of the challenge.

It was easy to have courage when you walked arm and arm with others, she thought now. Alone, it wasn’t so easy to be brave.

She stood at the front window, staring at the empty street, very glad that the media vans had moved somewhere else. She hadn’t come home to be a part of some circus. She’d come home to… to do what? Simply die? She could have done that in Guatemala, with Maria at her side. Was it solely for Stephen’s wedding? She was happy for him, of course, but it wasn’t just that. She’d come, she knew, in the hope of doing battle with death.

In Guatemala, the doctors had given her no hope. Death was all that was left to her there. She and Maria had flown to Mexico City to get a second opinion, which only confirmed what the doctors in Guatemala had told her. Everything in Annie had bridled at the prognosis because she had no intention of going gently into that good night. She’d always been the rebellious O’Connor. She’d been an athlete, involved in the game, not a sideline cheerleader. She’d been a voice, never an echo. Although as far back as she could remember she’d wanted to be a nun, when the time had come to yield her will to the Church, she had opted not to take the vows. And so death, as it approached, was a prospect that angered her, made her ready for battle. Even as the doctors had told her there was no cure, no hope, she’d thought that somewhere, somehow there must be a way. For Annie O’Connor, it was a choice either to go meekly like a lamb to the slaughter or to fight it with all the strength of will she could muster.

Home, she’d thought, would give her strength. But it hadn’t. Every day, she felt weaker. Every day, she felt the erosion of her will to fight. And these damn headaches, the blackouts that sometimes followed, they were like knives slicing off pieces of her willpower, pieces of her very soul.

She felt exhausted and lay back down on the sofa. She put her Louisville Slugger within easy reach. She wished Maria were there. She closed her eyes, thinking that, when the time came, what she would hate most was losing Maria forever.

She hadn’t realized that she’d drifted into sleep until the little cry of the springs on the mudroom door woke her. She was instantly alert. She sat up too quickly and, for a moment, felt dizzy. She let that pass, then hurried to the window. It was twilight, the street bathed in pale blue. There was no vehicle parked in the drive or on the street. No one from the O’Connor household had come home.

She tried to remember, had she really made sure all the doors were locked?

She heard the back door of the kitchen, which led onto the mudroom, open, then close.

She stood in the semidarkness of the evening, terribly aware that she was no longer alone in the house.

She grabbed the Louisville Slugger. It still felt familiar in her grip, like an old friend. She crept to the kitchen doorway and stood off to the side, with her back to the dining room wall.

The man stepped from the kitchen. Annie let him pass, then brought the bat up to strike. He must have sensed her presence and turned. When he saw the bat, he quickly lifted his hands in surrender.

“Hold on there, Annie! You remember me? John O’Loughlin, from across the street.”

“Of course.” She lowered the bat, letting herself breathe again. “Of course. I’m sorry. You just startled me. How did you get in?”

“I have a key. Whenever everyone here is gone, I check on things, water the plants, et cetera. It’s what neighbors do. Cork has a key to my house.”

“What are you doing here now?”

“Your dad tried to call you but didn’t get an answer. With everything that’s been going on, he was worried, asked me to check.” He studied her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”

He nodded toward the Louisville Slugger. “I appreciate that you didn’t use my head for ball practice.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“So… Guess I’m done here. Good to see you.”

Annie walked him to the front door. Before he left he asked, “Is it true about Waaboo?”

“Is what true?”

“That he talked to the ghost of Olivia Hamilton?”

“Is that what people are saying?”

“Small town. Word gets around. And then”—he swung his hand toward the street out front—“all those reporters.”

“Talked to a ghost? Does that really sound plausible?”

He gave a small laugh. “You’re right. Crazy rumor.”

“Will you do us a favor? Don’t help spread the rumor.”

“Of course.”

She watched him descend the porch steps and cross the street. She closed and locked the door. She plugged the landline back in, just in case one of her family called.

Then she looked at the baseball bat still in her hand.

She’d almost become a nun. She’d ministered to the poor and the desperate. She’d marched in the name of peace. Had she really been prepared to knock the brains out of someone?

Who am I? Annie wondered. Who have I become? What is death doing to me?

For this, she had no answer.

CHAPTER 25

Cork and Marsha Dross interviewed the two barmaids who were serving customers the night Olivia Hamilton went missing. The women recognized the photo of Mathias Paavola, but neither of them could confirm that he was in the bar that night. When Dross asked about the man with the misshapen ear, they both reacted negatively.

“Real bad vibes off him,” one of them said.

But because of tension in the bar that night caused by the two biker gangs, neither of them could say for sure whether he’d been there.

It was twilight when Cork and Dross headed back toward Aurora. Cork used his cell phone to call Agent Shirley. He put her on speakerphone and filled her in on their interviews with Cedarholm, the bearded customer, and the two barmaids.

“So, Mathias Paavola was regular enough at the bar to be recognized,” Shirley said. “But no confirmation that he was there the night the Hamilton girl went missing.”

“That’s the size of it,” Cork said. “Apparently he didn’t usually come alone. But no ID on his drinking buddy.”

“And you say there’s an Erno Paavola gnome in the bar?” Shirley said. “Bartered?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Is it possible, you think, that Paavola bartered blueberries as well?”

“It’s possible.”

“So this Cedarholm might have known about the blueberry patch. I think we need to sweat him a little more. It’s also possible Mathias Paavola told his drinking buddy about the blueberry patch. We need to ID him.”