The Greatest Gift (19 page)

Hewitt returned home alone and stared at the tall pine tree in his living room. Its branches were bare except for a lone ornament attached to the highest one, made by his daughter when she was in kindergarten. He kicked at the box holding the strands of lights, wondering if it was worth the effort to decorate the tree. He turned his attention to the TV, flipping through several channels, preferring to watch without sound. The vibration of his cell phone prompted him to drop the remote.

“Yes sir,” he answered. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you,” said Wrightman. “This isn’t a social call. Normally I would have you in my office for such an issue, but since there is urgency in this Stewart case, I needed to get in touch with you as soon as possible.”

“Has anyone called in with a lead?” asked Hewitt, straightening up in his chair.

“No, it’s not that. I have to make a change.”

“Change?”

“Special Agent Paul, are you aware of a picture of you digging up a grave?”

“I am. I had no choice.”

“First, I’m embarrassed I had to find out from Holligan. Why didn’t you tell me about this during our last phone call?”

Hewitt hesitated. “Sir, I’m ashamed.”

“You should be!” Wrightman yelled. “What on earth prompted you to do that?”

“I was given a tip that there wasn’t a body in that casket.”

“Who gave you that tip?”

Hewitt hesitated and stood up, taking a turn around his living room. “I saw something.”

“You’re your own tip?”

“Yes sir.”

“Why didn’t you inform the office of this before you made a fool of yourself?”

“I didn’t want you to be involved with this in case it didn’t work out.”

“That’s admirable, Special Agent. I appreciate you trying to protect me. But it didn’t work out. In fact, you embarrassed the entire FBI bureau. Do you know how it looks when one of our top agents is digging up a dead body without having filled out the official paperwork? Do you know how insensitive it looks to the average guy on the street? The soccer moms are flooding our offices with emails and phone calls now.”

“Have there been a lot of calls?”

“Why don’t you stop by the office and ask the clerks who have been fielding them the past couple of days? Your timing couldn’t be worse.”

“I know but I didn’t have time to wait.”

“No time to wait? Was the pastor going to jump out of the ground like a zombie and start eating the people of Northport?”

Hewitt took a deep breath and growled.

“Special Agent, is that your response?”

“No sir. I saw something. I acted. Perhaps I could have waited, but I wasn’t wrong.”

“You weren’t wrong?”

“No. There was no body. I have no idea where the pastor’s body has gone. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to be sure. Once I had proof, I was going to show you.”

“Well, I’ve got news for you. You were wrong. We already checked out what was going on over there after your picture showed up on the Internet. The area you were so happily digging up is a memorial place for the church community to visit in remembrance of their beloved pastor. The pastor’s body was sent to his family for a private burial.”

“What? That is highly unusual, sir.”

“It may be unusual, but we’re not in the business of judging morality here. You were assigned to this case to find Michael and Elizabeth Stewart, not to dig up bodies.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sorry isn’t going to help us. My boss is up my ass because of what you did.”

There was a pause in the conversation. Hewitt held out hope that his boss would say goodnight. He didn’t.

“Where do we stand with this case?”

Hewitt rubbed his forehead. “I’ve checked every lead, every part of that church, interviewed every person connected to the Stewarts.”

“And?”

“And I don’t know. I don’t know how he escaped the perimeter. I know we had every door and window accounted for when he disappeared.”

“I need you to turn over all your notes and contacts to Special Agent Holligan.”

Hewitt stood. “Why, sir?”

“Holligan’s in charge of the case now. Perhaps we need some new blood here. You don’t have anything to go on. Maybe Holligan will find something you haven’t.”

“Sir, please. I’m the best you have.”

“Yes, you are. But you’re exhibiting signs of stress with this case. Between the therapy you’ve been going through and your wife leaving you, I’d say it’s time for you to take a break from this. So, I formally have removed you from the case.”

“Am I suspended?”

“No. But you’re on leave.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You’re still getting paid.”

Hewitt tossed the phone on the couch and walked upstairs to his bedroom. He sat and folded his hands over his face.

What have I done? I’ve destroyed everything – my marriage, my family, my job. There’s nothing left for me. Nothing.

He went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. A plaque honoring his service to the FBI lay atop several citations. He grabbed a long, brown envelope and opened it, letting the contents flutter to the bed. One by one, he read the letters and e-mails from parents professing their gratitude to him for bringing their children home safely.

Dear Special Agent Paul,

Today was Isabelle’s fifth birthday. She wanted the biggest chocolate cake she’d ever seen, so we made one with seven layers. It towered over her head while she was sitting down! Her smile lit up the world when we had her blow out the candles and we sang ha
p
py birthday. We’ve enclosed a picture.

Hewitt held the photo in his right hand as he continued to read.

You gave us this smile back, Mr. Paul. You gave us another memory we will have for a lifetime. You gave us our greatest gift, our most beautiful love. You are an angel that came into our lives. Thank you, sir. God bless you.

He dropped the letter. “Bless me?” he said while standing. “How has God blessed me?” His tone was washed with rage.

“Who blessed me when my Hailey was taken from me? Who is blessing me now that I’m sitting in this empty house?”

He fell to his knees and battered the pile of letters. “Some blessings.” He gripped a letter and mangled it. He stood and glared at the mirror above the dresser. “I hate you,” he yelled.

Hewitt grabbed another letter and ripped it open. His anger raged more as he read line after line from grateful parents. “Where is my reward for doing this?” he asked, waving the letter. “I don’t hear you, God. A dead daughter. A wife who left me. A job I might not have much longer. What kind of a reward is this? Talk to me!”

He tore the letter apart and sprinkled the pieces everywhere. He swatted a picture of him and Veronica against the wall. The glass frame shattered, and the tiny splinters littered the floor. He stared at the picture, torn in the middle. “What have I done?”

Michael banged on the side of the shed. The wooden structure shook. He saw Julius sitting by the far wall, his feet up against one of the makeshift carts. He opened his eyes and frowned.

“You have my attention, traveler. How can I help you? Did you not speak to Paul?”

“I did. I have good news.”

“I can always hear good news. What is it?”

“I have more silver.”

Julius got up and examined the money in his hands. He stepped back. “I am curious. For a man who has never seen these tools, what is your interest in them now?”

“I am a writer. Like you.”

“You are? What have you written?”

“Much of what I have written is stored at my home.”

Julius walked back to him. “You said you have never seen these objects before, yet you say you have written. How?”

Michael glanced at the tablet. “On stones, scratching with a sharpened piece of metal.”

“Like a man who lives in a cave?”

“I guess you can say that.”

“Do you live in a cave?”

“I did.”

Julius shook his head. “You are wise for a man who comes from a cave. I have never met someone like you. I do not know whether I can believe you.”

“You can. I did live in a cave. I do read. I can write.” He dropped four more pieces of silver in Julius’ hands. “Is this enough?”

Julius paused and nodded. He removed a tablet from the pile and gave one to Michael.

“The other tool?”

“You need this? Do you not carry one of your own? You did say you had one back home.”

“It is not like the one I have there, and I do not have it with me. I need one now.”

Julius held out his hands.

“Will two pieces be enough?”

“It shall.”

They made the exchange, and Michael rushed to Paul. “I have this,” he said.

“Sit down,” said Paul.

“Is this why I am needed here to travel with you?”

“I do not think so,” said Paul. “It is me who is needed here to be with you.”

Michael shook his head. “No. Your rabbi told me I had to travel with you.”

“Indeed. I am here for you.”

Michael placed the tablet down. “Me?”

“Yes. You.”

He looked at the bent part of the short rod. He let it slide through his fingers a couple of times.
Just like a pen or pencil.
“Let me try this,” he said.
Paul – Malta.
“I can make this work,” Michael said in a surprised tone.

Paul smiled. “Why would you think you could not? Are you not a writer?”

“I am. How did you know I was?”

“You had your instructions. I have mine.”

“I am ready. What do you need me to write?”

“You do not need me to tell you what to write. What have you seen while on our journey?”

“Much.”

“What do you feel? What is in your heart?”

“Plenty. I have so many emotions.”

“Write.”

Michael moved the tool across the tablet, writing about the boat trip, the encounters he saw, the people who survived and the miracles he witnessed. He transcribed the emotions of the journey. He looked up as he was almost done and saw Paul was staring. “Is there anything wrong?”

“No. Much is right about our moments together. I am praying for us.”

“Why us? Will not God protect us?”

“Our Father is not here to protect us. He is here to guide us.”

“You seem worried,” Michael said.

“My sunsets ahead are few.”

“Are you in danger now?”

“In a world full of hate and anger, those who believe with their hearts that peace and love is the way and dare to proclaim it in front of many, risk far more than those who stay silent.”

Michael leaned forward. “Are they going to kill you when you get to Rome?”

“You do not know?” Paul asked. “I thought you already read the words.”

Michael didn’t answer.

“They cannot kill what is in my heart. Write, Michael. Write.”

So he did. He transcribed how first Paul survived a snake bite and how he amazed the natives with his strength. He told the story of how Paul united the island to accept the workers and soldiers so they had more time to plan an escape. When he had no more room to write another word, Michael dropped the rod and held up the tablet.

“A work of love,” Paul said.

“Might be my best writing,” Michael answered.

“Your most important writing cannot be questioned now.”

He nodded and handed Paul the tablet.

“No,” said Paul, giving it back to him. “You must carry this to Luke.”

“Now?”

“Yes. He will know what to do with it. Keep your eyes open and listen. Write.”

“How will I find him?”

“He will find you.” Paul grabbed his arm as he stood up. “Do not let anyone know you have this.”

“I will see you on the boat.”

“Pray that you do.”

Hewitt tucked a parent’s letter into his top pocket before unplugging his laptop. He slid it into a black leather case and placed it on top of a small table in the hallway. He straightened his tie while looking in the mirror above the closet door.
I may be off this case, but I have an obligation to that girl. To Hailey too. Holligan isn’t going to have a clue what to do with this case. If I can’t find her, nobody will.
He touched the keys on his cell phone. “Hello, Susan. I know it’s Christmas Eve. I just need a few minutes of your time.”

“I’m here with my mom. Please don’t frighten her. She’s old and has a hard time remembering anything.”

“All I want to do is find your friend and his daughter.”

“We’re here,” she said.

Hewitt pulled out the black book. He fingered through it again and tucked it back in with the computer. He walked to the door and stopped. “No. I need it.” He retrieved the black book.
Should I be taking potential evidence? Can this really be evidence?

The doorbell rang and Hewitt froze. He gripped the book tighter as he heard a knocking too.
What would Holligan think of this book? Would it help him in the case? Or would it steer him off course? Jeez. I need this.

The doorbell rang again. “Coming,” he shouted. Hewitt placed the book on top of the case and opened the door. “Holligan.”

“Hewitt. Nice picture on the net. Where’s your computer?”

“It’s in the hallway,” Hewitt said.

Holligan picked up the black book and read the first page. He glared at Hewitt. “This is some of the evidence you found? Are you kidding me? Is this what you’ve been working from?”

Holligan tossed the book back. “Does your laptop have all the contacts and notes?”

Hewitt handed him a sheet of paper. “Here are all the file numbers and descriptions of the content.”

“Impressive,” Holligan said as he read the sheet.

“If you have any questions, you have my cell number,” Hewitt said.

“I think it’s best a new pair of eyes moves on with this investigation, Special Agent. I don’t believe I’ll need to talk to you anymore. It’s time to try other methods of finding my niece. It’s obvious the way you have handled this case you weren’t close to finding her at all.”

“And him.”

“What?” he asked as he closed the case.

“Michael Stewart. We are trying to find him too. Right?”

“This case may have baffled you, Paul. But, knowing my brother-in-law as I do and his history, it’s a pretty safe bet he has my niece. And he’s not sitting around here in Northport.”

“What history is that? I didn’t find anything alarming after digging into his past. I interviewed every person close to him.”

Holligan tucked the case under his arm and poked Hewitt in the shoulder with his hand. “A guy who couldn’t keep a job his whole life. Does that not ring a bell?”

“Maybe he was unlucky?”

“Six times losing his job? That says something more than unlucky.”

“Probably got laid off due to the economy. It hasn’t been good in a while.”

Holligan brushed past him and turned around. “So, this is what happens to someone who loses their perspective? Goes all soft?”

He shook his head and walked away. “Good luck with your next assignment,” Holligan said. “I hope you enjoy pushing papers across a desk.” He slammed the door shut.

Hewitt stared at the lone Christmas card swaying back and forth, stuck to the back of the door.
Maybe he’s right.
He sat down on the stairs and wiped a speck off his black shoe.
Have I gone soft? Is this the reason why I can’t think clearly with this case? Has it affected my ability to deduce in a rational way and notice the evidence? Am I not being tough enough during the interviews?

He left the house and sat for a few minutes in his car. He gazed into the rearview mirror. “I guess we’re going to find out how tough I am.” He inserted a bullet into his gun.

~~~

Susan’s mom’s house was decorated in green and red Christmas ribbons. A wide, live pine tree reached high, the top of the angel’s head touching the ceiling. Colored lights blinked in rhythm while soft holiday music played. The smell of baking filled the living room air, apparently from a big plate of chocolate cookies shaped like Christmas trees sitting in the middle of the coffee table. She placed a bag of crackers on it too, with a bowl of candy.

Susan handed Hewitt a cup of coffee, its steam dancing up to his nose.

“Where is your mom? I’d like to speak to her too.”

“She’s unavailable.”

“Where is she?”

“Sleeping. She needs her rest. Whatever you need I can help you with it.”

“She isn’t ill, is she?” Hewitt asked.

“She has her good days. She has her bad days. I guess that’s all you can ask for. Right?”

Hewitt nodded and took a sip. “I’m sorry to bother you this evening. I know it’s been a difficult time for you, and it should be spent with your family.”

Susan glared. “Then why aren’t you spending it with yours?”

Hewitt put his cup down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I apologize. I feel I’m at the end of the investigation and I have nowhere else to turn.”

Susan leaned forward. “At the end? Are you giving up?”

“Should I?” he asked, picking up a cracker.

“How would I know? You’re the FBI guy.”

“Look, Susan. There’s a lot at stake here. Two lives could be in danger. I know you were close with Michael.”

Susan sipped her tea, staring at him.

“If Michael Stewart was going to confide in anyone, it would be you. I know about your relationship with him.”

Susan dropped her cup onto the table. Some of it spilled down the side and onto the floor. “Did you hack my emails? I’ll call a lawyer before you can step out of this house.”

Hewitt shook his head. “I spoke to your buddy.”

“My buddy?”

“Connie.”

“Oh, please. She may be his sister, but she has no idea what kind of a person Michael is.”

“And you do. It’s why I’m here now. Help me. Please.” He leaned forward. “Help me.”

Susan finished a chocolate bar in three bites. “I’ve seen some extraordinary things happen since I’ve been back,” she said. “What should make sense doesn’t. What shouldn’t make sense does. Does that make sense?”

Hewitt stood up and reached into his back pocket, pulling out the black book. He held it up as he sat back down. “Do you know about this?”

“I’ve read it.”

“You have?”

“Yes. So what?”

“Is this for real or are you like me, wondering how much whiskey the people drank before writing such stories? Are these the type of people that see Jesus in their toast or oatmeal in the morning?”

Susan began nibbling on another cookie. “I’ve read the book, yes. But I’ve never seen any of the events described in it. For all I know, Michael is in Aruba with his daughter.”

Hewitt placed the book beside the plate of cookies. “It’s either real or it’s not. Do you believe it’s possible? What did Michael say to you? Did the pastor speak to you about this book? I’ve had the handwriting analyzed for the last few pages, and it was written by Pastor Dennis.”

Susan put her half-eaten cookie down and wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“Tell me, what is going on in that church?”

She picked up her cup, walked into the kitchen, and poured herself another cup of tea.

“Would you like some more coffee?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

Susan returned and took a small sip. She flinched and put it down. “This is what I can tell you.”

“I’m listening,” Hewitt said.

Susan told him about the accident and Michael’s cloth.

“Where is the cloth?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I last saw Michael with it.”

“What kind of a cloth was it? What could it mean?”

“It looked like any cloth you would use to clean a car or dust a lamp,” Susan said. “I don’t know what it could mean. I’ve thought about it many times. I’ve tried to rationalize it in every way and I can’t. I can’t really tell you with an honest heart what it means. Was it a miracle? I don’t know. But have you ever thought about the miracles that happen around us every day?”

Hewitt leaned back against the hard wooden chair. It creaked so he reached down to hold the sides. “What miracles are you talking about?”

“They happen every minute, every day in this world. For instance, birth – a baby being born. Think about the enormity of it. Just because it happens every day doesn’t mean it isn’t a miracle.”

“I’m not following your train of thought,” Hewitt said.

She sighed. “There are many miracles mentioned in that book. Do we agree?”

He nodded.

“People finding their way to God or Jesus or whatever name you prefer. Maybe it’s an everyday miracle like birth. Maybe this happens but we just don’t see it.”

“Come on, you don’t believe that, do you?”

“To be honest, after experiencing the last few weeks here, I don’t know what to believe.” Susan got up. “Wait here. I want to show you something.”

She returned minutes later with a big, brown box. “I’m not the most spiritual woman in this world, so I’ve refrained from sharing this with most people.”

Susan moved the plate of cookies and her cup of tea. She opened the box and began dropping the contents on the table. Hewitt rummaged through them. “Look at the coins,” she said.

He picked one up. “So?”

“They’re from the First Century. Right?”

“Could be. There are many like this around, especially in Europe. Not a big deal.”

He continued to go through the articles. “What is this?” he asked. “Something to sew with?” Hewitt leaned to his side and looked at it under the lamp.

“Looks like a bent rod. Can’t use this for knitting,” Susan said.

Hewitt felt the object. “This isn’t your ordinary, everyday rod used for knitting.” He got up and looked around the living room. “Do you have a computer, a laptop?”

“Over there,” said Susan, pointing. “Why?”

“Show me.”

She led him into a small room. A big, wide plastic box filled the old wooden desk.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

Susan shrugged. “My mom never upgraded.”

Hewitt sat down, and the chair wobbled. “Terrific.”

“It’s not meant to hold a heavy person.”

“Do you know how to use this?” he asked as he moved the mouse around.

She leaned over his shoulder and grabbed it, clicking away. The buzzing sound of a dial-up modem erupted.

“Wow. I thought this way of connecting went out the same time as the dinosaurs.”

“It works for her,” she said, letting go of the mouse.

They waited for several moments for a connection. Hewitt typed in a URL and pleaded. “Come on, this is torture.”

“You would know,” Susan said.

Hewitt glared at her as she shrugged her shoulders. “Did I say something wrong? Here it comes,” Susan said as she leaned over him again.

“Come on, work with me,” Hewitt said.

A picture of a metal rod began to emerge on the screen. Only the top portion was visible. “I need to see more. Give me more,” he said. The picture continued to download slowly. “More, more, come on.” As he removed the cell phone from his front shirt pocket, the last part of the picture downloaded.

“Wow,” said Susan.

“Just what I thought,” Hewitt said, holding up the rod to the screen. He turned around and grasped her hand. “Can I keep this?”