Vanished

12

The next morning, Marielle took breakfast in her room, and all she had was a cup of tea and piece of toast, as she glanced at the paper. It was all there, the horror of yesterday. The humiliation and the destruction she had suffered at the hands of William Palmer. The first article she read said that she had been a mental patient for years and she had had to be carried off the stand, screaming. It was so unfair what they were doing to her, and she still couldn't bring herself to believe that Malcolm had helped them do it. And then she turned to the last page, and saw the article written by Bea Ritter. She wasn't going to read it at first, but as her eyes glanced down the page, she stopped and began again, and tears filled her eyes as she read it.

“Aristocratic, elegant, dignified, Marielle Patterson took the stand yesterday, and never lost her dignity or her composure as the prosecution ravaged her for several hours and attempted to discredit her completely. Attempted but did not succeed, to the admiration of all who saw her. She endured the pain of recounting the circumstances of the deaths of two previous children in a tragic accident nearly ten years ago, which left everyone in the courtroom breathless. And she went on to explain her subsequent divorce from Charles Delauney. Her experience in a sanatorium in Switzerland was heard not with compassion or sympathy but instead with ridicule, and used to discredit her as a witness…” The article went on for half a page, and concluded with the words, 'One thing is certain after seeing the victim's mother on the stand, Marielle Patterson is through and through a lady. She left the courtroom with her head held high, and as every mother knew, her heart must have been breaking.” It was followed then by Bea Ritter's byline.

Marielle wiped her eyes with her napkin then, and stood up to put her hat on. Bea Ritter's words had been kind, but it didn't change the fact that her own husband and the U.S. Attorney had set out to damage her so she could not help Charles Delauney. She'd had no intention of helping him anyway. But her uncertainty about his guilt clearly had them worried.

John Taylor and the other men were already waiting for her in the car when she got downstairs. She was wearing yet another black hat and black dress and a dark beaver coat as she climbed into the Pierce-Arrow. Nothing was said in the car on the way downtown. She spoke not a word to Malcolm or John, and Malcolm spent the entire trip staring out the window. Even John wasn't able to say much to her. He touched her hand briefly once as they sat down, but he didn't dare let his feelings show here. All he wanted was to offer her support, but it was difficult to do it in the courtroom.

Judge Morrison reminded everyone again that they were expected to behave with decorum. And with a pointed glance at the press, he reminded them that it was irresponsible to report things which did not actually happen. It had annoyed him to read the account of Marielle allegedly being carried from his courtroom.

And after that, the slaughter of the day before continued. Bill Palmer had apparently decided that it was not enough to have Marielle's testimony but he would have others also take the stand to help discredit her. Then, with no sympathy for the child's mother, only Malcolm's voice would be heard, and Malcolm never doubted Delauney's guilt for an instant.

Patrick Reilly, the driver, took the stand again, and Edith, and even Miss Griffin. And together they painted a portrait, with Bill Palmer's help, of a nervous, hysterical unstable woman, who was unable to run her own home, take care of her child, or be of any real use to her husband.

“Would you say that Mrs. Patterson is a responsible person?” Bill Palmer asked the governess, as Tom Armour jumped to his feet for what seemed to be the thousandth time and objected.

“This woman is not an expert witness. And Mrs. Patterson's competence is not on trial here. Call a psychiatrist if you want that kind of testimony, Counsel, not a maid for chrissake!”

“I'll cite you for contempt if you don't watch your language, Mr. Armour!” the judge roared.

“Sorry.”

“Overruled.” And the massacre went on, with no one to support her. John Taylor and Charles Delauney knew it wasn't true, but there was nothing they could do to put in a kind word, they were helpless. And even her husband had turned against her.

“Would you say she was a good mother?” William Palmer finally asked Miss Griffin, and the little woman hesitated for only a moment. But it was long enough to hurt Marielle deeply.

“Not really.” Everyone gasped, and for a moment Marielle almost fainted. She seemed to pitch forward in her chair, and John Taylor pushed her swiftly back with a firm hand before the press could see it.

“Would you care to tell us why not?”

“She's too sickly to be of any use to anyone, and much too nervous. Children need stability around them, people who are strong. Like Mr. Patterson.” She seemed proud of herself, and Marielle wondered again what she had done to make these people hate her.

“Your Honor.” Thomas Armour stood up again, with a weary look. “This is not a custody trial. Mrs. Patterson's abilities as a mother are not the issue here. This is a kidnapping case, and I've yet to hear anyone so much as mention my client. In fact, these people don't even know him.” They barely even knew Marielle, but Palmer had wanted to be sure that Marielle was totally ruined before he moved on. He wanted her discredited without a single doubt, so that if she was called by the defense later on, she would be useless. Who would listen to a woman who had been in a mental institution for years and was not even considered a good mother by her own staff? Palmer had done his job to perfection. And that afternoon, he completed the picture.

Malcolm Patterson took the stand immediately after lunch, for the prosecution.

“Were you aware of your wife's history, Mr. Patterson?”

“No.” Malcolm's cold blue eyes looked straight ahead at William Palmer, and not for an instant did he allow Marielle into his field of vision.

“You had no idea that she had been in a mental hospital, is that correct?”

“Yes, it is, or I would never have married her.” Marielle knew now that it was a lie. The only thing she didn't know was why Malcolm would want to destroy her. She sat very straight and tall, looking at a spot above him, somewhere on the wall, and thinking of happier moments…with little Teddy. She felt totally helpless now to defend herself, or expose Malcolm's deceit. And that was his intention.

“Did you know she had been married to Charles Delauney?”

“No. I did not. She never told me. I knew there had been some brief youthful interlude. I'd heard that she had a romance in Paris as a girl, but nothing more than that. She concealed the marriage from me.” William Palmer nodded, sad for him that he had been so badly duped by this woman.

“Do you know anything about Mr. Delauney, sir?”

“Only his reputation. His father has kept him out of the country for many years.

“Objection!” Tom was on his feet again. “We would have to put Mr. Delauney Senior on the stand to tell us that, there is no evidence whatsoever that my client's family ever wanted him out of the country. In fact, quite the contrary. They wanted him to come home.”

“Sustained. Hearsay. You may continue, Mr. Palmer.”

“Have you ever seen Mr. Delauney?”

“Not until this trial.”

“Has he ever called you, threatened you, harassed you, or any member of your immediate family?”

“Objection!”

“Overruled!”

Malcolm went on. “He threatened my wife and son. He told her he would kidnap him if she didn't go back to him.'

“And when was that?”

Malcolm bowed his head for a moment before he answered and then he looked full into the courtroom. “The day before my son was taken.”

“Have you ever seen your son since that day?”

Malcolm shook his head, unable to speak.

“Would you speak up for the record, please, sir.” He spoke with all the gentleness he should have used on Marielle and hadn't.

“I'm sorry… no… I have not…”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Almost three months ago, to the day. My little boy was taken from us on December eleventh…shortly after his fourth birthday.”

“Have there been any calls, or requests for ransom?”

“Only one, and it was a prank. The money was never collected.” The implication was obvious. Delauney hadn't asked for ransom because what he wanted was revenge, and in any case, he certainly didn't need the money.

“Do you believe that your son is still alive?”

He shook his head again, but forced himself to speak this time. “No, I do not. I think if he were, he would have been returned to us by now. The FBI has searched for him across every state. If he were still alive, they would have found him.”

“Do you believe that Mr. Delauney is the kidnapper?”

“I believe he hired people to take him, and probably kill him.”

“What convinced you of that?”

“They found Teddy's…my boy's pajamas in his home…and a teddy bear the boy loved… he was wearing those same pajamas when he was taken.” In spite of himself, he began to cry, and you could feel all the sympathy in the courtroom rush to him. The prosecutor waited politely while he regained his composure. And in her seat, Brigitte dabbed at her eyes with a lace hankie.

“Do you believe that your wife is still in love with Charles Delauney?” He had wanted to say “involved,” but his investigators had been able to turn up absolutely nothing to support the fact that she was sleeping with him, and he decided to play it safe and not use anything that could be disproven.

“Yes, I do. I understand from my driver that two days before the kidnapping, they met in a church and she kissed him repeatedly. I suppose she's always been in love with him, during the entire time she was married to me. Perhaps that's why she's been so ill.” They made her sound like an invalid, instead of a young woman with a troubled life, who suffered from headaches, a woman who had suffered tragedy and still managed to survive it.

“Do you think it's your wife's fault that your son was kidnapped?” He asked the question as though he expected a verdict, and Malcolm waited just long enough to answer so that everyone thought he was giving one.

“I think it is her fault that Charles Delauney kidnapped him. It is her fault that he holds her responsible for his own son's death, and wanted revenge with mine. It is her fault for bringing him into our lives.” He looked woefully into the courtroom, and at her, but she did not look at him.

“Mr. Patterson, although you feel that to some degree Mrs. Patterson is responsible for…this tragedy, could you ever imagine yourself taking revenge on her in any way? Punishing her, or hurting someone she loved? Hurting her?” He already had, Marielle knew too well. With everything he had done in the past few days, and the way he'd behaved since Teddy was taken, and what he had just said on the stand. It was bad enough to lose her child, but then to be attacked by her husband could have destroyed her as well, but for the moment she was still struggling not to let it. “Could you ever see yourself taking revenge on her, or anyone?” William Palmer repeated, and Malcolm said a single word, as he sat there sounding like God, as his voice rang out in the courtroom.

“Never.”

“Thank you, Mr. Patterson.” He turned to Tom. “Mr. Armour, your witness.”

Tom stood up and said not a word for an interminable moment, and then slowly he began to walk around the courtroom. He walked in front of the jury, and smiled at some of them, almost as though to relax them. And then, finally, he went to stand in front of Malcolm, but he was no longer smiling.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Patterson.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Armour.” Malcolm looked unusually solemn, but Tom Armour seemed extremely relaxed, as the world watched him. It was an intriguing tactic.

“Would you say…” He seemed to draw the words out. “That your marriage to Mrs. Patterson has been a happy one?”

“I'd say so, yes.”

“In spite of her illness…her unreliability…her headaches?”

For a moment, Malcolm wasn't quite sure what to say, but he regained his energy quickly. “They certainly didn't make it easy, but I think I've been happy.”

“Very happy?”

“Very happy.” Malcolm looked annoyed, he couldn't see where the defense attorney was going.

“Have you been married before?”

Malcolm growled and stuck out his chin almost visibly. “Yes. Twice. It's well known.”

“Is Mrs. Patterson aware of that?”

“Of course.”

“Would you say it's hindered your current marriage in any way?”

“Of course not.”

“Would it have bothered you, had you known that Mrs. Patterson was previously married?”

This time he hesitated. “Probably not. But I would have preferred it if she had been honest with me.”

“Of course.” Tom readily agreed with him. “Mr. Patterson, have you ever had any other children?”

“No. Theodore is…was…my only child.”

“You say…was…you no longer believe him to be alive?” Tom looked surprised, as though that seemed unlikely.

“No… I no longer believe him to be alive. I think Mr. Delauney killed him.” He said it to inflame Tom, but it didn't.

“I understand that. But if he is dead…and all of us here certainly hope that's not the case…but if he is…how would you describe that event in your life?”

“Excuse me… I don't understand.”

Tom Armour moved closer to him and looked him straight in the eye. “If your son is dead, Mr. Patterson, how will you feel? What will it do to your life?” The tone of Tom's voice was relentless.

But without hesitation, Malcolm looked back at Tom and answered, “It will finish me…my life will never be the same again.”

“Mr. Patterson, would you say it would destroy you?”

Malcolm hung his head, and nodded before he looked at Tom again. “Of course…he's my only son…”

Tom nodded sympathetically and then moved in a little closer. “It would destroy you, wouldn't it…then why are you so shocked that Mrs. Patterson was almost destroyed by the death of her previous children? Would you expect that to be any different?”

“No, I…” He looked uncomfortable for a moment and John Taylor tightened his lips, but Marielle was forcing herself not to listen. “I imagine that must have been very difficult.'

“She was twenty-one at the time…and five months pregnant…her little boy dies…her father dies a few months later…her own mother commits suicide six months after that…her husband has turned on her, distraught with his own pain over the child's death. What would you do, Mr. Patterson? How would you feel? How well would you hold up?”

“I…I…” He couldn't answer, and the jury looked interested in what Tom was saying.

“Is Mrs. Patterson in the courtroom today?”

“Yes…of course…”

“Would you point her out to me?”

“Your Honor,” William Palmer got to his feet, ready to object to the question, “is this charade necessary?”

“Be patient, Counsellor. Mr. Armour, proceed, but not too much nonsense please, we have a great deal of testimony to hear, and our friends on the jury don't want to stay at a hotel at the taxpayers' expense forever.” There was a titter of laughter in the courtroom and Tom Armour smiled. Compared to what Marielle had seen of him before, he suddenly looked surprisingly easygoing. But that appearance was deceptive. Inside him was a coil of incredibly well controlled tension.

“Mr. Patterson, will you please point out your wife to us.” Malcolm did so. “She is here today, and yesterday certainly could not have been easy for her, talking about the death of her children, and the kidnapping of your son, or her time in the clinic in Switzerland… or her marriage to Mr. Delauney… But she's here. She looks sane to me and in good control of herself.” Marielle looked calm as she sat beside John Taylor. Malcolm was furious but he was trying hard to conceal it. “Would you agree with me, sir? She looks quite normal to me, and probably to everyone else here. Would you say she's holding up, in spite of everything?”

“I suppose so,” he conceded halfheartedly.

“Would you say her previous problems are a thing of the past?”

“I don't know,” he snapped. “I'm not a doctor.”

“How long have you been married?”

“More than six years.”

“Has she ever been in a hospital, for mental problems, during that time?”

“No, she hasn't.”

“Would you say that she has ever done anything to endanger your child?”

“Yes.” He almost shouted at Tom, and this time the defense attorney looked startled, and he wanted to clear it up quickly now, before he damaged her further. But Malcolm's answer had surprised him.

“What did she do that endangered your child?”

“She consorted with Charles Delauney. She even took him to the park and exposed him to that man! And then he took Teddy!” He was shouting and waving a hand, and Tom was relieved.

“Mrs. Patterson says the meeting was unplanned, that she ran into Mr. Delauney by accident.”

“I don't believe her.”

“Has she ever lied to you before?”

“Yes, about her mental history and her marriage to Delauney.” Tom knew that was a lie but chose not to challenge him at this moment.

“If that's true, Mr. Patterson, has she lied to you at any other time?”

“I don't know.”

“All right, other than that meeting in the park the day before Teddy was kidnapped, has she ever done anything to endanger the child? Taken him somewhere dangerous…left him somewhere unattended…even alone in the bathtub?”

“I don't know.”

“Wouldn't you remember it if she endangered your child?”

“Of course!” Malcolm was slowly burying himself and John Taylor loved it.

“Do you believe your wife was faithful to you, sir?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you ever have reason to suspect her of infidelity?”

“Not really.” He shrugged, almost as though he didn't care.

“You travel a great deal, don't you, sir?”

“I have to. For business.”

“Of course. And what does Mrs. Patterson do when you travel?”

“She stays at home.” He blazed. “With a headache.” A few people in the courtroom laughed, but the jury looked serious. They were trying to follow everything he was saying.

“Does she ever travel with you, Mr. Patterson?”

“Rarely.”

“And why is that? Did you prefer not to have her along?”

“No. She preferred to stay at home with our son.”

“I see.” The bad-mother portrait was slowly crumbling at Tom's hands and in spite of the fact that as an FBI agent he was part of the prosecution, John Taylor was relieved, for her sake. “And you, sir, do you travel alone?”

“Of course.”

“You take no one with you?”

“Of course not.” He looked highly irritated at the impertinence.

“Not even a secretary?”

“Of course I take a secretary. I can't do my work alone.”

“I see. Do you take the same one, or different ones?”

“Sometimes I take both of my secretaries.”

“And if you only take one, is there a preference?”

“I frequently take Miss Sanders. She has been with me for many years.” Something about the way he said it suggested that she was a hundred years old, but Tom Armour had done his homework and he knew better.

“How long has she been with you, sir?”

“For six and a half years.”

“And are you involved with her, Mr. Patterson?”

“Of course not!” he roared. “I never get involved with my secretaries!”

“And who was your last secretary before Miss Sanders?” He was done for and he knew it.

“My wife.”

“Mrs. Patterson was your secretary?” Tom Armour's eyes grew wide in surprise, as though he hadn't known, and the judge looked amused by the question.

“Only for a few months until we were married.”

“Is that how you met her?”

“I suppose so, although I vaguely knew her father.”

“Do you know Miss Sanders's father too, Mr. Patterson?”

“Hardly.” He looked superciliously at Tom Armour. “He's a baker in Frankfurt.”

“I see. And where does Miss Sanders live?”

“I have no idea.” But even Marielle was intrigued now.

“You've never been to her home?”

“Perhaps a few times…for meetings…”

“And you can't remember where she lives?”

“All right, all right. I remember. On Fifty-fourth and Park.”

“That sounds like a very nice neighborhood. Is it a nice apartment?”

“Very pleasant.”

“Is it large?”

“It's big enough.”

“Is it eight rooms, with a dining room, an office for you, two bedrooms, two dressing rooms, two baths, a very large living room, and a terrace?”

“Probably. I don't know.” But his face was bright red now, to Marielle's amazement.

“Do you pay the rent for Miss Sanders's apartment, Mr. Patterson?” Marielle was staring at him in disbelief. Fool that she was she had never suspected. Brigitte had always been so pleasant to her, and so kind, and so generous with Teddy. And now, finally, Marielle understood it, and deep inside she felt angry. Brigitte and Malcolm had both taken her for a fool, and indeed she had been.

“I do not pay for Miss Sanders's apartment,” Malcolm said sternly.

“How much salary does Miss Sanders make?”

“Forty dollars a week.”

“That's a reasonable wage. But not very adequate to pay for an apartment that costs six hundred dollars a month. How do you suppose she pays the rent, Mr. Patterson?”

“That's none of my affair.”

“You mentioned that her father is a baker.”

“Your Honor.” William Palmer stood up, feigning boredom. “Where is all this going?”

“This is all going,” Tom Armour said, no longer amused, “to show that despite Mr. Patterson's poor memory, his bank statements, his checks, and his records show that he pays for that apartment.” Tom's investigators had done well for him.

“And even if he does, so what?”

“Seamus O'Flannerty, the doorman there, will take the stand to tell us that Mr. Patterson goes there after the office every evening, and frequently spends the night there. When they travel, they frequently share the same bedroom. Miss Sanders wears a mink coat to the office, and this Christmas, two weeks after the kidnapping of his son, he gave Brigitte Sanders a diamond necklace from Cartier. It is clear to me, Your Honor, that Mr. Patterson has been lying.”

“Objection overruled, Mr. Palmer,” the judge said gently, all too aware of who Malcolm was. “I'd like to remind you again, Mr. Patterson, that you are under oath. Perhaps Mr. Armour would like to rephrase the question.”

“Certainly, Your Honor.” Tom was happy to oblige him. “Mr. Patterson, allow me to ask you again, are you, or are you not, having an affair with Brigitte Sanders?” For a moment, there seemed to be no sound in the courtroom.

But before he could answer, the prosecutor was on his feet again. “That's immaterial to this case, Your Honor.”

“I don't think so,” Tom Armour stated coolly. “The prosecution has totally discredited Mrs. Patterson as a witness, and claimed that she was having an affair with my client, which is not the case. My client has been out of the country for the past eighteen years until just before the kidnapping. But the presumption is that as a rejected lover, or wounded ex-husband, Mr. Delauney would seek revenge. If, indeed, Mr. Patterson is having a long-standing affair with Miss Sanders, it is equally possible that she might seek revenge.”

“Revenge for a diamond necklace?” Palmer asked, and this time the whole courtroom roared with laughter.

“Answer the question, Mr. Patterson,” the judge said regretfully. “Are you having an affair with Miss Sanders?”

“Perhaps I am,” he said softly.

“Could you please speak a little louder,” Tom asked politely.

“Yes, yes…I am…but she did not kidnap my son.” Brigitte was looking pale in her seat, and Marielle was staring at her.

“How do you know that?” Tom Armour asked Malcolm.

“She wouldn't do such a thing.” He looked outraged.

“Neither would my client. Do you intend to marry Miss Sanders, sir?”

“Of course not.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Do you give all your secretaries mink coats and diamond necklaces?”

“Certainly not.”

“Does she wish to marry you?”

“I have no idea. That has never been in question.”

“Thank you, Mr. Patterson. You may step down now.” But Bill Palmer wanted to ask him another question.

“Mr. Patterson, has Miss Sanders ever threatened you, or threatened to harm your son, or take him away from you?”

“Certainly not.” He looked horrified. “She's a very polite, kind young woman.” With fabulous legs, and some skills Marielle had never dreamt of.

“Thank you. No further questions.”

Malcolm went back to his seat looking florid. And a moment later, Brigitte left the courtroom. She was mobbed by the press the minute she left, and her dress was torn when she finally climbed into a taxi, crying.

After that, the prosecution called a series of forensic experts to establish the fact that the bear and the pajamas were in fact Teddy's. And the last witness of the day was a man who said he had gone to school with Charles Delauney, and Charles had threatened him once when they were fourteen. The witness, a nervous young lawyer from Boston, who had volunteered to testify in order to be helpful, said that he'd always thought Charles was a little crazy. Tom Armour objected, and it was sustained, and the jury was beginning to look bored. It had been a long day, and then finally, it was over, and everyone was relieved to leave the courtroom. John and Marielle exchanged a long glance on the way out, and Malcolm said not a word on the drive home. He went straight to the library when they got home, closed the door, and made several phone calls. And without a word to Marielle, he slammed out the front door half an hour later, as John Taylor and a handful of FBI men pretended not to watch him. They all knew what had happened that day in the courtroom.

John went to see her after Malcolm had left, and they sat and talked quietly. “Were you surprised?” he asked her gently, referring to Brigitte.

Marielle felt like a balloon the air had been let out of. It had been another exhausting afternoon, and in many ways a sad one.

“Yes, I was. I suppose I'm incredibly stupid, but I've always liked her. She's a nice girl, and she's always been so sweet to Teddy.” She looked thoughtful as she spoke, thinking back to all the little gifts, the things she had made, the candy, the toys, the sweaters… somehow, Marielle felt as though she had been a complete fool. She wondered how long it had been going on. Probably since the beginning, she realized, and she looked back over the past six and a half years, and that made her feel even more foolish. How stupid she had been, and how deceitful they were.

“She probably tried to make friends with Teddy to impress your husband.”

“Maybe,” Marielle said sadly. “I suppose it doesn't really matter.” He had to have been going somewhere to address his needs, they hadn't slept with each other in years, and she knew that he was a very physical person. But she had just never thought of Brigitte. It had crossed her mind once, on a day when the young German girl was looking particularly pretty, and at first she had been a little jealous when they had started traveling together, but she had really never given it a thought after that. And now she knew that he went to her apartment every day after work, spent the night there frequently, and even paid for the apartment. He was more married to Brigitte than he was to her, or so it seemed to Marielle. She had no tie to him at all anymore. No allegiance, no fondness, no loyalty, no fidelity…not even Teddy.

John watched her quietly as she thought it out, and he thought of his own wife, and what might happen when the trial was over. He knew better than anyone that they couldn't go on like this forever. But despite the feelings they shared, he and Marielle had shied away from talking about the future. There was too much happening in their lives now to think of anything except the trial, and finding Teddy.

“I almost feel sorry for Malcolm,” she said later as she walked John to the front door. He hated leaving her at night, and he had come to cherish their hours together. “It must have been difficult for him to be exposed.” He had looked furious on the stand, and Brigitte had looked panicked.

“Not as difficult as it was for you yesterday.” How could she feel sympathy for him? She was an amazing girl. “He lied through most of it.” But they'd caught him in the end. What he hadn't admitted was that he had always known about Charles, and her time in the clinic. But the jury didn't know that. All they knew was that he was a cheat, and perhaps a liar. “He deserves what he got. He deserves worse for what he did to you. They didn't have to do that.”

“Well, they did. They don't have to worry that I'll be sympathetic to Charles and weaken the prosecution's case. My testimony is meaningless now.” She wished she didn't have to go to court at all. It was all so painful.

“Are you still sympathetic to him, Marielle?”

She wasn't sure. She hadn't been in months. “I don't know. I just don't know what I think… all the evidence is there, and yet I thought I knew him better than that, even after all these years. No matter what he said, I didn't believe him when he said those things in the park…and then Teddy was gone… I don't know what to think.” She couldn't bear thinking of it anymore…the empty bed that had still been warm when she touched it. It had been three months now since she'd seen him, three months since she'd held her little boy…the little boy they said she was too weak and unstable to take care of.

“If he were innocent… if we found Teddy again,” and he still hoped they would, but he doubted it now. It had been too long. It was beginning to seem too much like the Lindberghs. “Would you go back to Charles?” He had wanted to ask her that for days. He wanted to know, because in his heart of hearts, he knew she still loved him.

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I don't think so. I couldn't. There's too much pain between us. Think of what we would feel when we looked at each other every morning. If he's innocent, and Teddy comes home again…Charles will never forgive me for this…” She looked up at him, and John was annoyed.

“Everything that goes wrong in the world is not your fault. You didn't make those threats in the park, he did. He's the damn fool who either did it, or put himself in a hell of a spot for shooting his mouth off. Last time I looked, all you did was go to the park with your boy. This is not your fault, for God's sake, just like Teddy's kidnapping isn't…and the other boy's drowning wasn't…stop believing all the shit these jerks give you.” She smiled at him. She loved him for believing in her, and protecting her, and caring about her, and trying to find Teddy. But she wondered what else they would have when this was over. Probably very little. They would be friends, but they had met at a time that, for her, would be forever painful. But he was worried about something else now, since listening to the last few days' testimony in court. He knew what Patterson had up his sleeve now. If they found the boy, he was beginning to suspect that Patterson was going to sue her for custody and divorce, and accuse her of being an unfit mother. That's what the mental instability was all about, and the testimony by governesses and maids. John Taylor already saw where Malcolm was leading, but he didn't want to scare her. And maybe it would never happen. Maybe they would never find Teddy.

“Take care of yourself,” he whispered as he hurried down the front steps a little while later, wishing he could kiss her. And as Marielle went back to her room, she correctly assumed that Malcolm was with Brigitte.

He didn't bother to come home that night, or to call. The pretense was over. She wondered where they were staying now, to avoid the reporters who were hot on their trail for a story. She wondered too how often his calls to her had come from Brigitte's apartment. It was amazing how little she had known about her husband. She had thought him so respectable, so kind, so gentle with her, and instead he had been building a case against her for years, he had always known about the hospital and Charles, and he had cheated on her for years with Brigitte. It was not a pretty picture. She was still thinking about it when the phone rang as she lay in the dark at ten o'clock. She almost didn't answer it, thinking it would be him. But there was always the possibility it would be a call about Teddy. She knew the police still in the house would pick it up, but nevertheless she wanted to listen. She was startled to hear Bea Ritter asking the policeman to put the call through to Marielle and he wouldn't.

“It's all right, Jack. I have it. Hello?”

“Mrs. Patterson?”

“Yes.”

“This is Bea Ritter.” Even her voice sounded nervous and energetic. She was an excited little woman full of life and the pursuit of a great story. But Marielle had wanted to thank her anyway, for the surprisingly decent article about Marielle's performance in the courtroom. She thanked her, and the little redhead sounded embarrassed. “They really did a job on you. It made me sick to watch it.”

“At least I didn't get carried out of the court the way the others said I did.”

“They're a bunch of jerks. If it doesn't happen the way they want it, they make it up, I don't do that.” And then there was a pause. She had half expected not to get through to her, and now they were suddenly talking like old friends, but she was scared and this was important. “I'm sorry to call so late… I wasn't sure how to get through to you…Mrs. Patterson, can I meet you for a little while?”

“Why?”

“I have to talk to you. I can't tell you over the phone. But I really have to.”

“Does it have to do with my son?” Was there a tip?… a chance… a hope…she almost felt her heart stop.

“No. Not directly. It has to do with Charles Delauney.”

“Please don't ask me that. Please…you saw what they did to me yesterday… I can't help him.”

“Please…just listen… I want to help find your son's kidnapper, and Charles isn't it. I believe that.”

“Does he know you're calling?”

She blushed beet red at her end of the phone and shook her head. “He hardly knows me. I've been to see him a few times, but he's terribly distracted. But I think he's innocent and I want to help him.”

“I want to find my son. That's all I want,” she said sadly.

“I know…so do I…you deserve it…please see me…just for a few minutes.”

“When?” Just a meeting between them would cause a furor in the press, and probably a scandal. And they had enough scandal on their hands, with the revelation of Malcolm's affair with Brigitte.

“Could I come over right now? I mean… I know…it's a terrible imposition.” She was scared to death, but she had to see her.

“I… I just don't think…”

“Please…” The girl was almost in tears, and finally Marielle relented.

“All right. Come.'

“Now?”

“Yes. Can you be here in half an hour?” She would have gladly been there in half a minute.

When she arrived, Marielle was dressed and waiting downstairs, and as Bea Ritter walked in, the young reporter actually looked almost frightened. She was twenty-eight years old, and suddenly her brash, bold style seemed to have melted and she was almost childlike. She was a tiny girl, much, much smaller than Marielle, and she was wearing slacks, a heavy sweater, and a raincoat.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she said in a voice filled with awe, as Marielle walked her into the library and closed the door. She herself was wearing black slacks and a black cashmere sweater. Her hair was pulled back and she had no makeup on, and there was something very clean and pure about her, which was exactly what John Taylor had fallen in love with.

“I don't know what you expect from me,” Marielle said quietly as they sat down. “I told you on the phone, there's nothing I can do to help you.”

“I don't even want your help,” Bea Ritter admitted to her as she looked at her thoughtfully. She had wanted to see this woman again for weeks, and now she was here, and it felt strange sitting there like two friends, two women who wanted the same thing for different reasons. Bea wanted the boy found so Charles would be cleared, and Marielle just wanted her son back. “I just want to talk to you, to know what you think…like this…not for the newspapers… or in a courtroom… You don't think he did it, do you?”

“I was honest in court yesterday,” Marielle said with a sigh, wondering why she had let her come here. She was so energetic, so high-strung, it almost made Marielle nervous, yet she had felt she owed her one. But what good would it do to rehash it all with her again? “Is this for the press?” Bea shook her head, and Marielle could see that she meant it.

“No, it's for me. I have to know. Because I don't think he did it either.” She acted as though Marielle believed the same thing, but she sensed that was the case, no matter how she denied it.

“Why?”

“Maybe I'm crazy, but I believe him. I trust him. I admire everything he stands for. I think he's a damn fool, he's done some awfully stupid things, and he never should have said the things he said to you that day in the park, but if he'd meant to take the boy, he'd never have said them.”

“I thought so too…until they found the baby's pajamas…”It was funny, she still thought of him that way…”the baby”… at four…the baby she might never see again. She had to fight back tears suddenly as they sat there. “How did the pajamas get there if he didn't take him?”

“Mrs. Patterson…Marielle…may I call you that?” They were from two different lives, two different worlds, but for a brief moment they were friends, with one common goal, to find her baby. And Marielle nodded in answer. “He swears they were planted. He thinks someone was paid to put them there…maybe even someone from here, from your own house.”

“But those were the pajamas he wore. I saw them. The embroidery on them is little trains, and those are the same ones he was wearing the night they took him.”

“Does he have other pajamas like them?” Marielle shook her head.

“Not exactly.”

The young reporter shook her head with a look of despair. She wanted so desperately to help him, and Marielle wanted to ask her a question.

“Why do you care so much? Is it the story or the man?” She looked at her squarely, and Bea's eyes didn't waver.

“It's him,” and then in a softer voice, “you still love him, don't you?” Marielle hesitated for a long time, wondering just how far she could trust her, but for some reason she did. And she knew she wouldn't be disappointed.

“I always have. I suppose I always will. But he's a part of my past now.” Little by little, Marielle was coming to understand that.

“Charles said that too, when I spoke to him. But he loves you too. I think he's less crazy now. I think all of this has brought him to his senses.”

“A little late.” Marielle smiled sadly.

“He thinks the boy is alive somewhere.” She wanted to give her hope, if not the answers.

“I wish that were true. The FBI think it's getting late. They're afraid…” She couldn't say the words, and her eyes filled with tears as she turned away. It was all so pointless. What purpose would the trial serve? Whatever they did to Charles, it would not bring back her baby.

“I don't believe that.” Bea Ritter didn't move as she looked at her, and she reached out a tiny firm hand and took a grip on Marielle's fingers. “And I'm going to do everything I can to help them find him. Whatever the press can do, whatever ins I have, I'm going to use them.” She had some very odd underworld connections, she explained, due to a series of articles she'd done, and the local mob boss had loved them. She'd made him a hero in his own way, and he'd promised her that he'd always be there for her, and lately, after talking to Charles, she had wanted to call him.

“What did you want from me?” Marielle asked tiredly. She liked the girl, but it was late, and it all seemed so hopeless. “Why did you come here?”

“I wanted to look you in the eye and see for myself what you believe. I think you don't know…but you're not sure that he did it either.”

“That's true.”

“That's fair enough. Maybe in your shoes I'd feel that way too. He must have given you a pretty rough time when…” They both knew that she meant when their son died.

“He was crazy then,” she smiled sadly, “maybe he still is.”

“A little bit.” Bea smiled. “He'd have to be to fight in Spain.” But she admired him for that, and she loved what he had written. He had showed some of it to her. They had talked for hours at the jail one day, and he had cried when he told her he didn't do it. And she believed him. She had vowed to help him then, and she knew that Marielle was an important key. No matter what they did to her, she was someone who could help him. “I'm sorry about your husband,” she said carefully.

“So am I. It's not going to be pretty in the press tomorrow morning.”

“No, it won't be.” Bea had already seen some of the early tear sheets. “But it raises a little more sympathy for you. They really beat you to death the other day. It made me sick, that's why I wrote the piece I did.” She was kind of a Robin Hood, always defending the underdog, the beaten, the poor, the defeated. She and Charles seemed to have so much in common.

“Why Charles?” Marielle asked softly. “Why him? Why do you care so much?”

“I don't want to see him killed for nothing. I never believed entirely that Bruno Hauptmann was guilty either. I know some of the evidence was there, but so much of it was circumstantial. So much of it was hysteria created by the press. It was my first story, I was twenty-one, and I always felt that I could have made a difference, but I didn't. Maybe this time, I can. Or at least die trying.”

Marielle didn't dare ask her more than that, but there was something more in the girl's eyes, and after a long moment she decided to ask her. “Are you in love with him?” There was no jealousy there, nothing proprietary. It was only a question. And Bea Ritter looked at her for a long time before she answered.

“I'm not sure. I don't want to be. That isn't the issue.” But it was why she cared so much and Marielle knew it.

She smiled at her. “Does he know, or is he as stupid as he used to be?” Sometimes he could be dense when he wanted to be. And of course now he was involved with something much more important. But Bea laughed with her.

“I think maybe he is as stupid as he used to be, but maybe he's a little too busy.” The man was fighting for life. Then suddenly Bea looked worried. “Would you ever go back to him?” But Marielle shook her head without hesitation. Too much pain gone by, too much time, too much sorrow. She loved him, she knew she always would. But he was gone for her now. Marielle thought the little redhead would be perfect for him, if ever the time came, and he was acquitted. He owed a lot to her, but according to Bea, he didn't even know it.

“What are you going to do now, Bea?”

“I don't know…I'm going to call up some debts…talk to some old friends…hang out with some private investigators I know…” And maybe talk to Tom Armour, if she needed money. Maybe he would be willing to pay for some tips, or special favors. She was willing to do anything, call anyone, go anywhere, pay anyone she had to. “Maybe nothing will turn up, but at least we'll have tried…and maybe it'll lead us to Teddy.”

“You'll let me know if you hear anything, won't you?”

“The minute I do.” The two women stood up and Marielle walked her to the door. She knew they would never be friends. But she liked her. She was an unusual girl, and a smart one. Charles was luckier than he knew to have found her.

Bea Ritter slipped away into the night, and when Marielle went back upstairs, it was long after midnight. And as she turned the light off, she lay in her bed thinking of Malcolm, probably in an apartment on Park Avenue…and her little boy, she prayed, asleep in a bed somewhere, with strangers.