Vanished

5

After her lengthy conversation with John Taylor, Marielle wandered through the house like a ghost. At first, she went back to her room but she found she couldn't bear to be there. The walls seemed to be closing in on her, and she almost couldn't breathe. And without even planning to, she found her feet on the stairs, and she was back in Teddy's room before she knew it. It was the only place she wanted to be, the only room where she could feel him close to her. It was impossible to believe…impossible to understand. Who would do this and why? But it was obvious, it had to be for money. Extra phone lines had already been put into the house, and there were police everywhere. They were waiting for a call, or a ransom note. The morning newspapers were already being scoured for messages from the kidnappers. All the usual methods were being used. And more men from the FBI were waiting to talk to Malcolm. But she felt useless now. There was nothing she could do, except pray that her son was still alive. She knelt next to his bed, and laid her head down, as she remembered the feel and touch of him, only hours before when she had put him to bed in his little red pajamas with the embroidered blue collar. Miss Griffin had made them for him, and Marielle wondered if he was cold now, or afraid… if they were kind to him, or if he had eaten. It was unbearable not knowing where he was, and Marielle had to gasp for air as she knelt there. She heard a sound in the room, and turned suddenly, in time to see Miss Griffin standing behind her, still looking pale, but starched in her uniform, and for the first time in years she looked kindly at Marielle. There was something she felt she had to say to her, and like Marielle, she could hardly get the words out.

“I'm…” Her lips trembled, and she looked away from her. She couldn't bear to see the agony in the young woman's face. It mirrored all too clearly exactly what she herself was feeling. “I'm sorry… I should have been… I should have heard…” She burst into tears as she said the words that were torturing her. “I should have been able to stop them.”

“You couldn't know…and there must have been too many of them.” Armed with ropes and chloroform, and perhaps guns, they were well equipped for what they had come for. “You mustn't blame yourself.” She rose slowly to her feet, so dignified and so kind, and without a word she went and put her arms around the older woman. She was crying too, but she stood and held the old woman like a child and tried to reassure her. It made the governess feel even worse, knowing how hard she had always been to her. But she had always thought her so weak, so self-indulgent, so foolish. And now she saw something she had never known was there, a silent strength not only for herself, but for everyone around her to draw on.

The two women stood together for a long time, deriving strength from each other without speaking, and then Marielle went downstairs again. And as she did, there was a stir, she heard voices shouting and realized there were reporters outside, trying to force their way in past the police as the front door opened.

“He's here!” She heard a shout from the police, wondering who it was, praying that it was someone who would make a difference. And as she looked over the banister, she realized that it was Malcolm. He was home, looking aristocratic and pale, in his black coat, his dark suit, and his homburg. He looked so funereal as he came up the stairs and they met halfway up, she still in her dressing gown, and still barefoot. He opened his arms to her, and for a long time he just stood there and held her, and then finally they went upstairs and he spoke to her once they were in her bedroom.

“How could this have happened, Marielle? How could they force their way in and take over so completely? Where was Haverford? Where were the maids? Where was Miss Griffin?” It was as though he had expected her to keep their child and their home safe, and she had failed him. She saw now that his eyes were full of reproach and pain, and the look he gave her cut her to the core. There was no excuse she could give, no explanation. She couldn't even explain it to herself. She could barely even allow herself to understand what had happened.

“I don't know… I don't understand it either… I heard a sound while we were speaking, but I didn't think anything of it…it never occurred to me that someone was in the house, other than the servants, I mean… I didn't even know Edith was out…” The dress had been returned to her by then, dirty, stained, with lipstick on it, and smelling of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey. But she didn't care about the dress. She only cared about her baby.

“I should have hired guards,” Malcolm said, as he looked at her in agony. “I never thought… I always thought you were so foolish to be hysterical about the Lindbergh case…who knew you would be right?” He stared at her, a broken man, his only child was gone, and with him went hope and happiness and well-being. Malcolm looked suddenly older and as though he might not survive this. It made Marielle feel as though she herself had destroyed the man by being so careless. And yet it wasn't her fault… it wasn't… or was it? It was all so confusing, just as it had been years before. So confusing as to whose fault it was, and why. Had he drowned because he'd run away onto the ice, and why had she been able to reach the two little girls and not her own child? Had she killed the baby by leaping in after Andre… or had the baby died because Charles had hit her? And now this…was it her fault…or his…or someone else's? She looked distraught and her hair was disheveled as she ran her hands through it distractedly and Malcolm watched her, realizing that she suddenly looked a little crazy.

“You should dress,” he said quietly, letting himself down heavily into a chair, “there are policemen everywhere, and the press are in throngs outside. For the next few days, if we go out, we'll have to try and get out through the garden.” He looked at her even more somberly then. “The police say there's been no request for ransom. I've already called the bank, and they're ready with marked bills when we get a call, or a note.” It was all they could do as they waited, and suddenly Marielle was relieved that he was home. He would take charge, he would make the right things happen. He would force them to bring Teddy home. She looked up at him then, feeling more than ever that she had let him down, which was something he had never done to her. He had never let her down. Never. Not in all the years that they'd been married.

“I'm so sorry, Malcolm… I don't know what to say…” He nodded, not telling her that she wasn't to blame. And Marielle knew then, as she looked at him, that he did blame her. He rose slowly, and walked away, and as he stood looking into the garden where Teddy used to play, she saw that he was crying. She was almost afraid to comfort him, to say anything, to reach out to him in his pain. If he blamed her for not guarding Teddy closely enough, what could she possibly say to console him? As she stood watching him helplessly, she felt the familiar vise begin to crush her head, and for a moment she almost fainted. He turned and looked at her then, and he recognized the symptoms. She looked terrible, but he wasn't surprised. He felt as awful as she did.

“You look pale, Marielle. Are you having a headache?”

“No,” she lied. She wouldn't allow anyone to see how weak she was now, how afraid, how vulnerable, how broken. She had to be strong, for him, for the child, for all of them. She tried to keep her balance as she fought a familiar wave of nausea. “I'm fine. I'll get dressed.” She should have gone to bed, but she knew she wouldn't sleep. And she couldn't have borne the nightmares.

“I'm going to speak to the men from the FBI.” Malcolm had called some of his connections in Washington and they had promised to call J. Edgar Hoover. The director had provided a police escort that had allowed Malcolm to get home as fast as his Franklin Twelve would allow. The German ambassador had also called to express his shock and concern over what had happened.

“They've been very kind,” Marielle said in a barely audible whisper, wondering now if Agent Taylor would tell Malcolm about Charles. But if it would help them find Teddy, she was willing to endure it. Taylor had promised her that he would keep her secrets if he could, but not if it would harm the boy, and she had readily agreed to it. She was willing to sacrifice herself, her marriage, her life, for Teddy.

Malcolm looked at her long and hard then, and for a moment he felt guilty. “I don't mean to blame you, Marielle… I know it's not your fault. I just don't understand how it could have happened.” He looked so mournful, like a dying man. He had lost the love of his life, but so had she. And yet she could not help him.

“I don't understand it either,” she said quietly. And then he left the room, and she changed into a gray cashmere dress and gray silk stockings. She brushed her hair and washed her face, and put on black alligator shoes, and prayed that she would be able to control the headache.

She went to the kitchen after she dressed, and was planning to organize the cook into providing meals for the police and the FBI working in the house, but she discovered as soon as she arrived that Haverford had already done that. Sandwiches were being sent up on trays, with platters of fruit, and cakes, and huge mugs of steaming coffee. When she went back upstairs, she discovered that there was a buffet set up in the dining room, but it was barely touched, the men scarcely had time to eat, they were still so busy.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked the sergeant in charge. O'Connor had gone home hours before, and the shift had changed. She recognized none of the men from the night before, as they continued to dust the house for fingerprints, and wait for calls requesting the ransom. Only she had not gone to bed. And as she wandered past the library, she saw that Malcolm was in deep conversation with two of the FBI men. He glanced briefly up at her, and then away, and for an instant she wondered if they were talking about her. The men looked at her strangely as she stood there, and then she walked away. What could they have said? What was there to say? It wasn't her fault that Teddy had been taken… or was it? Did they blame her because of Charles? Were they right? Were they telling Malcolm?

As she walked back to the front hall, she was startled to hear a tremendous scuffle. There were voices raised outside, and as the front door opened only a few inches, suddenly there were half a dozen shouting strangers standing near her, flashbulbs exploded in her face, and a phalanx of police rose like a shield and pushed them back outside, but only one small redheaded woman escaped them. She was pretty and young and very tiny, and she was wearing a ridiculous black hat and a very ugly outfit. She stood looking at Marielle as though she knew her, and before Marielle could realize what was happening, the little redhead was asking her questions.

“How do you feel, Mrs. Patterson? Are you all right? Is there any news? Have you heard anything from little Teddy? What does it feel like? Are you afraid? Do you think he could be dead?” And all the while, there were lights exploding in the distance, blinding her with the light and pain, almost like part of her headache. And as she struggled to get away, a powerful voice roared next to her, and a strong pair of hands moved Marielle away by the shoulders. It was John Taylor.

“Get that woman out of here!” And suddenly the redhead was gone, the front door was closed again, and the noise was far, far in the distance. And she realized that John Taylor was supporting her arm, and leading her to a chair in the hallway. As he had come back into the house, the press had forced their way in with him. “Damn scum. Next time, I'll come in through the kitchen.” He was looking down at her with obvious concern, and he looked very tired. But she looked worse, and as he handed her a glass of water he had signaled one of his men to get, she took a small sip and tried to smile, but she couldn't fight back the tears this time. The headache was too much, Malcolm's anger, her terror over Teddy and just sheer exhaustion. And the redheaded woman had asked such awful questions. What if he was dead? What if they had killed him? And yes, she was afraid. Desperately. And Malcolm had seemed so heart-broken, and so angry when he returned. She looked at John Taylor and sighed, embarrassed at having lost her composure.

“I'm sorry.”

“What for? Being human? Those bastards make me sick.” And then he lowered his voice as he looked at her. He had just been to see Charles Delauney. “Is there somewhere we can speak alone? The library again?”

She shook her head. “My husband is there, speaking to two of your men.” And then she thought for a moment. “I know.” She led the way to a small music room they never used. It was filled with old books and instruments, and some of Malcolm's files. Once in a great while, Brigitte used it as an office. There was a desk, and two chairs, and a small settee, where he settled her, and then he pulled up one of the chairs, and looked at her for a long moment. He had only known her since the night before, but he was willing to believe every word she said and stake his reputation on it. He had never met another human being like her. She was like someone in a book, or a dream, with the kind of inner strength and ideals that real people didn't have, or not the ones he knew. And yet at the same time she was a powerfully attractive young woman. And she'd had nothing but raw deals, from two men, neither of whom he had much use for. Delauney had struck him as a spoiled rich boy, drunk, self-indulged, and deluded in his political ideals, and still whining about what had happened to him almost ten years before, and the fact that she hadn't been willing to come back to him again after he'd almost killed her. Taylor felt that, given the opportunity, he could be impetuous and crazy, possibly even dangerous, and he could have done it for revenge. And Taylor had no use for Malcolm either. So far, he only knew him from the press, and he had always appeared to be very cold and pompous.

“Is something wrong?” More wrong than it already was? Was that possible, she wondered. “Have you heard anything?” She looked at him with huge eyes, suddenly frightened, but he was quick to shake his head, and reassure her.

“Not about Teddy.” He felt as though they had shared the secrets of a lifetime the night before. And he wanted to do anything he could to protect her now. She'd been through enough, she had trusted him, and he didn't want to betray that. But he also didn't want to endanger the child, and John Taylor was worried. “I've just spent three hours with Charles Delauney.” Marielle watched him with anxious eyes, wondering what Charles had said.

“Did you tell him I told you everything?”

“Yes. He blames himself, or so he says, for being crazed after it happened and reacting very badly. But he also claims that when he saw you in the park with Teddy the other day, he was still drunk from the night before, and he says he's not sure what he said, but he's willing to admit it was probably pretty out of line. But he insists he meant no harm, and he would never do anything to hurt Teddy.”

“Do you believe him?” She searched his eyes, needing to know the truth, and willing to believe him. She trusted him. There was something about him that seemed innately fair, and she sensed correctly that he would not betray her. She remembered how he had held her hand the night before, and taken her in his arms as she cried for Andre.

“That's the problem.” He looked back at her, and then shook his head as he leaned back in the chair. “I don't. I don't think he'd hurt him, not like the Lindbergh case or anything like that. But I think he's a spoiled young man. I think he'd do almost anything to get what he wants-threats, coercion, maybe worse. Maybe he would take Teddy to bring you closer to him. Maybe in his mind that's an all-right way to do it. I'm not sure. I don't even know what I think. But I can tell you that I don't think I believe him. Telling me he was drunk, and trying to excuse the threats he made didn't wash with me when I listened.” His eyes had been wild, and his black hair uncombed, he'd been unshaven, and there was the smell of booze in the air. He looked like a wild dissolute type whose life had not gone well, and maybe he was capable of some pretty frightening things, all in the name of justice. He was involved in a war, after all, that wasn't his, just for the sheer pleasure of killing, or at least that was how John Taylor saw it. He didn't understand political causes, or noble wars, or running with the bulls in Spain, or beating his pregnant wife up when they had just lost their little boy. He didn't understand any of these people. The only one he understood or cared about, God only knew why, was Marielle, and he wanted to help her.

“I'm worried about him, and I want you to know it. It means we're going to watch him, and I'd like to go back and search the house. But it also means that I may not be able to keep your secret, and I wanted to warn you. You may want to tell your husband some of this before it gets to him some other way.”

She nodded, grateful for the warning, at least he was allowing her to tell him herself. He was every bit as decent as she had suspected, and she tried to smile at him, but her head hurt so badly she couldn't. She winced in sudden pain, and he saw it. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” They were words that no longer meant anything, but they were expected.

“You'd better get some sleep at some point. Or you're going to fall apart when we really need you.” She nodded, but she couldn't imagine ever sleeping again…not until Teddy was returned. How was she going to live without him? She couldn't touch him or hold him or know where he was, or if he was safe, or decently cared for…she suddenly longed for the powdery smell of his neck and his hair…his laughter…the chubby little arms around her neck, or the way he looked at her that told her just how much he loved her. How was she going to survive without him until they found him? As she thought of it, she almost swooned, and then she felt a firm hand on her arm, as though pulling her back from her own terrors. “Marielle, hang on…we're going to find him.” She nodded and stood up, realizing that she had some very difficult things to say to Malcolm.

“Are you going to say anything to my husband about Charles?” She looked concerned, but not really worried. If she had to tell him, she would. It was as simple as that. This was no time to hide anything, if it could hurt Teddy.

“I'm going to tell him that, like many people at this point, Charles Delauney is a possible suspect. I'm not really sure he would do anything. But I can tell you right now, I don't like him. I don't like the threats he made, or the idea that he's so angry you have a child again, and he doesn't. I think in his own crazy way, he still loves you. He says he wants you back. And in his mind that's enough reason for you to come running back to him, because he says so.” He didn't tell her what Charles had said about her marriage to Malcolm, that it was all a fraud and a sham, and everyone in town knew that he had other women, that people said she lived like a nun, and Malcolm didn't give a damn about her. Charles Delauney seemed to feel that that was all reason enough for her to leave him. He had also said that he didn't think Marielle loved Malcolm, and that she had married him for all the wrong reasons, because she had no one in her life at the time and she was afraid and shaky after her release from the clinic in Switzerland. He said she'd been looking for a father and not a husband. But seeing Delauney with his wild looks, and crazed airs, it was easy to see why she would have. Taylor could see the appeal of a man like Malcolm Patterson and yet he could also understand why a girl of eighteen would have been drawn to Delauney. He was colorful and handsome and wild and full of romance, but men like that were dangerous too…men like that did foolish things…like beat their wives… or make terrible threats and accusations. But did they kidnap other people's children? Was that part of it? That was the question. Taylor didn't know the answer to that one. But one thing was certain, if he had done it, he hadn't done it for the money. And perhaps that was why there was no request for ransom. He would have just hired people to take the boy away from her, and conceal him. But what would he do with him once he had him?

John Taylor stood up then and walked her slowly out of the room, and she thanked him again for the warning about what he was going to have to tell Malcolm. She turned and looked at John Taylor for a last moment, with a worried frown. It was all so confusing. “Do you really think he'd do a thing like that? Charles, I mean.” It was hard to believe. He had always been wild and uncontrolled but not like this…she couldn't believe he would really take Teddy. Did he hate her that much then? It was hard to imagine.

“I don't know.” Taylor was honest with her. “I wish I knew the answer.”

She nodded, and went back to the chaos in the main living room. Malcolm was standing there, looking grim, with an FBI man on either side, and she introduced him to John Taylor.

“I've been waiting to see you,” Malcolm growled, seemingly unimpressed by Taylor.

“I've been out talking to some people about the case.” His eyes never looked once at Marielle. He knew better than that. But he also wasn't sure, as he watched Malcolm, that he disagreed with Delauney. There seemed to be no warmth toward Marielle, no visible support, only Malcolm's own concern, and his grief at losing his only son. Instead of asking for John's help, he demanded that he find him. “We're all set for a possible ransom request, sir,” John Taylor said with a respect he didn't feel. In fact, he had already decided, he didn't like him.

“So am I,” Malcolm said. “The U.S. Treasury Department is sending us marked notes this morning.”

“We'll have to be very careful how that's handled.” It had been a disaster in the Lindbergh case, and John didn't want anything going wrong this time. “I'd like to speak to you this afternoon, if you have time.” John wanted to know if there was anyone he suspected, or was afraid of. And as he had with Marielle, he wanted to see him alone, but he also wanted to give Marielle time to tell him about Charles Delauney.

“I'll see you now,” Malcolm said with a frown. He had slept in the car coming up from Washington, and he was more rested than either Marielle or John Taylor.

“I'm afraid I have some other matters to attend to first.” If nothing else, he wanted to get back to his office and shower and shave, have another stiff cup of coffee, and take some time to think about what they were doing. The truth was, they had no leads at all. All they had was Charles, and the fact that the driver had admitted that morning that someone had called him a few weeks before and offered him a hundred dollars if he'd choose that particular night to go out with Edith. He had figured the joke was on them anyway, because they'd been planning for ages to go to the Irish Christmas dance in the Bronx, so it was no effort for him. But the hundred had arrived in a plain envelope at the back door the week before, and he'd thrown the envelope away and spent the cash, and never given it another thought. He said he hadn't recognized the voice on the phone, except that they'd had an accent, what kind of accent he wasn't sure, maybe English, maybe German. He insisted he couldn't remember. But even if Delauney had taken the child, he wouldn't have done it himself. And supposedly the week before, he hadn't seen Marielle, and didn't know she had a child… or did he? Was it all a clever plan? Had he been watching her for weeks? Months? Had he been getting news of her while he was in Europe? Had he planned his revenge for years? It was hard to make sense of it, there was so little to go on, and it was still way too early. But why hadn't the driver been suspicious of the call? It could have meant a robbery was being planned or an attack on Malcolm or Marielle. But it was clear to John Taylor that the driver didn't care about his employers.

Malcolm looked annoyed that Taylor wasn't ready to speak to him just then, and just so he understood who he was dealing with, he mentioned his trip to Washington again. But Taylor understood perfectly. The message was, do it right, do it now, do it my way, or you're going to regret it. The trouble was, Taylor wasn't that kind of man. And he wasn't about to take any pressure from Malcolm.

“I'll see you this afternoon, sir. Say around four?”

“That'll be fine. I assume your men know how to find you, if a call comes in before that?” It was a very gentle slap in the face, an inference that he was “disappearing.”

“Of course.”

“Very well. Is there anything you can do with those vultures on our front doorstep, by the way?”

“I'm afraid not. They all think they're out there defending the First Amendment. We can back them up a little bit though, get them away from the house. I'll have my men see to it.”

“See that you do,” Malcolm said with a stern look, instead of “thank you.” Taylor left them then, as Malcolm looked down at his wife and muttered, “I don't like him.”

“He's a nice man. He was very kind to us last night.” She didn't tell him how kind, but it had made a lasting impression on her, in the absence of her husband.

“I'd be more impressed if he found your son. You might keep that in mind, Marielle.” As though she could forget it. She wondered why he was being so cruel to her, except that she knew he was upset, and somehow he seemed to feel that it was all her fault. Or was she just imagining it? Was she feeling responsible again, as she had for Andre and her baby girl? Was everything always going to be her fault? It was that that usually set off the headaches, that and the terrible helplessness she always felt when things went wrong and she couldn't change them. But she couldn't allow herself to think of that now, couldn't allow herself to think of what might be happening to Teddy. She had to be strong. And she knew that before John Taylor returned that afternoon, she had to tell Malcolm.

“Could we go upstairs for a little while?” She looked nervously at her husband, and he glanced at her with a strange expression, as though she had propositioned him and he couldn't believe it. “I have to talk to you.”

“This isn't the time.” He tried to brush her off, he wanted to return the German ambassador's call. He was touched that he had called him.

“Yes, it is. Malcolm, it's important.”

“Can't it wait?” But he could see from the look in her eyes that she meant it. She was surprising him actually. For a woman who seemed to go weak at the knees whenever life became even slightly difficult, she seemed to be holding up remarkably well in this crisis. She looked tired, of course, and pale, but she seemed calm and reasonable, and other than the pathetically trembling hands he had noticed at once, she seemed to be controlling her emotions. What he hadn't seen was the terrible scene in the boy's room only that morning, the crying that seemed to have no end as she held his teddy bear to her and felt terror rise in her throat every time she thought of her son. But she was fighting it, because she knew she had to. If she didn't, she would panic and collapse completely.

“Malcolm, will you come upstairs with me?” She was insistent.

“All right, all right. I'll be there in a moment.” She waited for him in her dressing room, because she didn't know where else to be, and she paced the small room while she waited. She didn't know where to start, or what to say, and she wished she had forced him to listen before she married him, but he hadn't wanted to hear it then, and now he had to.

He came up half an hour later, just as she was ready to go downstairs looking for him. But finally he appeared, and he seemed huge in the small room, as ha took a chair, and looked at her with obvious irritation.

“All right, Marielle, I don't know what you can possibly want to talk about now. I hope it's important, and has something to do with Teddy.”

“It might. I hope it doesn't,” she said quietly, sitting on a small settee across from him. It was odd how far away from him she felt, how distant they were, even in this crisis. In fact, suddenly, it seemed worse than ever. “It has to do with me. And I think it's important. Years ago, when we were getting married, I told you that there were things about me you might not like, and you said that everyone had a past and it wasn't important. You felt it was best left untouched, but I felt I owed it to you to tell you.” She sighed and had to fight for air again. All of this was so difficult that she always seemed to have trouble breathing. But she knew she had to tell him. And this time he had to listen. “Do you remember?” she asked him softly, and for a moment, his eyes gentled. Maybe he was only in pain, she told herself. Perhaps the shock of losing Teddy was so great that he could offer Marielle no comfort, just as she and Charles had been unable to comfort each other nine years before. Sometimes when the common agony is too great one can only struggle alone. She wondered if that was what was happening now, and it wasn't that he held her responsible after all. But she had to go on now.

“I do remember,” he answered her. “But what does that have to do with what is happening now? Or with Teddy?” There was a look of accusation on his face and she forced herself to ignore it.

“I don't know. I'm not sure. But I must tell you what I do know.” She took a breath and went on, unaware of how beautiful she was. “My father told his closest friends that I had had a youthful flirtation and gone a little mad when I was eighteen and we were on the Grand Tour. And then he told everyone that I'd decided to stay on and study in Paris. Well, some of that was true but very little. I had much more than a flirtation. I ran away, I eloped, with Charles Delauney. I'm sure you must know his father.” Malcolm nodded. He had known him, better than he had known her own. He was a crusty old man, but a smart one, with a huge fortune. But he had never met the son. They said he was a renegade of the worst sort, a writer. And he'd run off to the war when he was fourteen or fifteen, and after that he'd stayed in Europe. Old man Delauney said he was no good, and that was all he'd heard, but now he looked stunned at Marielle's confession. “I married him when I was eighteen, and by the time we came back from our honeymoon and my parents wanted to have the marriage annulled, I was pregnant. So they went home, and I stayed. The marriage was never annulled. And we had a little boy…” She had to fight back tears as she said it. After all these years, to tell the story twice in one day was almost more than she could bear. But she knew she had to tell him. Teddy's disappearance made it all different. “His name was Andre,” she gulped again, “and he looked a little like Teddy, except that he had very black hair, instead of blond hair like you.' She tried to smile, but Malcolm said nothing. He was not finding the recital amusing. And she knew that, for Malcolm, she had to keep it to the facts. He didn't have to know how much she loved him, or how desperately she had loved Charles, or how terrible it had been when Andre died. He just had to know that he did, and that Charles had seen Teddy and gone crazy. He had to hear this from her so he didn't think she was protecting Charles. The only one she wanted to protect now was Teddy. And Malcolm had to hear everything if they were going to find him.

“He died when he was two… in Switzerland. I was pregnant with another child, and that baby died too.”

Malcolm looked desperately uncomfortable for a moment.

“How did they die?”

“Andre drowned.” She squeezed her eyes shut and fought for composure, but unlike John Taylor, the night before, Malcolm Patterson did not approach her. “He ran onto the lake… it was frozen…and he fell through…with two little girls. I saved them.” Her voice was almost a monotone as she went on, trying not to see his face again, trying not to feel his icy face next to her own as she tried to blow life into him, trying not to smell the same powdery flesh she had loved so much…just like Teddy…and if Teddy died too…how would she survive it? She fought to go on as Malcolm watched her. “I couldn't reach him. He was under the ice.” It was a breathless whisper, and then her voice grew stronger again. It was like climbing a mountain just telling him and the air seemed to be getting thinner and thinner and thinner. “Charles always held me responsible for it. He felt it was my fault, because I wasn't watching him. I was, but I was talking to someone…the mother of the two little girls…she said it wasn't my fault, but I suppose it was. And Charles thought so too. He was skiing that day, and when he came back, he tried to kill me… or maybe not…maybe he was just so out of his mind with pain…anyway, I lost the baby. I probably would have anyway, because of the icy water. I had jumped in to get Andre.” Malcolm nodded, mesmerized by the horror of her words, and in spite of himself, his face had gone pale as he listened. “Charles always felt that I had killed both of them, that it was my fault that we lost them. And I…I…” Her voice trembled and she couldn't go on as she bowed her head, and then looked at him, her face filled with anguish, her eyes filled with a horror he could never know and no one would ever take from her. “I suppose you could say I had a nervous breakdown. I was in a hospital… a clinic… a sanatorium… for more than two years. I was twenty-one when it happened, and I tried to kill myself several times.” She had decided to tell him all of it. He had a right to know now, and there could be no more secrets. “I didn't want to live, without Charles and my babies. I did everything I could to die, and they did everything they could to save me. I never saw Charles during that time…or actually I only saw him once during that first year. He came to tell me my father had died, a few months after Andre. They say the shock of the Crash killed him, and I suppose it did…they didn't tell me that my mother killed herself six months later. I suppose without Daddy, and without me…” Her voice trailed off, and Malcolm understood her meaning. “They didn't tell me that for another year, and by then, I suppose I was better. They said I had to go finally, that I had to go back out in the world and live with what had happened. That it wasn't my fault, that I wasn't responsible, and if Charles still felt it was, then it was something that he had to work out for himself.” She took another breath and seemed a little calmer as she looked unseeingly out the window. “He came to see me once at the end before I left, and he told me how sorry he was, that he had been out of his mind with pain, that it wasn't my fault, and he hadn't meant it. But I could see in his eyes that he did mean it, that he still believed I had killed his children. I still loved him.” She looked back at Malcolm honestly. “I always had, but I knew that if I stayed with him, I would always feel guilty. It would always be between us. I couldn't go back to him. I had to be alone. So I left the hospital, and came back to the States, and that was the last time I saw him. And then I met you,” she sighed, “and you were so good to me. You gave me a job, and you did so many things for me. You took care of me, and you were always so kind to me. And we got married. I never really wanted to get married again. I didn't think it would have been fair to anyone… I had so much on my conscience. But you seemed not to mind…and…” She felt suddenly guilty. “I had no one…and I was so frightened sometimes. And you made me feel safe… I thought I could be good to you too…and maybe make you happy.” She lowered her eyes then, thinking of when Teddy had been born, and the tears began to slide down her face again. She had given him a lot to absorb in a single moment. “I was so happy when Teddy was born.”

“So was I.” His voice was a croak in the small room. “He's all I lived for. I always thought there was some small mystery in your past, Marielle. But I never suspected it was quite so ugly.” She was filled with shame as he said it.

“I know,” she nodded, “that was why I thought you should know. I thought you should hear it before you decided to marry me, but you wouldn't listen.” He nodded his agreement, and she went on. “I never saw Charles again when I came back to the States. I never saw him again until last Friday. I met him at Saint Patrick's Cathedral, by chance. I went to light a candle for the children and my parents. It was the anniversary of our children's death,” she forced herself to say the words she hated, “and he was there. He said he was in New York to see his father.”

“And what did he say?” Malcolm was interested in this part.

“He wanted to see me again, and I said I couldn't.”

“Why not?” He was probing with his words, and she was hurt that he would ask her.

“Because I love you, because we're married. Because of Teddy.”

“And he was angry?” Malcolm almost looked hopeful.

“No, not then… we were both so upset. It's a terrible day every year.”

“And did he call you?”

“No, I ran into him in the park the next day with Teddy, at the boat pond. I think he'd been drinking, or was still drunk from the night before. He was wild-eyed, and he was shocked to realize we had a child… a little boy…and he was very angry,” she admitted. This was the point of the whole story.

“What did he say? Did he hurt the child?” Malcolm looked terrified by what she was saying.

“Of course not. I don't think he's capable of it, and I'd never let him.” She took a quick breath. “But he was very angry. He threatened me, I suppose. He said I didn't deserve to have another chance. And,” she took a deep breath before she told him, “he talked some nonsense about taking Teddy in order to make me come back to him. But Malcolm, I'm sure he didn't mean it. But nevertheless, I felt you had to know. The police asked if anyone had threatened me, or had reason to be angry with me, and for Teddy's sake, I told them.” It surprised Malcolm that she hadn't been more anxious to protect Charles Delauney, and he could see from the look in her eyes when she talked about him that she still cared deeply about him.

“You told this to the police? All of it?”

“Yes.” She nodded slowly. She wasn't ashamed anymore. It was painful, but it was not her fault. She had finally come to accept that.

“That's a lovely tale to tell. I imagine that will make interesting reading in the papers.”

“Mr. Taylor promised me he would do everything he could to keep it confidential. But he's already been to see Charles.”

“You seem to know a great deal about the investigation.”

She didn't answer him at first. “I wanted to tell you this myself. I felt you had a right to know.” He nodded and stood up, still looking deeply troubled, and then he looked at her, and for a moment she wondered if he was angry.

“It would seem that your contact with Delauney may well have endangered our child, Marielle. Have you thought of that?” Guilt again…and responsibility…why was it always her fault? Why did her life, or her failings, or her stupidity, always cause pain to others?

“I have. But I didn't plan to meet him. It just happened.”

“Are you so sure of that? Are you sure Delauney hasn't been following you and wasn't waiting for you at the church?”

“He was as surprised as I was. And the boat pond is just into the park from his father's house.”

“Then you shouldn't have gone there.” Malcolm's voice was stern, he was accusing her. And it was clear now that he did reproach her. “You shouldn't have done anything to risk my son,” not their child, but his son, “and given your history, I'm surprised that you would take him to the boat pond at all, particularly in this weather.” It was the cruelest thing he could have said. It had taken her years to be able to do something like that, and she hadn't let him near the water.

“How can you say that?” She was shocked. His words hit her like a blow, but he didn't care now. He was too worried.

He began to pace the room as he spoke to her. “How can you tell me this story and expect me to forgive you? You were involved with this terrible man, who you admit yourself tried to kill you, and may well have killed your unborn child, and you expose my son to him, you admit to me that he threatened you, that he threatened to take him, for whatever reason…and what do you expect from me, Marielle? Sympathy for your children who died? Or for my child who's been kidnapped? You brought this man into my life, you brought him right to my doors, you took my son to the park where they could meet, you exposed Teddy to him, and provoked this lunatic until he took our child, and what do you expect from me now with all this…forgiveness?” There were tears in his eyes and rage in his voice as Marielle stood in front of him, helplessly weeping.

“We don't know that he took him,” she said in an agonized voice, she had told him everything and now she knew he would never forgive her. “We don't know anything.”

“I know that you've been involved with people over the years who may well have cost me my only child…and you, your last one.”

“Malcolm,” she closed her eyes and almost swooned at his words, “how can you say that?”

“Because it's true,” he roared at her, “because Teddy may be dead by now, buried in a shallow grave we'll never find, or if he isn't yet, he may be at any moment. You may never see your child again.” He bore down on her like a nightmare with his booming voice and terrifying accusations. “And what you have to understand, what you have to tell yourself, is that you brought Teddy to him, you provoked this man, you brought Charles Delauney into our life…it's you, Marielle, who did it.” She gasped at the pain he caused, but she couldn't tell him he was wrong. Perhaps she had done all that he said. Perhaps it was all her fault again, and as she listened to him, she sank into a chair, and the migraine came crashing through her brain so hard she could barely keep her balance. She heard all the voices again, felt all the familiar pain, and just as she used to, she heard the sound of the rushing water beneath the ice, and as she heard Malcolm leave the room, she was barely conscious.

It seemed hours later when she heard a sound, and she was startled to look up and see the little maid who had been bound and gagged by the kidnappers the night before. It was Betty, bringing her her laundry. Mr. Patterson had sent everyone back to work in an attempt to get the house back to normal, with the exception of Edith and Patrick, who had been warned not to leave town. The FBI was still very interested in their stories.

“Mrs. Patterson, are you all right?” Betty hurried to her side, she looked as though she had fainted, and she was halfway out of the chair toward the floor, when Betty found her. The sound of her voice roused Marielle to consciousness again, and she looked around, through the blinding pain, remembering all too quickly what had happened and what Malcolm had said… it was all her fault…she had brought Charles into their midst…and he had taken Teddy…but had he? And why? Did he really hate her that much? Did they all?…and were they right?…she suddenly wished she had died years before, when she should have… perhaps even under the ice, with her babies.

“Mrs. Patterson…”

“I'm fine…” Marielle murmured, struggling to her feet, trying to straighten her dress and smooth her hair, as the frightened young girl watched her. Marielle looked as though she had died she was so pale, and she looked sick as she struggled to keep her balance. “… I'm not very well…just a headache…nothing to worry about…” She walked slowly into her bedroom as Betty followed. She had been through her own ordeal the night before, but the police had reassured Betty that it wasn't her fault, that she couldn't have done anything to stop them, and if she had tried they probably would have killed her. So she no longer felt guilty, only lucky. Unlike Marielle, who felt guilty for everything in her life for the past nine years. It was an awesome burden.

“Would you like a cold cloth?”

“No…no…thank you…I'll just lie down for a moment,” but as soon as she did, the room spun around and she thought she might vomit. It was almost like being drunk, but worse, because it was so painful. “Is there any news?” She raised her head for an instant after she lay down, but Betty only shook her head and went to pull the blinds down, and when she left a moment later, Marielle's eyes were closed in pain, but she wasn't sleeping.

Betty ran into John Taylor downstairs who asked her where Mrs. Patterson was. She told him that she had a headache and was resting.

“Let her rest,” he added. All he had wanted was to make sure that she had told Malcolm about Charles before their meeting, but the moment he stepped into the library, he knew. Malcolm Patterson looked grim as he greeted John Taylor.

“My wife has told me about Charles Delauney,” he said immediately. And John assumed she had told him the rest too, but he didn't appear to be softened. “It's a shocking story. Do you think that's our man?” He was clearly frantic about his son, and wanted no stone left unturned, no matter how great the scandal.

“It could be. We have no evidence, no proof. He has an alibi for last night, it's not a great one, but he's sticking to it, and we've checked it out and it holds. He was drinking at a bar on Third Avenue. And before that he was with friends at '2G. But he wouldn't have done it himself anyway, he would have hired people to do it for him, I would imagine.”

Malcolm had given it a great deal of thought ever since she'd told him the story. “If it was done for revenge, there will be no ransom request. And for the moment, there isn't,” he said grimly.

“That's true. But the boy's been gone for less than a day. A lot could happen in the next few hours.”

“I want Delauney arrested,” Malcolm roared. “Now! Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” John Taylor said in a taut voice. “But we need evidence, and there is none. There is absolutely nothing except for the fact that he was drunk and he made some threats which may not have meant a damn thing. And he was once married to your wife.” Malcolm glared at him, not amused by the gist of the conversation.

“Then it would seem to me, Mister Taylor, that you'd best go out looking for some evidence, hadn't you?”

“Are you suggesting I manufacture it?” Taylor was fascinated by him. No matter how powerful, or important, or intelligent, or allegedly charming the man was, John Taylor suspected that beneath it all, Malcolm Patterson was a bastard.

“I'm not suggesting anything of the sort. I'm telling you to find it.”

“If it's there, I will.”

“Good.” He rose to his feet then, indicating that the interview was over, and Taylor would have been amused if he hadn't disliked him. And for an instant, he wondered if his own hostility was because he was jealous. The man had everything. Money, power, and a wife that Taylor would have given his right arm for. And something told him that for Malcolm Patterson, she was the one thing he had that was not precious to him.

“I'm afraid I have to ask you a few more questions.”

“Certainly.” Malcolm sat down again, looking cooperative and official. He wanted to do everything he could to get his son back.

“Is there anyone who could be out to get you? Anyone who's made threats against you, say in the past year, even foolish ones, things that may not have seemed important at the time, but in light of what happened last night jump to mind now?”

“I can't think of anything. I thought about it all night as I drove from Washington, but I can think of no one who would want to harm me.'

“Any sensitive political associations? Any dissatisfied ex-employees?” Malcolm shook his head again. “Any women you may have been involved with? What you tell me will be kept confidential, to the best of my ability.” It was what he had promised Marielle. “But it may be important.”

“I appreciate that,” he said coolly, “but that won't be necessary. I have not been involved with any women.” He looked outraged that it would even be mentioned.

“Ex-wives who may be resentful that you've had a child with someone else after all these years?”

“Hardly, my first wife is married to one of the world's leading concert pianists and fives in Palm Beach, and the other is married to the president of a bank and lives in Chicago.” And then he threw in a blow that John thought was a cheap shot but he showed no reaction. “Unlike my wife apparently, my previous spouses are not dangerous people.”

“Maybe Charles Delauney isn't either.” He felt he had to say something to defend her.

“I don't care who it is, Inspector. I just want my child back.” It was eleven days before Christmas.

“I understand, Mr. Patterson. We all do. And we're going to do everything we can to make that happen.”

“Go back and talk to Delauney.” Taylor did not like taking orders from civilians, but he nodded as he stood up and thanked Malcolm for his patience. Taylor noticed that he looked tired and worn, but for a man his age, he looked fairly healthy and composed, considering what had happened. And inquiries about Marielle before he left told him she had been felled by a migraine.

From her room, just above it, she heard the front door close as he left, and the shouts of the press as he made his way through them. And a little while later, the police cordoned off the front of the house to keep them at a distance. But to Marielle, it was just noise, as she lay in the dark in blinding pain, silently praying for Teddy.