Second Honeymoon

Chapter 23

I COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time I pulled up to my house knowing that no one else would be there. Between Marshall and Judy, John Jr. and Max, there was always somebody who’d answer when I’d walk through the door and shout out, “Hello? Anyone home?”

I hadn’t given much thought to being alone before they all left. Now I was by myself, and it was kind of weird. A little sad, even. A little eerie, too.

I got the mail before heading inside, flipping through it as I grabbed myself a Heineken Light from the fridge. The boys had barely had time to unpack their bags up at camp, so there was no chance of getting a letter from them. Instead, it was just a couple of bills, some junk mail, and—

What’s this?

Sandwiched between the latest issue of Sports Illustrated and an L.L.Bean catalog was a small package, one of those padded manila envelopes. My address had been handwritten in black marker, and the envelope was sealed tight with a lot—and I mean a lot—of clear tape. We’re talking the whole roll.

Whatever was inside wasn’t getting out on its own.

I was looking so much at the tape that I didn’t notice something right away. The postmark was from Park City, Utah, but there was no return address. Not in the upper left corner, not on the back, not anywhere.

Oh, great. Cue the paranoid thoughts…

You could forgive an FBI agent for being a little…um…spooked when it came to mysterious packages in the mail. The Unabomber, anyone? Those anthrax-infected letters sent after 9/11? In fact, since then, any mail delivered to me or any other agent at my office without a return address had to be X-rayed.

But this wasn’t my office. This was my home, and I didn’t exactly have an X-ray machine tucked away next to the old Black & Decker tool set down in the basement.

Here goes nothing.

After giving the package a quick shake, as though I were a kid on Christmas morning, I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut open one of the ends. So far so good. There was no suspicious powder, and it certainly wasn’t a bomb.

Instead, it was a Bible.

Really? A Bible?

My first thought was that some religious charity had decided to step things up with its fund-raising.

But there was no letter attached. No solicitation. Just a holy Bible.

No, wait. Make that a stolen holy Bible.

Flipping it open, I saw PROPERTY OF THE FRONTIER HOTEL, PARK CITY, UT stamped on the inside cover.

Frontier Hotel? I’d never heard of it, let alone been there. I was pretty sure I didn’t even know anyone from Park City. I once skied at Deer Valley years and years ago, but that was it, my only visit.

I took the last sip of beer and was about to shrug it off and move on to more pressing matters—like grabbing a second beer, for instance—when I noticed that one of the pages was dog-eared.

I turned to it.

The next thing I knew, I was practically turning my house upside down.