Page 21 of Christmas Past
By the next evening, Chad was ready to climb out of his skin. And to settle down for a long winter’s nap, too.
Urgency was giving way to inevitability. If Camille was still alive, she would be an anomaly – given the statistics.
And that was a big ‘if’ in his mind. Growing larger as the hours passed.
Bella was having fewer sensations. And when she did have them they weren’t as intense.
The hurt foot. Some fear. Something akin to homesickness. And little else. There appeared to be no strong hunger or thirst. No more need to relieve herself. No darkness. But no light, either. Not even a sore elbow. Just the hurt foot.
Bella had taken to carrying her old Christmas stocking with her as she moved from room to room.
Chad was a realist. And he knew that chances were good the little girl wouldn’t be making it back home, period, let alone in time for Christmas.
He’d been in continued contact with the FBI and his own deputies. Heard reports from everyone he knew, including a call from the Christmas Town Workshop hardware store. The trio had been somber. They were blaming themselves for not having noticed something.
The one moment of levity had been Barty telling him that Gracie had smiled at him when she’d walked by the store that morning. Chad couldn’t even crack a smile at that one. Realistically, what chances did a sixty-year-old man have at finding happiness with a woman two decades younger who had severe emotional issues?
The FBI planned to stay in the area for another day or so, at least – suggesting that Chad remain where he was as Bella was the only even halfway active lead.
And so there he was, cooking soap.
Inhaling Rose.
And thinking way too much about life.
About Bella.
About both of them spending their lives alone.
“You seem less…bothered today,” he finally said.
“I’m doing my job.”
“Making soap calms you?”
Standing so close they were touching shoulders, as they stirred their respective pots, he felt the start she gave at his words. And couldn’t miss the startled look in her eyes.
“Yes it does,” she said. “I have to stay calm, to stay open, to keep myself available to receive what messages Camille needs to send me.”
He replayed her words in his mind. A true investigator had to see and hear his source to get to the truth.
“How do you do what you do, Chad?” she asked. And then continued without waiting for a reply. “You put your own emotion aside so you can assess the situation and be prepared for whatever might be asked of you. You rely on your training…”
He nodded. Gave her another look. A long, assessing look. “You’re suspending your own emotion so you can feel hers,” he said.
“Something like that.” She wasn’t smiling. Or frowning, either, for that matter. She checked her concoction. Measured and added more oil to both pots. Indicated that he should continue to stir as she turned down the heat.
“When you have a split second decision to make…say you’ve got a hostage situation and it could go one of two ways, you’ve assessed the situation, and you have to decide. How do you do that?” she asked.
“I need more specifics.”
She shook her head. “Think, Chad. Someone is ready to jump off a balcony and you’re there talking them down. You think, if you reach quickly, you can get a good enough grip on an arm to haul them to safety, but you don’t have time to assess. If they jump, you’ve lost your chance. How do you decide what to do?”
He didn’t know what she wanted from him.
“You’re face to face with a youth offender. You see fear in his eyes. And something else. He’s crying. He wants help. But he’s got a gun. You approach. Try to talk him down, but he won’t drop the gun. How do you decide what to do next?”
“Are there other people around? Someone else who might get hurt?”
