Each December we create a time when the two of us can sit by a fireplace and listen to Jim Dale’s CD version of A Christmas Carol. I love that moment when Scrooge wakes up to discover that everything that had gone on had happened to him overnight. That it was still Christmas morning and there was still time for him to make some changes in his life. It’s a lot like emerging from spending years in a drunken stupor and then suddenly discovering you’re still alive. At least that’s how it’s always seemed to me, and the life I live now is a lot like Mr. Scrooge’s Christmas morning.
When Mel and I finally went to bed, my heart was full of holiday cheer, but it didn’t last, because that night Ebenezer Scrooge wasn’t the only one plagued by disturbing dreams. So was I. Mine was the same nightmare I’ve had countless time before, only this version was worse than usual.
The dream always starts in the same awful way. I drive up to Sue Danielson’s residence and see lights burning inside. I switch off the engine and exit my vehicle as quietly as possible. I hold my breath as I step up onto the wooden planks of Sue’s creaky front porch. The front door is unlocked, and the knob turns in my hand. I enter a scene of utter carnage and find Sue, bloodied, wounded, and weaponless, sitting propped against the living-room wall. Only this time another awful element has been added. The two boys, Jared and Chris, both wearing pajamas, lie sprawled in pools of blood just outside their bedroom door.
Knowing that Richie is armed and dangerous, I hand my backup weapon, my Glock, to Sue and start toward the hallway. Right then a gunshot splits the night. I turn back to Sue just in time to see the Glock slip slowly from her now-lifeless fingers.
I woke up then—sweating, shaking, and fighting the covers.
“Are you all right?” Mel asked, touching my shoulder.
“I’m fine,” I told her, “just a bad dream.”
Not wanting to disturb her any further, I staggered out of the bed, grabbed my robe, and headed for the living room. I walked over to the window and stood staring outside, where the muted illumination provided by a neighbor’s yard light revealed thick, feathery snowflakes blowing sideways in the wind.
A few minutes later, after I left the window and settled on the couch, Mel padded out of the bedroom and sidled up beside me. By the time she leaned against me and lifted my arm over her shoulder, my cold sweats had finally subsided.
“Better?” she asked.
I nodded. “Some,” I replied.
“You can’t change history,” Mel murmured.
It was hardly surprising that she knew exactly what had happened. She’d witnessed the shattering aftermath of this particular nightmare countless times before.
“I know,” I agreed.
“We both know, however, that there’s a good chance you can change the future,” she added. “Jared Danielson and his grandmother are looking for answers, and I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who’s going to provide them.”
That’s the strange thing about being married to Mel—she often seems able to read my mind, because while I’d been staring out at the swirling snow, I had arrived at the same conclusion.
“You’re probably right,” I acknowledged.
“So come back to bed now and try to get some sleep,” she told me. “We’ll sort all this out in the morning.”
Chapter 6
I awakened on Wednesday morning to the noisy racket of heavy machinery lumbering around outside our house. Mel, seated on her side of the bed, was pulling on a pair of boots.
“What’s all the noise?” I wondered aloud.
“The snowplows are here again,” she told me, “but it’s better than our having to clear the driveway ourselves.”
“Has Sarah been out?”
“Not yet.”
“How deep is the snow?”
“According to the TV, another nine inches,” Mel answered.
That was several more inches than I liked. In the kitchen I found that the coffee machine was already up and running. As I waited for my cup to brew, I noticed a large rectangular package lying on the kitchen island, one that bore clear indications of its Nordstrom origins.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing at the box as Mel entered the room, settling her last earring into place.
“It’s your Christmas present,” Mel said. “You need to open it.”
“It’s not Christmas yet,” I objected, “not nearly.”
“Close enough,” she told me, “and you should open it now.”