The Sheikh's First Christmas - A Warm and Cozy Christmas Romance (7 page)

EIGHT

I started walking, then running, back to my house. I was frantic to begin, my mind clinging desperately to my plan. I found my backpack and filled it with as many of the stolen items as I could carry. A few were too large, and I planned to come back for them after I'd returned the smaller things. It would be trickier, but if I'd managed to get them out, I could get them back in.

Some of the people I stole from might never even have noticed.
I was almost giddy as I tossed a pair of gloves and a flashlight onto the front seat of my car. The lock-picking tools were still in my glovebox.

I tried to force myself to slow down and concentrate. Hurrying led to mistakes, and now was no time to screw up and get caught, not after all this time. I brushed out my hair and tied it back in a ponytail. I changed out of my boots and into sneakers, pulling on one of my university sweatshirts to complete my "disguise."

The first house I needed to revisit was an enormous place, a breathtaking piece of modern architecture hidden in a thick stand of tall pines. I'd chosen this place because the glass walls had let me see the treasures inside, and the surrounding trees kept any neighbors or passersby from seeing me. I parked on an unpaved maintenance track, the same place I'd left my car during the original robbery. I cut through the woods, traveling the quarter mile with as much stealth as the crunching snow would allow me. In my backpack, wrapped in a towel, was a silver music box. It opened on delicate hinges to reveal a porcelain ballerina who rotated slowly to the tinkling melody of "Clair De Lune." It had charmed me, and I'd taken it knowing I'd never sell it.

I stopped short of the clearing where the house stood. There was no car in the drive, and the large garage sitting back away from the main house was closed, giving me no clues as to whether this family was spending Christmas at home or elsewhere. I watched from my hiding place for ten minutes. There was no activity. I decided to get closer.

I sprinted from the tree line to the backyard. Ducking behind a small shed, I remembered the big drawback about this house: the glass walls that let me see in made it almost impossible to avoid being seen by anyone who might be inside. I craned my neck around the edge of the shed, squinting. The sun reflected off the glass, throwing harsh glare into my eyes. I tried to make out the interior of the house, but it was hopeless. Finally, I gave up and moved hiding spots, darting over to a cluster of shrubs about twenty yards to my right.

Much better. I had a clear view into the living room. A Christmas tree towered in the corner, but its lights weren't on. I said a prayer of silent gratitude. On Christmas day, I couldn't ask for a surer sign that the family was away.

I didn't huddle and sneak anymore. I walked, unhurried to the house, much of my anxiety having dissipated. I remembered the rear sliding door I'd gotten into last time, but guessed correctly that the family had learned their lesson and locked it this time. They'd put a wooden stick in the tracks of the door, too. I'd have to find another way in.

I circled the house slowly, taking stock of my options, until I arrived at a cellar door, set on an angle low to the ground. I crouched in the grass and examined the lock, a padlock fastened into a metal loop that held a hinged plate in place. I could try to pick the lock, but I failed at picking locks as often as I succeeded. And, anyway, there was a much simpler way. I pulled the pouch of burglary tools from my back pocket and took out a small, flathead screwdriver. I fitted it into one of the screws that attached the hinged plate to the wood of the doorframe and unscrewed it. I repeated the act with the other two screws, and the plate fell free. I heaved the door open, and it fell back with a bang that echoed through the clearing, making me wince.

It was unlikely that anyone had heard it, but still, I decided I'd better hurry. I flicked on my flashlight and made my way down the uneven wooden stairs into the cool, damp darkness of the cellar. I shone my flashlight over the cement floor and painted cinderblock walls, searching for the interior stairs. I found them in a far corner beside a tower of cardboard boxes. I hurried up the stairs, praying the door to the inside of the house would be unlocked. The handle turned easily in my hand.

The cellar door opened into a tiled mudroom leading onto the kitchen. I paused here, trying to remember where I'd found the music box. It had been upstairs... A library? No, a music room. I strode through the living room, down a short hallway and up a flight of stairs. It took me a few moments, but I found it. The room was just as I'd remembered it. A baby grand piano stood in the center of the room, its chocolate-colored wooden surface gleaming in the sunlight that cut through the treetops in bright ribbons. There was a harp with a stool beside it, the woven fabric covering the seat cushion worn with use. I looked to my right and found the cabinet. Its glass doors were closed over shelves full of sheet music, metronomes, and tuning instruments. I approached the cabinet and opened it. I pushed a stack of piano primers aside to clear a space on a high shelf. I slipped my backpack off my shoulders and took out the music box, still safely wrapped. The little weight of it in my hands was solemn and significant. I needed this fragmented penance; my conscience wept for it.

I turned the bundle in my hands, unwrapping the towel to reveal the shiny, inlaid surface of the box. I felt a muted pang of longing. It wasn't mine, but it was still as lovely as the day I'd first seen it. On impulse, I opened it, wanting to hear its song one last time. The pale ballerina turned in her steady dance, and "Clair de Lune" played softly, slowing down as the box wound down.

As the last note of the song rang out, a pounding from downstairs jolted me out of my reverie. Time seemed to slow down as I watched the music box tumble from my hands. I reached out for it, but it was too late. The box hit the wooden floor with a discordant clang, striking first on one of its silver corners, then directly against the tiny figure of the dancer, causing the tiny ballerina to snap in half. The box bounced once more, its mechanism sounding a final chord of protest, before finally coming to rest on its side.

The pounding sound came again. Someone was banging on the front door, and it didn't sound like a visitor's knock. I flattened myself against a wall and peered around the edge of the window frame. My heart stopped when I saw what I’d prayed not to—a police cruiser in the driveway, its lights flashing.

There was a cop standing at the front door. I couldn't get a clear view of him, but I imagined his gun was in his hand. Another officer was on the front lawn, circling slowly around the house. I didn't have to guess about whether his gun was out. He held it in both hands, pointing the weapon down at the grass as he searched.

I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to think. My first impulse, childish and naïve, was to hide inside the house until they were gone. But they knew I was there. The police didn't show up with lights on and guns blazing unless they were expecting trouble. They wouldn't just go away if I didn’t immediately come out. More police were certainly on the way, and soon the house would be surrounded, trapping me. I couldn’t wait until that happened. I needed to move, and quickly.

I considered handing myself in. If I came quietly, if I explained why I'd done the things I had, maybe they'd be more lenient with me. More importantly, a quick surrender might save me from being shot and killed. Cold dread rose up in me when I pictured the gun in the officer's hands, how the light had reflected off the cold metal of the barrel. I didn't want to die.

I'd already started moving toward the hallway, planning to wait for them in plain sight, on my knees, with my hands in the air, when I stopped.

No
.

Some part of me, some voice inside that my shame and fear couldn't touch, insisted that I had to try. My whole body shook, but the voice insisted that I was no coward. I might not manage escape, but I could damned well try.

The knocking ceased. For a moment there was silence, and then came a single blunted bang. Again, a silence, then another bang. They were breaking down the door.

The realization shook me from my indecision. I rushed down the stairs and to the rear of the house. It would take too long to go through the cellar. I remembered the sliding doors, and the wooden stick that wouldn't be an issue for me now that I was inside. I slowed down once I was in the living room, taking cover behind the unlit tree. I scanned the yard for the cop, but he wasn't there. Had he already passed through? Or...

I heard a scrape and a click. I recognized what it meant instantly, having made the same sound not ten minutes before when I'd turned the unlocked handle of the door leading from the cellar to the mudroom.

I fell to my knees while still moving, grabbing for the wooden stick laying in the track of the sliding door. I tossed the stick aside and yanked on the door handle, forgetting it was locked. I cursed.

"Seattle PD! Identify yourself, and come out slowly, with your hands in the air!"

The officer's voice boomed from the kitchen. I thumbed over the door lock and pulled again. It slid freely this time. I rushed out and turned right. I paused at the corner of the house, breathing hard. I leaned out and checked around the corner. It was empty. The first cop had either gotten through the front door, or followed his partner round to the open cellar. I turned my attention to the tree line, forty yards away. If I could just get into the woods, as long as they hadn’t already found my car...

That nervy voice inside, the one that spurred me to escape, told me to stop thinking and run. Fear had made my legs weak, but, somehow, I made myself move. I sprinted toward the woods without looking behind me. Every moment, I expected a hand on my shoulder, a voice barking commands, a gun leveled at my face. I ran with everything in me, praying for deliverance I didn't deserve.

I was more than surprised to make it into the woods. The brush was too thick to run, and the snow was too slippery, but I hurried as best I could, ducking under branches and hopping over fallen logs. As I went, I searched the woods ahead for a sign of the service road, and of the car that would carry me to freedom. What felt like hours passed as I found my way through that endless forest. Aside from my crunching footsteps and the irregular drip of melted snow falling from the trees, the woods were silent. My breath came in ragged gasps. Exhaustion warred with terror, leaving me dizzy and trembling.

Relief greater than I knew possible rushed over me when I caught the first glimpse of my car up ahead. But, as quickly as it came, my relief crumbled. A second car, a Seattle PD cruiser, waited on the service drive. An officer stood outside the vehicle; one hand held the black box of his police radio, the other hung at his side, holding his service pistol. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes, but it was clear from his posture that he was searching the forest—he was searching for me.

I waited for the brave voice within me to tell me that I could still make it, but it was silent. Another voice rang out in the cold air.

"Stop right there! Hands in the air, right now! Down on your knees!"

It'd finally happened, the moment I'd always feared had actually come.

"You are under arrest on suspicion of breaking and entering, grand larceny, and possession of stolen goods."

As the cold metal of the handcuffs closed over my wrists, in my mind, I saw the figure of the ballerina, her slender body smashed and broken on the floor. Only now that it was too late did I understand: some things can't be made right. No matter how far we retrace our steps, no matter how sorry we are, our sins are ours to carry. I was foolish to ever believe otherwise.

Now I understood.

NINE

I followed the officer's orders without speaking. Wet snow soaked into the knees of my jeans. The other cop, the one who'd waited with the cars, approached at a trot, his gun trained steadily on me.

The officer behind me dragged me by my restrained wrists and told me to lie, face-first, in the snow. They patted me down and, finding no weapons, pulled me to my feet. I felt numb as they marched me to the waiting cruiser. Their words, the ones I'd heard a hundred times on television and in movies, the ones informing me of my legal rights, droned on, muffled and drained of meaning.

The officer said something. He must have asked me a question because when I didn't responded, he repeated it, louder.

"I said
do
you understand
?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Yes. I understand."

I saw him clearly for the first time once he put me into the car. The back seat of the cruiser was hard and narrow, upholstered in rough, gray fabric that smelled strongly of disinfectant and faintly of urine.

The police officer stood beside the open door of the cruiser, hunched close to me. He was young, perhaps twenty-five, with dark skin and piercing, close-set eyes. He was smaller than I’d expected for the strength with which he'd pushed and dragged me.

"What's your name?" he asked.

I deliberately didn't carry ID when I worked. I'd read more than one story about a criminal who'd gotten caught when he'd left his wallet behind. I figured that leaving it at home was an easy way to prevent that mistake, at least.

I considered refusing to answer the question, but it seemed pointless. I'd been fingerprinted three years ago when I'd worked briefly as a teller at a bank. I'd been fired two weeks into the job after making a tiny mistake when handling a large deposit. It had been sorted out, and no funds had been misplaced, but I was still within my probationary period, and that was my one strike. Now those fingerprints were in the system, and the Seattle police department would have my personal details within a few hours, whether I told them or not.

"Annabelle Christensen," I said. The cop took a small notebook out of his pocket and started writing.

"And what other homes have you burgled?" he asked, almost casually, his pencil poised over the paper.

I didn't answer.

He lowered the notebook and pencil, looking at me with something like disgust.

"Look, we've been following the pattern of these crimes, and you're looking good for them. Really good. We searched your car, and I'd bet my badge that we'll be able to match those items to the list of items taken in these burglaries. Let's just get all this out in the open, shall we, while I'm still in a good mood and before the DA is all pissed off and ready to make an example out of you."

A tear rolled down my cheek, and I couldn't even wipe it away.

"I want a lawyer."

He just stared at me. I met his eyes, resolving to say nothing more. The cop sighed heavily, stepped back, and put the notebook away. The door slammed shut loudly enough to make my ears ring. I watched through the window as he talked, scowling, into the radio clipped to his shoulder. After a few moments he walked out of my sight, leaving me to wait in the silent car. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the seat behind me.

I wished I could convince myself that this wasn't real. Even if it was a lie, I'd give almost anything for the ability to believe it, if only for a moment. I thought about my house, about the electric bill I needed to mail payment on by Wednesday. I thought Marion's birthday card in the glove compartment of my car, ready to go into tomorrow's mail.

Marion. She'd try to reach me on Skype in a few hours, and I wouldn't be there. If it had been me unable to reach her, I'd worry. Marion probably wouldn’t be worried, but she'd be disappointed, hurt. I wondered if she'd obeyed the "do not open until the 25
th
" label on the gift I'd sent her. I wondered if she'd like the perfume and the scarf.

I tried not to picture how her face would look when they told her about me, when the police called to question her, and when the finance office at her school told her that her account was delinquent because her sister's bank accounts had been frozen. I didn’t want to think about it. Not that.

The cops didn't speak to me once they got into the front of the car, sometime later. The cruiser bounced over the bumpy access road. One of the cops, the one with the sunglasses, cursed as his coffee splashed onto his hand. He mopped at the spill with a handful of napkins from the glove box as the cruiser reached the paved road and accelerated. We sped along the highway, toward downtown, and whatever awaited me next.

At the police station, I was searched more thoroughly, this time by a female officer. The arresting officer had taken my burglary tools and flashlight. He'd missed the slip of paper in my back pocket, though—the one on which Sadiq had written his phone number.

"You need this?" she asked, holding it up. "For your call?"

I nodded without thinking. She surprised me when she put the paper back into my pocket.

"I can keep it with me?"

"It's not like you're gonna stab anyone with a Post-It note," she shrugged.

A clerk took my fingerprints and mug shot. I imagined how I must look, red-eyed, bedraggled, miserable, holding up my number as I stood in front of the wall of numbers marking my height. I remembered Sadiq teasing me, telling me that I was short.

"I'm not that short," I murmured as they made me turn to the right. "Five two is just shy of average."

The holding cell was a rectangular room with stark white cinderblock walls and a cement floor painted robin's-egg blue. Black metal benches were bolted to the floor in three even rows. The space to the left of the benches was larger than on the other side, in order to accommodate the metal commode attached to the wall. A partition too short and narrow to be decently called a "privacy wall" jutted out from the far wall, partially shielding the toilet.

There were around a dozen women in the cell. Two teenagers sat on the floor against the back wall. One of them looked a little older, and she kept her arm around the younger girl, who was crying. A woman in dirty clothes, rail-thin with tangled hair that way gray with dirt, paced up and down the space between the first two rows of benches. Her lips moved constantly, but she made no sound that I heard. An obese, gray-haired woman in sweats sat on one of the benches. She rested her hands on her knees and stared straight ahead, her eyes focused on nothing. Several women were sleeping; one stretched out on a bench, the other two curled up on the floor. I wondered how long they'd been in here that they'd gotten tired enough that they could sleep. Three other women sat close together on the center bench, talking quietly to each other. Their tall boots and short skirts led me to guess they were prostitutes. They made no attempt to pretend they weren't staring at me. I stood as far from them as possible, my back against the wall on the non-toilet side of the room. I stared at my shoes.

They'd taken my laces, pulled them from my shoes and sealed them in a big plastic envelope, along with my grandmother's ring and the elastic from my hair. My hair fell in messy waves around my face. My stomach groaned with hunger; I'd eaten nothing today besides the oatmeal Sadiq had cooked. He'd told the truth about not knowing how to cook, and the oatmeal had been overcooked, sticky, with a little too much salt. I'd been nervous and embarrassed, unsure how to interact with him after our strange night together. But he'd been kind to me. He'd cooked breakfast for me. I'd robbed him, and he'd fed me.

I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor. I buried my hands and let the tears come, ignoring the laughter coming from the huddle of prostitutes. Hours passed, and I cried myself empty. Three times, a uniformed officer came to open the cell. The first time, they called a name, and the large woman in sweats got up and went out. The second time, they brought a new woman and locked her in. She was middle-aged, with dirty clothes and matted hair. She shook with what might have been fear, or possibly withdrawal. I dried my eyes as she shuffled in wordlessly. She sat down on the floor, facing a wall. She curled into a ball and began to rock and moan.

By the time the officer came for the third time, I'd stopped crying. The despair had been awful, worse than the fear or shame, but, somehow, it had subsided. I felt a strange peace settle over me as I sat still in that terrible room, with cold wall behind me, and cold floor beneath me. I wrapped my arms around my knees and wondered why,
how
I could possibly feel anything like good right now.

Then it occurred to me. The thing I'd feared had happened. It had been as scary and awful as I'd imagined, but...I didn't have to fear it anymore. There'd been a worry, coiled tightly within me, for years, since I'd first stood lookout on that warehouse job. And now it wasn't out there anymore, waiting for me. I might be incarcerated, but in my heart I was free.

I didn't hear the murmuring and wailing of the other women in the cell anymore. I didn't wonder how long they'd keep me here. I didn't worry about Marion. She'd be fine. I knew it because I knew deep down that I would be fine, even if I didn't believe it yet. The worst thing had already happened to me, and I was still here.

"Annabelle Christensen."

I looked up at the uniformed man standing in the doorway. He jerked his head, indicating I should go with him. Before I was allowed to leave the cell, I was handcuffed again, but not as tightly as when I'd first been arrested. As I followed the guard out, one of the prostitutes shouted insults after me. I didn't turn around.

"Behave, Lara," the guard cautioned as he locked the door behind us.

He brought me to a tiny room. The only items in it were an old desk, a wooden chair with a torn vinyl seat, a phone book, and a telephone.

"Dial nine, nine, and then the number. If your first call is not answered, you may attempt one other call. No further calls will be permitted." He reached down and opened the phone book to where an index card had been wedged in and taped in place—a permanent bookmark. I looked down at the book and saw he'd opened it to the listings for bail bondsmen.

“Any questions?”

"I think I’m okay. Thanks," I said. He nodded.

I sat down in the chair and pulled the phone closer to me. The officer stepped back and crossed his thickly muscled arms over his chest.

I picked the phone up from the receiver and hesitated, the dial tone droning in my ear. A long moment passed, and the officer cleared his throat loudly. I smiled tightly at him and turned back to the phone.

I took the paper from my pocket and dialed the number on it with shaking fingers.

It rang, and rang, and rang. I wasn't worried, though.

It rang six times, seven.

"No one home?" the officer asked, his voice edged with impatience.

"He'll answer," I said without looking at him. "He promised me."

Nine rings, ten...

"You can try one more number. Bail bondsmen are available twenty-four hours a—"

A click, a pause, and then a voice, breathless.

"Hello?"

I struggled to speak.

"Hello? Who is this?"

I swallowed against the lump in my throat, holding back a sob.

"...Annabelle?"

God, the way he says my name
.

"Sadiq."

"Annabelle, it is you. What is it? What's happened?"

"I...I'm in trouble."

"Tell me what's happened. What do you need?"

I laughed even as my tears spilled over.

"So, about that ride..."