“Make sure you do. Talk to you later and Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah. You, too.”
Disconnecting the call, Bruno pieced together a scenario in his mind: Goldie had turned over her diaries to Captain Corning after all, and her cross-country trip was an attempt to disappear until she’d be needed as a key witness for a trial. If she were eliminated, however, the things written in her diaries would go unsubstantiated. Frank Lombardo had just issued a death sentence for Goldie, and Bruno Carmichael, upset about being away from his family for the holidays, was more than ready to carry it out.
At 5:15, Goldie was roaming through Sparkledove’s only cemetery on the edge of town. The cemetery was in a secluded area, wasn’t very big, and had a four-foot-high wrought iron fence around it. Within just a couple of minutes, she found a plot for the Miller family and saw both Deke and Chad Miller’s graves, along with their spouses and other family members. She found Maddie and Dean and learned their last name was O’Rourke. She likewise came across Lupe and her husband and learned their last name was Estevez. She located Horace Mason, buried next to an apparent second wife named Michelle. She discovered Ed Peterson, whose car was shot up so badly by Horace. It was incredibly sad to see all these people gone, yet it was somehow comforting at the same time. There were lots of old friends she could always visit.
Just as it was nearly impossible to read the gravestones due to the lack of daylight, she finally spotted Eli Johnson. He was buried in a double plot, but there was no headstone for the grave next to his. This could’ve meant he never married, or had a wife buried somewhere else. Her green eyes became moist as she sank to her knees, took off one of her gloves, and ran her fingers across the chiseled letters of his name. Then, she looked down at the date and saw that he had passed away fifteen years earlier, when he was in his nineties.
“Oh…” she sighed. “I-I’m so sorry, Eli. I shoulda stayed. I shoulda explored what coulda been… I shoulda built that new life.”
Her thoughts were interrupted as she suddenly realized someone was behind her. Turning, she saw Bruno Carmichael standing behind her, wearing gloves and holding a Glock .9 millimeter with a silencer.
She was surprised, but only momentarily. Then, she rallied her courage.
“Ay, Bruno. How ya doin’?”
“Ya gave your diaries to the cops, didn’t ya?”
“Yeah. I did.”
“They were in New York all the time,” he figured.
“Yeah. They were,” she confirmed.
“Big mistake, Goldie.”
“All depends on how ya look at it,” she replied.
He glanced around. “What the hell are ya doin’ here? Why’re you in this town?”
She thought about the .22 Smith & Wesson that she’d left in her car, then looked up at him and smiled bravely while tears filled her eyes.
“I-I’m goin’ home for Christmas… and you’re the conductor who’s gonna punch my ticket.”
The big man cracked the faintest of smiles for a few seconds, then pointed the Glock at Goldie’s head and fired. She fell quietly to the ground next to Eli, then Bruno fired again.
After glancing around, he bent down and searched her pockets. Finding her key fob, he got up, turned, and walked to her Ford Fusion that was parked just outside the cemetery’s fence. Opening the truck, he found her Gucci tote bag holding her gun and Markie’s cash. Grabbing the tote, Bruno closed the truck, then walked away, leaving Goldie’s body where it had fallen.
Thirty-Seven
AT THE JOHNSON’S
When Goldie’s green eyes slowly opened, she had no idea how much time had passed. She remembered that she had been kneeling in front of Eli Johnson’s grave when Bruno Carmichael came up behind her with a gun. She recalled they spoke for a few seconds, then there was a flash of light, but after that—nothing.
Now, she was lying on her back, and her eyes were slowly focusing in on an overhead light fixture in a plaster ceiling that she recognized. The lights were off, but there was enough daylight peeking in from the edges of the drawn curtains to give her an idea of the place. As she became more alert, she slowly propped herself up on her elbows, looked at the patchwork quilt covering her, then around at the familiar room. She was back in room 9 of the Sparkledove Arms.
“Oh my God,” she muttered. “It’s 1942 again! H-how did I… Stu said that I couldn’t…”
Not finishing her thought, she threw the quilt off her body and hopped out of bed, wearing the same ivory slip she’d worn when she first awoke in the room. She ran over to the rounded mirror above the dresser and looked at her hair. It was dark brown, and there were no bullet holes in her head.
“Oh, Lord. I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but thank you!Thank you!”
Six minutes later, she was hurrying down the stairs to the bustling lobby of the hotel, wearing one of the three original dresses that she had found in her suitcase when she first arrived. It was 10:00 a.m. on Christmas morning. The lobby with its nine-foot Christmas tree and candle sconce lighting on the walls was just the same as when she left. In front of the tree were the same guitarist and violinist who had played in the lobby at Thanksgiving. Maddie was behind the counter, wearing her glasses with the silver chain and a red cardigan sweater with Christmas trees embroidered on it. Seeing Goldie approach, she smiled.
“Merry Christmas, Goldie!” she greeted.
“Maddie!” Goldie called, hurrying over to her. “I, uh, I-I’m havin’ one of my short-term memory losses. When did I get here? When did I come back?”
