Tightly shutting his eyes, Matt held and rocked his daughter. “It’s okay, Meggie. It was just a dream. I’m okay and so are you. There’s no fire, no fire….” His voice cracked with emotion that threatened to engulf him. When would this nightmare end? Matt knew his daughter had post-traumatic stress disorder. As he rocked her, he felt her small, stick-thin body tremble less and less. At least once a week, Megan would relive the horrors from two years ago. Matt had never slept well since the fire had taken Beverly, his wife. Now, it was just him and his daughter, Megan.
“Elmo isn’t afraid,” Matt whispered. “Is he? Have you seen if he’s shaking?”
Megan eased out of Matt’s arms just enough to look down at her doll. Looking up at her daddy’s shadowed face, she shook her head.
“See? Elmo would know if there was a real fire,” Matt soothed. He stood up and brought Megan against him. He was six foot two and his daughter was only just over four feet tall. She huddled against his thigh, head resting against his hip. Keeping a protective hand around her hunched shoulders, Matt said, “There’s no fire anywhere in this house, Megan. Do you want to go back to your room to go to sleep?”
Matt always hoped in these moments that his daughter would rediscover her voice. The paramedics had found Megan unconscious in the snowdrift. She’d become conscious in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and from that moment on, she’d never spoken another word. The psychiatrist in Idaho Falls, Idaho, who had endlessly tested her, told Matt it was “hysterical muteness,” and that someday, Megan would start talking again. Grimacing, Matt knew his daughter would have to get through the trauma of seeing her mother burned to death in an arson fire.
Heart breaking all over again, Matt saw Megan dip her head forward in answer to his question. Leaning down, Matt lifted her into his arms and carried her down the hall. Since the fire, Matt always made sure there was plenty of light so that Megan could see that her room and the hall were not on fire. He always kept his bedroom door partly ajar. Holding his daughter close, he whispered soothing words to her. Megan laid her head on his broad shoulder, Elmo squeezed in between them.
In a way, Matt was glad the little red Muppet was there for his daughter. He could talk to Elmo in order to reach her. Since the murder of his wife, the loss of their home, his world focused only on Megan and her ongoing trauma. His child had never spoken a word in two years. Would she ever find her voice again? Inhaling raggedly, Matt kept his guilt and grief to himself. He didn’t want Megan to know how devastating it had been for him to lose his Beverly, and worse, to compound the tragedy, to have his daughter so affected by the arson attack.
Pushing open the door to her bedroom, Matt gently slid his daughter back into her bed. He tucked Elmo, who was looking terribly ratty and old, next to her. Kneeling down, he gently covered Megan back up. “Listen, Elmo would tell you if there was anything wrong. But there’s nothing wrong, Meggie. The house is fine. I’m here. If there was a fire, I’d know it in a heartbeat and I’d rescue you.” He smoothed several golden strands off her furrowed brow. The worry and anxiety was clearly written in her eyes as she searched his face for some kind of reassurance.
“You know I would smell the smoke, don’t you?” he asked softly, continuing to move his hand across her mussed hair. At times like this Matt knew Megan needed not only physical reassurance, she needed him as security against the nightmare. Even to this day, there were burn scars on her small beautiful hands. Matt’s heart twisted in anguish knowing that his little six-year-old had valiantly tried to climb through the window to rescue her mother. Her courage shook him as nothing else ever would. He saw her eyelids begin to drift closed.
“Let me tell you a story about Elmo and Big Bird,” Matt whispered as he knelt at her bedside. Meggie loved his made-up stories. They always had happy endings and magically diverted Megan so she’d fall back to sleep. She loved the little red Muppet. Matt silently thanked Jim Henson, the creator of the Muppets, for bringing them into existence. Elmo was the only way he could reach Megan. She would respond if he talked to Elmo about her.
In ten minutes, just as he finished the made-up story about Elmo’s latest adventure, Megan’s eyes had drifted closed. Her breathing became shallow and softened. Matt fought the tears that burned his eyes and gulped several times. His daughter couldn’t be allowed to realize how much he was affected by the tragedy. Slowly getting to his feet, Matt made sure the flannel quilt Bev had made for Megan, which had been in the car during the fire, was drawn up snugly to keep her warm and feeling secure. Bev had made the nine-patch quilt from colorful fabrics Megan had chosen three years earlier. Megan loved bright colors, especially red. Elmo was the same color. Reaching out, Matt briefly touched the soft quilt, as if to touch Bev. At least Megan had this quilt, like arms of her mother around her as she slept.
Matt trod silently across the pine floor, the wood stabilizing his torn emotions. He eased through the door and made sure it was opened enough that Megan could see light from the hallway cascading into her room. Awake now, he went back to his lonely bedroom, picked up his plaid flannel robe and pulled it on. Wrapping the sash around his waist, he walked down the hall to the kitchen at the other end of the one-story home.
Looking out the window, Matt saw the stars hanging like white, shimmering jewels in the blackness of the sky. There was no moon tonight. It was late April and the spring thaw was finally starting to take hold. Snow still covered the half-acre lot that surrounded his new home. He rested his hands on the counter, his fingers curving into the aluminum double sinks. God, how he missed Beverly. Closing his eyes and hanging his head, Matt felt his heart tearing apart a little more. When his firefighter friends had found Beverly, she was charred beyond recognition. They’d placed her into a body bag. The coroner, Dr. Jason Armitage of Jackson Hole, later told him Beverly had been shot once, in the head.
Opening his eyes, Matt scowled. He needed a stiff drink, but that wouldn’t solve the mystery of who had murdered his wife and deliberately set his house on fire to kill his daughter. Matt opened the cabinet door and drew out the canister of ground coffee. The coffee was soon perking, and, while he waited, he leaned against the counter, arms wrapped against his chest.
Who had murdered Bev? Matt remembered being in Cheyenne and getting the call at 4:00 a.m. from Captain Doug Stanley, his boss. He’d broken the shocking news as gently as he could. Matt had set off that early morning, fighting snowdrifts and nearly skidding off the interstate many times to get home. He’d gone straight to the hospital in Jackson Hole where his daughter was in good condition. That whole morning had been a nightmare to Matt. He’d lost the love of his life. Bev and he had grown up together, gone through school here in Jackson Hole. They’d always loved one another. He’d gone into the Marine Corps for four years after graduating from high school, taken courses and, by the time he’d finished his service, he had a degree in Fire Science. He’d come home to join the Jackson Hole fire department and marry his sweetheart.
“Where did I go wrong?” he muttered, frowning into the darkness of the kitchen. “Where?” And who had killed Bev and set his house on fire?
The coffee now ready, Matt automatically poured himself a cup and stood in the silence of the kitchen. Mentally, as he sipped the hot, black brew, he went over the cold case. As badly as the local police and the county sheriff’s department had tried, they couldn’t find the killer or the reason for such a shocking attack. Jackson Hole was the Palm Springs of the Rocky Mountain states. It was filled with corporate millionaires, oil tycoons, politicians, Hollywood stars, ranchers, overseas tycoons and national tour operators. The middle class lived on the outskirts or in Driggs, Idaho, across the Grand Tetons or fifty miles south in Star Valley, Wyoming.
Who would want to do this to him? Who had a vendetta against him? Matt had lived here all his life. He made friends, not enemies. The sheriff’s department had gone out of their way to work hand-in-hand with the Jackson Hole police department. They’d found nothing. Nothing. Matt’s mouth was a grim line as he considered the possibilities. There were none. And Matt lived in silent terror of this home and his daughter being attacked once again.