“I … no, no …” Mom turned away as if to get her bearings. “We’ve been through all that before, when you and Jerram were younger.” “But that wasn’t like this, Mom, was it?”

Mom looked as if she would speak, as if something deep inside her wanted to get out, but then shook her head.

“Things from a long time ago. Nothing you need to worry about,” she murmured abstractedly. Then added almost impatiently, “Just being a mother, that’s all.”

She gave Rose a pat and left the room. Rose felt totally bereft by that pat. It wasn’t at all comforting. Instead she felt like a dog that had been patted, not human at all.

Fourteen

They named him the Christmas Killer, because of what looked like his trademark: leaving a red plastic poinsettia on his victims. That had been the incongruous flower on Nancy’s pink jacket. One had been left with Cyn’s body, too. Because of them, the police went back to the junkyard and found the remains of a similar, if dirtier, flower where the skeleton had been. They theorized that the skeleton girl had also been killed around Christmas.

His first letter arrived at the Bethboro newspaper office on Friday. It had a local postmark, which meant he was here, perhaps had always been here, not some stranger just passing through.

The envelope had been printed by hand in tiny letters and was sealed with a glob of red wax. There was an imprint stamped in the wax, but the police were keeping the exact design a secret, as they were certain facts they said made them certain the letter was authentic. Otherwise, the letter was reproduced intact, written meticulously in upper and lowercase block letters. A handwriting expert named Dipthorpe said the writer was someone who had a lot of patience and didn’t mind slow, painstaking work. Did you need patience to kill someone? Rose would have imagined murder as swift and violent, a quicksilver act. It was horrible to think of his victims submitting to slow and painstaking work.

Dear Folks,

Only ten more shopping days until Christmas. I will be leaving you many more gifts besides the three you found and hope you will collect them all. Silent night, blood is bright, all is calm, blood is right. Think of me as the Christmas spirit. Death is sleepful peace. Peace is easeful death.

Happy Holiday Greetings from a friend.

“Oh, my God,” Mom said when she read it. “This is the maniac who’ll be after Rose.”

“It could have been written by any nutter,” Dad told her. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

But Mom ignored him and pointed to another story on the same page. “This won’t make things any better, either,” she said.