The 19th Christmas - James Patterson Page 0,52

Imogene’s brother, Stan, his wife, Gina, and their two kids watched Goldfinger on the wide-screen TV over the gas fireplace. Stockings were hung. The tree glinted with lights and was draped with a garland of birthday cards.

The stove’s timer pinged. Imogene jumped up from her cozy chair and said, “I sure hope that big Butterball is done. It had better be.”

Then the doorbell rang. Ten-year-old Gordo ran to the door and shouted, “It’s Dr. Gadgets. Wow, oh, wow!”

Dick Russell, wearing a Santa hat and gripping two large boxes, entered the room with a big “Ho-ho-ho.” The kids hustled him over to the tree, where Willy relieved Dick of his gifts and Imogene brought him a hot drink with a candy cane stirrer. After small talk with Willy’s in-laws, Santa told the kids, “On your marks, get set…go. Open your presents.”

The boys lunged for the gifts, ripped off the paper, and screamed when they saw the pictures on the boxes.

“Drones! We’ve got drones!”

After the women dressed the children in coats and scarves and Dick shepherded them outside with their new toys, Willy went upstairs to the spare bedroom he used as his den. While keeping an eye on the football game, he polished the plan for the first day of the rest of his life.

Willy had not yet told Imogene that this would be the Lomachenkos’ last Christmas on Avila Street. He was protecting them both, and he certainly didn’t want to give her anything to worry about while the job was in progress.

Tomorrow at this time he’d call and say that they were off on a surprise birthday vacation and she should meet him at the airport. She’d say, We can’t afford a vacation, Willy.

He’d tell her, Yes, we can, honey. Do not worry. You have to leave now. I’ve got your passport. Bring a couple pieces of jewelry. Your favorite ones.

He would tell her how important it was that she pack only an overnight bag and a sweater for the plane. She couldn’t say anything to anyone. That meant she couldn’t tell Valerie next door, Carmen, who did her hair, or, especially, her sister-in-law, Gina.

Imogene was a good wife and partner. He planned to tell her on the airplane how much he loved her and how grateful he was for her loyalty and trust all these years that he’d been lugging around his sample case, making just enough to get by.

He’d tell her that he’d been making plans for their golden years all along. That she should trust him now. That this was a critical juncture, a turning point in their lives.

She would panic, of course, and maybe get mad when she realized that they were leaving San Francisco for good. There was a chance she’d threaten to get on a return flight as soon as the plane landed, but she wouldn’t make a scene in first class. Willy would have about eight hours to paint a picture of upcoming sunny skies forever.

Or maybe he’d tell her the whole truth—that if he didn’t leave now, he would get caught, convicted, and sentenced to life without parole. If she saw him again, it would be through a sheet of Plexiglas, and it would be that way until death did them part.

If telling her that didn’t work, well, he sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to hurt her.

Willy banished these thoughts and calmed his mind. He’d been smart and careful and thorough. It was all going to be good.

He stood up from the worn brown sofa and looked out the window to the backyard, where Dick was getting the swing and the bird feeders out of the way of the drones. His nephews and his partner in crime were having an unforgettable Christmas.

He took a mental picture.

Then he got ready to go.

Chapter 65

Willy took their wedding picture off the wall and opened the safe.

He removed a short tube of ten Krugerrands and the packet of forged documents they’d need at the airport. He put the papers and the coins inside his bag next to the cash from Sloane’s safe. He added a rolled-up pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, some underwear, and his toiletry kit, then zipped up the bag.

He went back to his father’s desk and ran his fingers across the top of it, tracing where he’d carved his initials, for which he’d gotten a pretty good beating. The right-hand file drawer held a box of notes and cards and memorabilia. He flipped through it, memorizing the contents, then took