Roses Are Red

walked in the door. “Here’s my suitcase, what’s the hurry?” She handed her little pink American Tourister to Damon and he rolled his eyes, but he took the overnighter from her anyway.
    “How long is this special treatment supposed to last?” he asked.
    “Rest of your life.” She set her brother straight about men and women. “Maybe even longer than that.”
    Suddenly, a storm cloud of fear crossed Jannie’s face. “I can go home, can’t I?” she asked me.
    I nodded and smiled. “You sure can. But what you
can’t
do is walk out of here by yourself. Hospital rules, little sister.”
    Jannie looked a little crestfallen. “Not in a wheelchair. My grand exit.”
    I reached down and picked her up. “Yes, in a wheelchair,” I said. “But you’re all dressed up now. You look beautiful for your departure, princess.”
    We stopped off at the nurses’ station and Jannie said her good-byes and got some big hugs. Then we finally left St. Anthony’s Hospital.
    She was well now. The tests on the removed tumor had come back benign. She had a clean bill of health, and I had never felt so relieved in my life. If I had ever forgotten how precious she was to me, and I doubt that I had, I never would again. Jannie, Damon, and little Alex were my treasures.
    It took us less than ten minutes to ride home, and Jannie was like a frisky little pup in the car. She had her face out the open window and was gazing wide-eyed at everything and sniffing the smoky city air, which she proclaimed spectacular, absolutely brilliant.
    When we got to the house and I parked the car, Jannie climbed out slowly, almost reverently. She stared up at our old homestead as if it were the Cathedral of Notre Dame. She did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, checked out our neighborhood on Fifth Street, and nodded her approval.
    “There’s no place like home,” she finally whispered. “Just like in the
Wizard of Oz.
” She turned to me. “You even got the Batman and Robin kite down out of the tree. Praise the Lord.”
    I grinned and I could feel something good spreading through my body. I knew what it was.
I wasn’t petrified of losing Jannie anymore.
“Actually, Nana climbed out there and got the kite down,” I said.
    “You, stop.” Nana Mama laughed and waved a hand at me.
    We followed Jannie inside the house and she immediately picked up Rosie the Cat. She held Rosie close to her face and got licked with Rosie’s sandpaper tongue. Then she slowly danced with the family cat for a magical moment or two, just as she had on the night of little Alex’s christening.
    Jannie softly sang, “Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m so happy I’m home, I love all of you.”
    It was so fine and good to watch and be a part of —
and yes, Jannie Cross, you’re right, there is no place like home. Maybe that’s why I work so fiercely to protect it.
    But then again, maybe I’m just rationalizing about the way I am, and probably always will be.

Chapter 74
    I WENT TO THE FBI FIELD OFFICE early the next morning. The floor was buzzing with faxes, phones, personal computers, and energy — good and bad. It was already pretty clear that Mitchell Brand wasn’t our man, and maybe even that he had been set up.
    Betsey Cavalierre had returned from her weekend off. She had a tan, a bright smile, and looked nicely rested. I wondered briefly where she had been, but then I was sucked into the powerful vortex of the investigation again.
    The high-tech FBI war room was still in place, but now three of the four walls were covered with possible leads. The FBI point of view was that every avenue must be explored. The director had already gone on record saying that it was the largest manhunt in FBI history. Corporate America was applying enormous pressure. The same thing had happened after the Unabomber had killed a New Jersey businessman in the early nineties.
    I spent most of the day in a windowless, seemingly airless conference room watching an endless slide show, along with several agents and other Metro police detectives. Suspects were continuously shown on the big screen, then discussed and placed into three categories:
Discard, Active,
and
Extremely Active.
    At six o’clock that night, Senior Agent Walsh held a meeting that covered the possibility that the crew might strike again soon. Betsey Cavalierre arrived late for the briefing. She sat in the back and observed.
    Two FBI behavioral psychologists had worked up a list of potential future