'Tis the Season

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PROLOGUE

I pace the floor, my mind going a mile a minute, while the rest of the world sleeps. There is no rest for me because I am not like the others. I have a responsibility. So much to do. So little time. It is all up to me.

I light a candle and the flames make dancing shadows on the walls, in sync with Mozart’s Requiem. Pure, beautiful music: the way life should be. Not like the mindless trash I hear thumping from car stereos these days, screaming words of profanity. Quality has virtually disappeared and in its place? Quantity.

People want more and they want it now. They insist on instant gratification. Fast food. Faster everything. They drive their cars like lunatics, virtually riding the bumper of the car in front of them, urging the driver to go faster or get out of their way. They risk other people’s lives so they can get home two minutes earlier. And for what? To sit in front of the television set staring mindlessly at nothing, nothing of any value. It is sinful!

The world is a terrible place. God should be first! No one puts God first anymore. If they would turn their lives over to Him, they would be saved. But some refuse to be saved. Instead, they go about their pathetic lives, thinking only of themselves. What do I want and what do I have to do to get it? They use sex to manipulate others. Women haunt bars and flaunt their scantily clad bodies to get what they want. They have no family values, no morals. Adultery, abortion: atrocities against God.

Some people don’t deserve to live. They do not even care that their immoral acts, their lack of common decency, their selfishness, harms everyone around them. That has to stop. I have to stop it. It is all up to me. God has spoken to me. He has chosen me to carry out His work and He has shown me The Way. I know what needs to be done and, to honor Him, I will do His will. People have to pay for their sins. I will make them pay.

Actually, the deed itself is almost always so easy. People are creatures of habit. They leave their doors unlocked when they walk out to get the morning paper or take out the garbage, never thinking that someone might be watching them, just waiting for an opportunity. They assume that “it” will never happen to them. But, for some, it will. I will see to it.

I must be the strong one. In the time I have left here, I must do my part to save at least this little corner of the world. And I must be careful. I must plan everything in advance, down to the smallest detail. Timing is of the utmost importance. I must be patient. It all comes down to control: self-control. I must suppress the rage inside me.

I need to play my role perfectly. I must continue to do all the things that are expected of me. Never show anyone the way I feel. I must say all the right words. Do all the right things. It is all up to me. No one must suspect me. No one must ever know. I cannot afford to make any mistakes. That would ruin everything. They would never understand and they would try to stop me. Then, there would be no one to carry out God’s work. It is sad enough that, when I’m gone, there will be no one left to rid this neighborhood of the human garbage.

I blow out the candle, extinguishing its life and pray for a few hours of sleep before dawn. I will not have to wait much longer. I can feel it.

It is almost time again.

A Christmas Mystery

Readers often ask writers where their ideas come from and, of course, the answer is "anywhere and everywhere." Bits of overheard conversation, a personality trait or a physical characteristic from someone we know. The list is endless. 

But what fascinates me the most about the writing process is when I find myself writing a scene based on something, long forgotten, from my childhood. That's exactly what happened as I was writing my Christmas mystery, Unfinished Business.

One year, I desperately wanted a Patty Play Pal doll for Christmas. I wrote my usual letter to Santa asking for the doll. But, as Christmas got closer and closer, I was impatient. I'm still not sure what made me decide to search my parents' closet but I did. And I found the doll. But it wasn't the thrill I thought it would be.

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Here's the scene as I wrote it for the book when Ann's older sister, Marnie, and her boyfriend, Sam, come to Cincinnati for a Christmas visit.

As the kids went down the hall to their bedrooms, Ann said, “We’ll be lucky if it is light when they get up. Last year, Davey woke us up at three in the morning, insisting that we go open the presents from Santa.”

“In that case, maybe we should all turn in early,” Marnie said, yawning. “I know I’m ready.”

“You guys go ahead,” Ann said. “David and I have a little work to do first. We’ve got to get the milk and cookies out and,” she whispered, “the presents Santa is bringing out of our bedroom closet.”

“So that’s where you hid the presents,” Marnie said. “I was wondering.” She giggled. “Ann, remember the year we decided to look for our Christmas presents?”

“Oh, wow,” Ann replied, “I forgot all about that.”

Marnie looked at Sam and David. “Ann and I knew that, in addition to the presents Santa brought, our parents always got each of us one gift every year. We got curious one year and, whenever we had the chance in the days before Christmas, we’d go searching through closets, under our parents’ bed, anywhere we could think of that they might have hidden their gifts for us. Finally, one afternoon, we found them. In the master bedroom closet, along the base of the wall, there were these sliding panels with storage space behind them. We had quite an adventure that day, didn’t we, Ann?”

“We had an adventure but it didn’t turn out to be so good. I’d been hinting for weeks that I wanted a Cabbage Patch doll. I was so excited that day when I found her,” Ann told them. She frowned. “Unfortunately, when Christmas morning came, it just wasn’t the same. I’d ruined my own surprise. The worst of it though was that the tag on the doll’s box read, ‘From Santa’, not from our parents.” Ann glanced at her sister. “You tried to convince me that Santa had just left that present early but I didn’t buy it.”

“That was a bummer,” Marnie agreed. “I felt so bad for you because I knew how disillusioned you were. I guess that was the year you stopped believing in Santa.”

“Not exactly,” Ann said, grinning. “I still believe.”

And so do I! Merry Christmas!