Chapter Twenty-Five
Daphne poured wine into two glasses and handed one to Vanessa.
"To family," Daphne said.
"To family," Vanessa echoed and touched her glass to Daphne's.
The women sipped and smiled at each other. The wine was good and the company even better. They had the kitchen all to themselves. Daphne had dinner under control which meant the women had ample time to sample the wine Vanessa and Joe had brought.
"Not bad," Daphne said, referring to the wine. "Goes down easy. Maybe too easy. Ron may get lucky later tonight." Her eyes sparkled mischievously.
"I doubt he'll complain." Vanessa leaned a hip against the kitchen counter.
"If I remember correctly, wine is what got me saddled with a husband and two kids in the first place." Daphne chuckled at herself.
Vanessa shook her head dismissively at her cousin. "Well, you did good, Daph. Your girls are cute as can be and Ron's a great husband and father. You've got it all. If only the rest of us were so lucky."
Daphne took sip of wine and eyed Vanessa warmly. "Well, I can't argue with you about any of that. But you seem to be doing fine now. This Joe of yours, is he the real deal?"
"I think so." The answer was soft and quiet as though Vanessa was afraid to say more. She didn't mention the possibility of marriage. Once Joe proposed properly, as he put it, then she would shout it from the rooftops and Daphne would be the first person Vanessa told. But until the proposal was official Vanessa thought it best to remain silent. Not that she liked keeping this vital information a secret because she didn't, but telling people too soon might jinx things.
"He's not half bad," Daphne was saying. "That is, if you like the tall, rugged type, oozing with charm and manners."
"You do realize, you just described your own husband," Vanessa deadpanned and then both women burst out laughing.
Being in her cousin's kitchen and sharing girl talk was just what Vanessa needed. This was normal. This was the way the holidays were supposed to be. Family, friends, food, and laughter.
"So I did," Daphne said with a grin, "guess that means we both have good taste in men."
"I'll drink to that." Vanessa lifted her glass in toast.
The women clinked their wine glasses together and, amid giggles, sipped. The wine had gone straight to Vanessa's head and she didn't care. She was having fun. The laughter and playful banter had taken her back to her childhood. Back to treasured memories of Bear Mountain and Aunt Alice's cabin. That's how she wanted to remember this place and this visit. Happy and fun filled. With Joe by her side.
A flash of red streaked by the kitchen window and both women leaned over the sink for a better view of the snow blanketed backyard.
"Gabby," Daphne said. "She'll run her little legs off out there."
Vanessa arched a pale eyebrow. A gesture of amusement. "I can't imagine it's a fair snowball fight. Two grown men against two little girls."
A smug smile crept to Daphne's lips. "Ron's never won a fight against those girls. I think he's called it a tie a couple of times, but he's never won."
"Never?"
"Never."
"Well, he's got Joe helping him today." Vanessa couldn't imagine the men losing. Clearly, they had the advantage. Didn't they?
Daphne's chin came up and an indulgent smile curled the corners of her lips. "We'll see if it makes a difference." Her expression said she did not think it would. "Now, maybe we should check the ham. I'd never hear the end of it if I served a dry ham."
# # # #
Joe had vastly underestimated the enemy. Sure, they were small and young and inexperienced in the art of warfare. Ah, that meant nothing! The girls more than made up for all that in speed and bravado. Neither girl was shy about taking risks. Actually, they seemed to thrive on risky maneuvers. And cunning. They were wily as foxes.
Joe never knew from where they'd strike next. Haley and Gabby could squeeze themselves behind the smallest snow covered bushes or mounds then pop up at the last second and fling a hard-packed snowball at their target. Hard-packed being the operative word. Those little snowballs stung like the dickens. Joe was well acquainted with seven year-old Haley and her deadly aim.
She'd make a good sniper, he thought as he cautiously crept toward a low bush, snowball in hand.
Five year-old Gabby was in a red snowsuit, Haley in a bright blue one. Big, bold colors. The girls should be easy to spot. Not so, as Joe had found out the hard way. He'd taken enough snowballs on the knees and thighs that his jeans were soaked through. The area around the top of his boots had melting snow trickling down inside his boots at this very minute.
Time to even the score Joe decided as he crept closer to the bush.
Gabby sprang up and threw a snowball. It hit him in the left knee.
Dang!
Gabby shrieked with glee and took off into the trees that bordered the yard. Joe took careful aim with his snowball. He couldn't miss. She was right there … right in sight …
Bam!
A snowball nailed him in the seat of his pants. He muttered an expletive and spun around.
No one in sight!
His eyes darted left and right.
Where was the little scamp?
Aha! There, running to catch up with her sister – Haley – giggling for all she was worth. Two dots of color now – one red, one blue – bounding away in the trees.
Joe's brow furrowed as he watched the retreating figures. They would find a good spot to lay low and plot their next strategy.
Good grief, he snapped upright. He was acting as if the girls were colonels and generals planning their next move.
Then he saw Ron waving to him. Ron had secreted himself behind a pile of old lumber and a snow filled wheelbarrow. Tall stalks of frosted, yellowed grass poked out of the snow. Joe trotted over and crouched beside Ron.
"Did you see where they went?" Joe asked, his eyes roaming the landscape.
"Yeah, over behind the shed." Ron jerked his head toward the ramshackle building.
"Great. We've got 'em now. What's the plan?"
"Plan?" Ron pulled a face. "I was hoping you had a plan. What with all that Army training and stuff .. I .. I just figured you'd have a plan." He smiled. "A good one, too."
"Me? Well, um, sure, but you're the guy who's been fighting them for years. What usually works?"
Ron chuckled softly. "Haven't found anything that does. I was counting on you and not .. um, well, I don't mean any offense or anything, but you ain't exactly been that helpful today. You haven't gotten off one clean shot and look at you. Your pants are soaked through."
Joe's upper lip lifted in a snarl. "Yeah, I noticed that. But hey, those girls of yours are good. That Haley's got a damn good arm on her. You train her or something?"
"Might've." A prideful grin lit Ron's face. "Might've taught her too well. Could be the reason I never win these fights."
"You've never won?" Joe's jaw dropped. "Not even once?"
"Nope. Not once." Ron didn't looked particularly concerned.
Joe figured it was a father's pride showing through.
Joe scooped snow off the ground and started shaping it into a large snowball. "Well, let's at least go down fighting. How 'bout we sneak up on them and hit 'em with everything we can."
Ron smiled. "Sounds good to me. How many snowballs you making there, partner?"
"Two." Joe's eyes gleamed in the fading light. "Two really big ones, lightly packed."
# # # #
Joe and Ron were in the garage, commiserating over beers. The beer Joe had brought. The men had managed to sneak up on the girls. That in and of itself was an accomplishment. But the planned blow never happened. The girls were quick as rabbits and had escaped the worse of the snowball barrage. It had been fun for Joe and Ron, nonetheless, and they'd gladly accepted their defeat.
Ron had sent the girls in to change their clothes and pester their mother and Vanessa while the men hung out in the garage.
"Thanks for bringing the beer," Ron said opening a cold bottle.
"No problem. This is a nice set-up you got here." Joe indicated the entire garage with a wave of his beer.
"My man zone. No women allowed. Well, unless invited by very special invitation." Ron winked conspiratorially.
Joe grinned and chugged some beer. "How many times has a special invitation been issued?"
"Once, that I can remember. Believe that's how we ended up with Gabby." Ron chuckled and a faraway look came into his eyes.
Joe discreetly glanced around. Part of the garage housed tools and a workbench. Ron liked to build things. Cabinets, shelving, and computer desks. All of which were currently in use inside the cabin.
Overhead lights, a stocked fridge, and a separate heating system made the garage a place a person could spend an afternoon or evening. Two small, mobile radiators provided additional heat. At the moment, Joe stood next to one letting the warm air dry his wet jeans. His boots, and Ron's, were lined up on a rug beside the steps leading into the cabin.
Nestled in one corner of the garage was a recliner and a table with a reading lamp. They were situated on a large, furry rug. All the scene needed was a man in the chair and a dog curled up on the rug.
Joe pointed to the area. "Looks like a good place to read a book or go over police reports."
"It is. That's my private spot. No one's allowed to bother me when I'm in my chair. As a matter-of-fact, I've spent the last few nights in that chair going over all the FBI reports on the Wakefield brothers."
"I wanted to ask you about them," Joe said. "Officer Scott told me you'd spent a fair amount of time with the FBI agents assigned to the case. Scott said you had more info on the brothers."
"Sure do." A strange look flickered across Ron's face. Disgust, unease, disbelief … Joe wasn't sure which one it was. Maybe all of them.
"They were adopted," Ron finally said.
"From eastern Europe?" Joe had noticed the brothers' distinctive facial features.
"Yeah, good call." Ron was impressed. "Russia to be exact. They were adopted by Edna and William Wakefield of Texas. The Wakefields were – still are – wealthy and never had any children of their own. Mrs. Wakefield heard about orphanages in Russia and started investigating. She found a young child who seemed perfect for them and started a correspondence with the orphanage director. Not long afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield were invited to come to the orphanage and meet the child."
Ron pulled out two metal chairs and motioned Joe into one.
Ron sat in the other chair and continued, "All this happened about twenty years ago. The brothers were about ten and eleven then. When the Wakefields got to the orphanage they met the five year boy they had intended to adopt. However, things didn't go as planned. The boy had mental and emotional problems, in Mrs. Wakefield's opinion. I actually talked to her on the phone. Very nice lady in spite of all the heartache her adopted sons have caused her."
Ron took a sip of beer. "She and her husband were in their forties at the time they were trying to adopt and didn't feel up to taking on a child with mental and emotional issues. Plus, the child never really warmed up to them. He'd never spend any time alone with them and that nearly broke Mrs. Wakefield's heart.
"The Wakefields were about to give up and head home without a child when they noticed the brothers. The brothers were older and spoke a little English. They appeared intelligent and seemed to want to be around the Wakefields. They started acting as interpreters for the couple and Mr. Wakefield, in particular, was impressed.
"The Wakefields went back to their hotel, talked things over, and decided to adopt the brothers instead of the little boy if the orphanage would allow it."
"I get the feeling the orphanage didn't oppose the change in plan," Joe said.
Ron shook his head. "Not at all. And that's how the brothers came to America. Mrs. Wakefield said they were good students and never caused her or her husband any problems while living at home. She did mention they liked anything western. The orphanage director had mentioned this, too. He'd told the Wakefields that the brothers had watched every old American western movie the orphanage owned. They'd watched them so many times they had the dialogue memorized.
"Mrs. Wakefield politely called this the 'boys' obsession.' She didn't see any harm in it and kinda jokingly told me, 'it made gift giving easy.' She and her husband went out and got the brothers everything western they could find. Cowboy hats, boots, vests, movies, books. You name it, they bought it."
Joe was frowning. "Is that how they came to speak the way they did, from watching all those old westerns?"
"Sort of." Ron waggled a hand. "Mrs. Wakefield says they picked up English very quickly once they got to the States, but they never completely lost their accent. It was slight, but it was still there."
"I didn't notice the accent," Joe said, "but my interaction with them was limited."
"I didn't notice it either. And that's one of the things I discussed with the FBI psychologist." Ron saw the question in Joe's eyes. "Yeah, the FBI's studying these guys. Seems they're very unique. Almost like twins, the psychologist said. According to her a lot of twins invent a special way of talking to each other. Usually, it's just a few words or phrases. These brothers kinda did the same thing and kinda went to extremes with it.
"You have to understand something, they lost their mother when they were very young. Five or six years old, I think. And none of their relatives were willing to take them in. That's how they wound up in the orphanage. Emotionally, that had to hurt."
Joe nodded. "Yeah, that would hurt. Could've caused them to form a stronger bond than usual. They might've developed the mind set of, it's us against the world."
"That's my take on it." Ron agreed. "One of the FBI agents shared with me some of what Ethan told him. Seems Ethan and his brother wanted to erase all traces of their past and who they were. They weren't going to be poor, little orphan boys anymore or the adopted sons of a well-to-do husband and wife. At least, not in their minds. Instead, they transformed themselves. They became someone new. They became Ethan and Sean Wakefield from some unnamed wild west location. They dressed the part and talked the part."
Ron drained his beer. "The new way of talking did get rid of the accent. Ethan said he and Sean would practice at night for hours on how to say things. They watched old TV westerns every chance they got."
"Sounds a little crazy to me," Joe said.
"To me, too. But then, we don't have the history those two have."
"True," Joe said. "Very true."