Chapter 46

December Twenty-fourth 7:00 p.m. EST

"Please tell me that you've found my son," Patrica Watson said pleadingly into the phone.

She listened to the placating voice of a deputy for a few minutes before hesitantly asking, "Do you think he's alright? I saw the pictures in the news: there was so much blood. Please tell me that it was animal blood or paint or ... or something ... anything but what it looked like. Please, for the love of God, tell me that my baby is okay."

Again she listened, taking heart from the calm assurances that came from the other end of the line.

She concluded the call by saying, "Thank you, deputy. I know you're doing all you can. It's just that ever since my husband passed away, my Tony is all I have left. I know you're busy, but please let me know the second you hear anything."

After she hung up, she curled up on her bed in the fetal position, too numb with grief and worry even to cry any more. It took a long moment for the loud pounding on her front door to register.

As she rose slowly from the bed, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked a fright: dried tears and runners from the mascara that she had applied the day before ran down her face; her hair was a tangled, greasy mess; and the skin around her eyes and mouth was puffy. As she stumbled toward the window to look outside, she grabbed a hair brush from the dresser and tried to make herself presentable for whoever had come to visit.

Then she pulled back the curtain, and the brush dropped forgotten from her hand. With a loud cry of, "Toneee!" she raced down the stairs, her heavy footfalls causing her grandmother's crystal to rattle in the kitchen hutch.

Throwing the door open wide, she crooned, "Oh my Tony, you're home."

She went silent as she took a closer look at her son. He was covered in half frozen mud and muck. A layer of ice and rime coated his face, eyebrows and eyelashes. His eyes were dull and looked at her without recognition or emotion.

"You poor dear! You must be freezing!" she cried out. "Get in here and out of those wet clothes, and we'll get you into a nice, hot bath."

He drew in a deep, bubbling breath and tried to speak. Muddy water gurgled out of his mouth and ran in streams down the front of his sodden coat. He took a second breath and tried again.

"Merry ... Christmas ... Mama," he said slowly, his voice gravelly and without inflection. Throughout the brief recitation, his eyes rolled from side to side as if he had to struggle to recall the brief phrase.

"Oh, Merry Christmas, baby," Patricia replied soulfully, throwing her arms wide.

His eyes narrowing and becoming bestial, he lunged forward into his mother's waiting embrace.