A Proposal for Christmas: State Secrets / The Five Days Of Christmas. Lindsay McKenna

      Holly’s throat was thick with despair, and her head ached. “We all have problems, Craig,” she reminded him quietly, thinking of David Goddard.

      “Sure, Holl. I know you’re probably all torn up about whether to pay your Keogh Plan before the end of the year and what color to paint your toenails.”

      The sarcasm, following the scene with David as it did, was too much. “Listen, Craig. I care about you and you know it. I do everything I can to help you. But you’re the one who got yourself into this mess—kindly remember that!”

      He subsided. “I know. Holly, I’m so scared.”

      Tears smarted in Holly’s eyes, sudden and hot. It was a surprise because she had been certain that there were none left to cry. Images of another Craig, bright and fit and funny, rose in her mind. Dear God, what had happened to change him this way? During the troubled years after their father’s death, when their mother had been so confused and distracted, he had been Holly’s strength, her lifeline.

      “I know, Craig, I know. I beg of you, give yourself up.”

      “I can’t, Holly. I just can’t. You don’t know how these guys treat a fink—”

      “Craig, they’re not going to hurt you. I’ll have a lawyer present. You’re still a citizen and you still have rights.”

      “Not anymore, I don’t,” he muttered. “I’ve had dealings with al-Qaeda, Holly, and they know it.”

      “Why, Craig? Why did you turn to...to those people? Why did you do it?”

      He made a strange sound and Holly was shattered to realize that he was crying. “I have a habit, Holly,” he finally said.

      Dread electrified Holly, and she bolted upright. “What kind of habit?” she whispered, her eyes wide and burning. “Dammit, Craig, what kind of habit?”

      “Cocaine,” he said.

      “Oh, God,” Holly groaned.

      “Listen, I need money. Cindy managed to bring me what you sent, but that’s gone now.”

      “No.”

      “What did you say?” Craig sniffled, and his voice sounded angry again.

      “I said no, Craig. I’m not giving you money to buy poison! I absolutely will not!”

      “Holly, I need—”

      “You need help and I haven’t been giving it to you! Oh, God, how could I have been so stupid—”

      “Get the money, Holly. Send it to this address—” He rattled off a post-office-box number in a small Oregon town. “I mean it, Holly. If you don’t, I’ll be home for Christmas. And not to turn myself in.”

      “What are you saying?”

      “I’m saying, sister dear,” he answered with tart patience, “that if you don’t help me I’ll take Toby on the road with me. That’s what I’m saying.”

      “No! I won’t let you! I won’t let you expose him to that, drag him around the country—”

      “You won’t be able to stop me, Holly. I know where he goes to school, and I know where you live. And remember I’m a former federal agent—I’ll find the kid no matter where you try to hide him.”

      “Craig!”

      “Send the money,” he said. He repeated the address once more and then hung up.

      Slowly, her hand trembling so hard that she had to make several attempts before she could manage the task, Holly replaced the receiver in its cradle.

      She sat there on the bed, cross-legged, her head in her hands, until she heard Toby downstairs. “Mom!” he yelled exuberantly, probably still excited from his afternoon at the Ice Capades, “I’m home!”