Chapter 28 - Return to the Lake
By Friday evening, our chartered Gulfstream was descending through the familiar autumn cloud deck over Lake Michigan.
Below us, the city of Chicago sparkled like a vast field of scattered jewels along the dark shoreline. The high-rises along Michigan Avenue, the sweeping arches of the bridges over the river, and the distant, illuminated cranes of Calumet Harbor stood peaceful, safe, and entirely free from the shadows that had once gripped them.
When our car convoy cleared the limestone gates of the Lake Forest estate, the rain had stopped. A clean, crisp northern wind was blowing off the water, rustling the great oak trees that bordered the garden.
The front door of the mansion swung open before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop.
Three-year-old Eleanor came running out onto the stone terrace, wearing her favorite yellow flannel pajamas, her dark curls bouncing behind her like ribbons.
"Mommy! Daddy!" she squealed with unbridled, joyful delight.
Clara stepped out of the car, dropped her purse onto the seat, and knelt on the flagstones with her arms wide open.
Eleanor slammed into her chest with the concussive force of pure, innocent love, wrapping her chubby little arms around Clara’s neck, showering her mother’s cheeks with wet, sticky kisses.
"I built the castle, Mommy!" Eleanor declared proudly, tugging on Clara’s sweater. "Mrs. Gable helped me, but I put the green block on top all by myself!"
"You did, my brave little bird?" Clara laughed through happy tears, burying her face into the toddler's sweet-smelling hair. "I knew you could do it."
I stepped out of the car, walking over to wrap my arms around both of them, lifting them together off the stone terrace into my chest. Eleanor giggled, grabbing my nose with her warm fingers, while Clara rested her forehead against my neck.
Marcus stood by the idling SUV, watching us with a warm, relaxed grin. He tapped his phone, which had just received confirmation that Vincent Croft had been formally transferred to the detention facility at Scheveningen in The Hague.
"Perimeter is permanently clear, Bennett," Marcus said quietly. "Take the night off."
"I'm taking the rest of my life off, Marcus," I smiled, turning toward the open doorway of our home.
We carried Eleanor inside. The great stone hearth in the living room was crackling with dry hickory logs, casting a warm amber glow over the Persian rugs, the bookshelves, and the framed portraits of Eleanor and Thomas Reed on the mantel.
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For the first time in thirty-four years, the air inside this house was completely, utterly clean.
There were no weapons hidden in the desk drawers. There were no encrypted satellite phones humming on the console. There was only the smell of fresh cedar, hot peppermint tea, and the sweet, melodic laughter of a child who would never know the dark terror of her ancestors' past.
