Possession

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  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Possession

  Copyright © 2010 by Rene Gutteridge. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of truck copyright © Andre Kudyusov/Photolibrary. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of boy copyright © Tatyana Tomsickova/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Mark Anthony Lane II

  Edited by Sarah Mason

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.biz.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gutteridge, Rene.

  Possession / Rene Gutteridge.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4143-2434-0 (sc)

  1. Ex-police officers—Fiction. 2. Marital conflict—Fiction. 3. California—Fiction.

  4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3557.U887P67 2010

  813´.54—dc22 2010036323

  Build: 2016-08-29 08:17:20

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Preview of Old Fashioned

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  An Interview with Rene Gutteridge

  Discussion Questions

  For Sean, John, and Cate

  my three gifts from God

  Prologue

  “Can you please state your full name?”

  “Lindy Graegan.”

  “Your real name is Linda. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your middle name?”

  “Michaela.”

  “Mrs. Graegan, do you know why you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve waived your right to an attorney. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And for the record, your husband is Vance Mitchell Graegan, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “For your information, you are being tape-recorded.”

  “Fine.”

  “Mrs. Graegan, do you understand that you are being questioned in the death of—”

  “I understand. I have nothing to hide. Just ask me the questions, okay? Can we just get on with it? Can I get a drink of water or something? Coffee?”

  “We can get you a drink of water.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s start from the beginning.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “I understand. But we need to piece together exactly what happened.”

  “You can’t possibly understand it all. You can’t possibly know what this has done to my family.”

  “If we could just start from the beginning.”

  “Well, I fell in love with a cop. And that was my first mistake.”

  1

  Like the suffocating, squeezing atmosphere of D.C., the small, tattered banquet room at the Montgomery County Fraternal Order of Police closed in, one friendly handshake at a time. Smoke and lively conversation drifted from the bar that was attached to the back of the building. Laughter spilled forward, reaching Vance and Captain Barra just as Vance was about to thank the captain for his kind words.

  “We’re going to miss you around here, Graegan,” Barra said, slapping him on the shoulder and causing his seltzer to slosh.

  “Thanks.” Vance shook the liquid off his hand.

  “Come on, let’s go see if Detective Short is wearing her favorite red blouse.” Barra winked and wandered toward the commotion of the bar, holding his Solo cup high in the air like something from the linoleum might jump up and grab it.

  Finally Vance found himself alone. He hightailed it to the back exit, where he indulged in his only vice: fresh air. The sounds of the city swarmed like angry bees, but he didn’t care. They sounded like old friends.

  “Hey.” Andy Drakkard hung out the door. “What are you doing, man? We were just about to give a big toast when we realized you weren’t even in the building!”

  Vance laughed. “Sorry, man. Just needed some air.”

  “I know what you mean.” Drakkard joined him, leaning against the cold concrete wall. The dim light of the setting sun colored the sky in a way that reminded Vance of campfires and cold nights.

  “So you and Lindy gonna be okay?”

  Vance nodded. Offered the reassuring smile that came free with every handshake he gave out tonight. “This is going to make us okay.”

  “A deli? I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around it. You serving up cold cuts? Not seeing it. I mean, yeah, Lindy makes the best Monte Carlo I have ever eaten in my life, but still . . .”

  “Lindy’s the genius behind it. I’ll just be crunching numbers.”

  “Sounds like more excitement than you can handle.”

  “Funny.” Vance sipped his drink. “I think I’ve seen enough excitement in my lifetime.”

  Drakkard blinked slowly. “Yeah, I know, man. We all have. But you gotta push through it all.”

  “I’m not running,” Vance said. “I would’ve done that a long time ago.”

  “You were never the same, though. Maybe none of us are.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Short’s in there with that famous red blouse.”

  Vance smiled. “What am I going to do without you guys?”

  “Serve up salami.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Seriously, your wife makes outstanding sandwiches. Never had better.” Drakkard puffed on his cigarette, killing the fresh air that was there just moments ago. He flicked the ash into the metal bucket beside them and opened the door. “You coming?”

  “In a sec.”

  “This is your party, man. You can’t be scooting out early.”

  “No way.”

  “Don’t make me come hunt you down again.”

  Drakkard shut the door, and Vance breathed in the dense air. He closed his eyes. He was tired and just wanted to leave. What was the use in all this celebration? Twenty years on the force. Five years short of retirement. Leaving the only world he knew.

  Cheers.

  Familiar images flickered through his mind. A bench by a bus stop. Blood dripping onto the concrete.

  The sound of a rifle, distant. Cold. Vanishing into the night like a ghost. It never let him rest.

  And that’s why, somehow, the deli made sense. At least it used to. Until the reality of it was one
road trip away.

  He pushed out the despairing thoughts and focused on Lindy. He smiled at the thought of when he first fell in love with her. They were at lunch on a Saturday afternoon, and he was complaining about having to be on hold with the phone company. She told him she always pushed 2 for Spanish.

  “You don’t speak Spanish, do you?” he asked.

  She smiled wryly. “No. But they speak English. There’s never a wait because fewer calls come in, and when you apologize for hitting the wrong number, they offer to help you anyway.”

  She then went on to deconstruct the sandwich she was eating, offering an explanation of why the quality of salami matters.

  It seemed like two lifetimes ago.

  The disappearing sun left only cold air, chilling him quickly. He stepped back inside to say his final good-byes.

  * * *

  The zipper sound. Again.

  Lindy sighed and put down the packing tape. Three more boxes to go. The house always seemed so small, but now it looked expansive. It reminded her of when they bought it. She’d walked in and known it was to be their home.

  “Conner . . .”

  “Mom, I’m uncomfortable. This floor is hard. I want my bed.”

  Lindy walked to the living room, where the tent was pitched right in the middle of the floor. Conner’s black hair emerged, followed by the sweetest face she knew. The flashlight in his hand tilted toward him, highlighting the apprehension in his eyes.

  He crawled out and sat on the carpet, picking at the edge of his Star Wars pajama top. “I know this is supposed to be an adventure, but it doesn’t seem like very much fun.”

  “You’ll get to see new parts of America. Some people go their whole lives and don’t get to see as much as you’ll see on our drive.” She tickled his tummy, and he cringed with laughter. “Plus, hotel rooms! You love hotel rooms.”

  He smiled, his deep dimples emerging, just like his father’s. Where the black hair came from was anyone’s guess. But his piercing eyes, speckled green with a dark ring of hazel encircling each pupil, had charmed many women in his life. Luckily, at eight he could hardly comprehend what those eyes were capable of.

  Pulling him into a hug, she let him rest against her body for a little while. He looked up at her. “I might cry, Mom.”

  “When?”

  “When the truck takes all our stuff.”

  “I know. But we can’t move all our stuff by ourselves. And they’re professionals. They know how to get it there safely.” She stroked his hair. “It’s okay. This is a new start for us, and I know it’s scary, but you’re going to love California. It’s very warm and sunny. And we can go to the beach and play in the sand.” She stood and pulled him to his feet. “Now, you have to get some sleep or you’re going to miss our whole trip tomorrow because you’ll be sacked out in the backseat.”

  “Backseat? Can’t I ride in the front? I’m eight.”

  “I know how old you are, and no, you cannot.” She guided him back to the opening of the tent. “I’ll be in there a little later on to sleep with you. I’ve got a few more things to get packed before we leave tomorrow.”

  “I really like this house. I was born here.”

  “It holds . . . a lot of memories.” She sprouted a smile as her words trailed off. “We’ll never forget it, right?”

  “Right.” He folded his arms. “Well, I’m going to pray, Mom. I’m going to pray hard that we don’t move.”

  Lindy groaned. “Conner, please. Not this again. Not right now.”

  Hurt flashed across his eyes, and she hated that she couldn’t be more patient with him, but she had little tolerance for his infatuation with prayer. It all started two years ago, when he was six and couldn’t find the Sunday morning cartoons. He somehow landed on a religious program and hadn’t been the same since, insisting on praying and talking about God. And every once in a while, she’d catch him watching a televangelist again. It got so bad that at one point they took him to a specialist, afraid a vaccination might’ve gone haywire in his system. The doctor assured them he was fine and that in due time it would go away. But it hadn’t.

  Conner dropped to his knees and started praying, one hand shooting up like a disco move. Lindy rolled her eyes and was about to tell him to quit it when the phone rang.

  She caught it on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  “Hello? Vance?” Lindy listened carefully but heard nothing. She hung up the phone.

  “Mom? When is Dad going to be home?”

  Lindy leaned against the counter, her arms resting on its cold surface. That was always the question these days—and one that she could hardly ever answer.

  * * *

  Vance flipped on the switch, and his side of the office buzzed to life under flickering fluorescents. On the other side of the room a woman ran a vacuum back and forth, moving around like it might be the only dance partner she’d ever known.

  His desk stood out among the office clutter, nearly naked now. Two boxes sat next to it, and a few unopened cards lay on top, probably from people who couldn’t make it to the FOP.

  The hum of the vacuum moved closer. Vance decided there was no reason to linger. He should just take his stuff and go. Except he couldn’t get himself to leave the chair.

  Then his phone rang. He stared at it for a moment, wondering who would be trying to call him at his desk at this hour. His former desk. Maybe it was a wrong number.

  Maybe not.

  “Graegan.” He dropped the Detective, since that wasn’t true anymore.

  “I thought I’d reach you there.”

  Vance paused. “Erin?”

  “Surprised?”

  “We haven’t spoken in . . . a while.” Vance swiveled his chair away from the vacuum’s noise. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

  “Just a lucky guess. If I were leaving the force after twenty years to move across the country and start a deli, I’d probably sleep on my desk. Maybe chain myself there.”

  His grip tightened around the receiver. “I, um . . .”

  “What can I say? News travels fast—and far. All the way to Chicago.”

  “So you’re still in Chicago?”

  “I thought you might keep better tabs on me than that.” A soft noise clicked in the background, maybe a pencil tapping. “Yeah. I’m in Chicago.”

  “How’s everything going?”

  “I don’t know if I can sum up three years with that question. But overall, things are going fine. Chicago’s different, but I like working here. I mean, I’ll never go inside like you did, because I want the streets and have always wanted the streets.”

  “You know it was more complicated for me than that.”

  “I know.”

  There was an edge to her voice, and Vance regretted it. But it wasn’t unusual.

  “Look,” she suddenly said, “I just wanted to offer my congratulations to you. I know this is a big step for you and Lindy. I think it’s a good thing. I hear California is very sunny.”

  “I can hear it in your voice. You think I’m making a big mistake.”

  “I can’t sit here and judge you, Vance. I’ve made my own mistakes, and I’m not about to judge how people deal with what life hands them. Life handed us a lot. I nearly drank myself to death. You’re starting a deli. We all do our thing.”

  Vance leaned back in his chair. It was good to hear her voice. Comforting in a strange way. Maybe it connected him to a life that was more normal, years and years ago. “It’s hard to believe we’re leaving here. We don’t even have a place in California yet. Conner and Lindy are going out a couple of days early to try to find us a place to live.”

  “Sounds like an interesting adventure. One that should come with a stiff drink.” She paused. “And yes, I’m sober. I realize that I can’t make drinking jokes around you because you’re like an A.A. sponsor I can’t shake.”

  “And that’s a good thing.”

  “So,” she continued af
ter an awkward pause, “there is another reason I’m calling, besides to offer you the best of luck with your sandwiches.”

  Vance laughed. “I can tell the sandwiches are bothering you.”

  “I was wondering if you might want to swing by Chicago on your way? It’s been a long time. I’d love to catch up.”

  Vance leaned back in his chair, eyeing the cleaning lady, who had now worked her way to the other side of the room.

  “Hello?”

  “Sorry. I’m here. I, um . . .”

  “Okay, listen, Vance, I know we had unusual circumstances before. But that was a long time ago. And I just think it would be nice to put all that behind us. Just sort of move on. Why not, right?”

  Vance closed his eyes, trying to keep memories—the kind that had caused him to change a lot of things in his life—from racing into his mind. “I know. It seems like another lifetime, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  The faraway drone of the vacuum filled the momentary silence.

  “Look, maybe this was a mistake. Maybe there’s a reason we haven’t talked in three years.” Her tone had soured.

  “Erin, don’t go there. We don’t need to go back to that place. We’ve moved on from all that.”

  “I thought we had.”

  “We have. And it’s good to hear from you. I’d love to swing by and see you.”

  Even as Erin gave him directions and her cell phone number, Vance wondered if he’d done the right thing. He hung up the phone, staring at plans to detour to Chicago. How was he going to explain this to Lindy?

  “You must be a popular man.” The cleaning lady leaned against her cart, her thick South African accent smiling through her words.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, my friend. That phone has been ringing every fifteen minutes for the last two hours.”

  2

  Lindy’s body ached. Even reaching for her purse was a task. She’d definitely be popping some ibuprofen once they got on the road. And stopping for a forty-eight-ounce coffee.

  Through the window, she watched Vance watching the movers maneuver their dining room table.

  “The leg!” she suddenly shouted. But Vance couldn’t hear her. She ran out the front door.

  “The leg, Vance!” Lindy pushed through the stacks of boxes on the lawn. She glared at Vance, who looked clueless, then hurried toward the guy in the hat, kind of burly and seemingly void of personality. “Sir, please. My husband was supposed to tell you that you can’t hold on to that leg. It’s unstable. We’ve had it repaired twice.” She caught her breath as she looked between the two men holding the table. “It was my grandmother’s, and it means so much to me. Please, please be careful with it.”