Pop Goes the Weasel

teachers were buoyed by the news, which wasn’t nearly as good as I made it sound. Nothing more had come of the one eyewitness account of the abduction. No one else had seen the white van that took away Christine.
    Jannie cornered me in the backyard around nine o’clock. I had just spent half an hour with Damon in the basement, talking man to man, shadowboxing a little bit.
    Damon had told me that he was having trouble remembering Christine’s face, exactly what she looked like. I told him that it happened with people and that it was all right. Then we shared a long hug.
    Jannie had patiently waited to talk with me.
    “My turn?” she asked.
    “Absolutely, sweetheart.”
    Jannie then took my hand and pulled me forward into the house. She quietly led me upstairs — not to her room, but to mine.
    “If you get lonely in here tonight, you can come to my room. I mean it,” she said as she gently shut the door on the two of us.
    She is so wise and has such a good perspective on so many things. Both she and Damon are such good kids. Nana says they have “sound character,” and it is building nicely. So far, so good.
    “Thank you, sweetie. I will come to your room if it gets bad in here. You’re very thoughtful and nice.”
    “I am, Daddy. You helped me be this way, and I’m glad of it. Now I have a real serious question for you, Daddy. It’s hard, but I have to ask anyway.”
    “You go ahead,” I told her, feeling uncomfortable under her serious little gaze. I wasn’t completely focused, and I didn’t know if I could handle one of Jannie’s hard questions. “I’m listening, sweetheart,” I said. “Fire away.”
    She had let go of my hand, but then she took it up again, held my big hand tightly in both her small ones.
    “Daddy, is Christine dead?” she asked me. “You can tell me if she is. Please tell the true truth, though. I want to know.”
    I almost lost it, sitting on the edge of the bed with Jannie. I’m sure she had no idea how much her question hurt, or how hard it was to answer.
    I was hanging over the edge of a dark abyss, just about gone, but I pulled myself together and took a deep, hard breath. Then I tried to answer my little girl’s honest question as best I could.
    “I don’t know yet,” I told her. “That’s the truth. We’re still hoping to find her, sweetie. We found one witness so far.”
    “But she might be dead, Daddy?”
    “Let me tell you the best thing I know about dying,” I said to Jannie. “The very best thing that I know. Just about the only thing, in fact.”
    “You go away, and then you’re with Jesus forever,” Jannie said. The way she spoke, though, I wasn’t sure if she really believed what she was saying. It sounded like one of Nana’s “gospel truths,” or maybe she’d heard it in church.
    “Yes, that can be a great comfort to know, baby. But I was thinking of something else. Maybe it’s the same thing, but a different way to look at it.”
    Her intense little eyes held mine, wouldn’t let go. “You can tell me, Daddy. Please. I want to hear it. I’m very interested in this.”
    “It’s not a bad thing, but it helps me whenever somebody dies. Think about this. We come into life so easily — from somewhere, from the universe, from God. Why should it be any harder when we leave life? We come from a good place. We leave — and go to a good place. Does that make any sense to you, Jannie?”
    She nodded and continued to stare deeply into my eyes. “I understand,” she whispered. “It’s like it’s in balance.”
    She paused a second, thinking it over, then she spoke. “But Daddy, Christine isn’t dead. I just know it. She isn’t dead. She hasn’t gone to that good place yet. So don’t you lose hope.”

Chapter 52
    THE CHARACTER AND TRAITS of Death were so much like his own, Shafer was thinking as he sped south along I-95. Death wasn’t brilliant, but he was always thorough, and he always won in the end.
    As the black Jag raced past the exits for various small towns, Shafer wondered if he wanted to be caught now, if he needed to be unmasked, needed to show his true face to everyone. Boo Cassady believed that he was hiding, even from her, but more important, from himself. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did want Lucy and the kids to see who he really was. And the police. But especially the uptight and sanctimonious staff at the embassy.
    I am Death — it’s who I am. I am a multiple killer — it’s who I am. I am not Geoffrey