Silent Night

  * * *

  Chief of Detectives Folney, his gaze still riveted to the map of the Thruway on the wall of his office, knew that with each passing minute, the chances of finding Brian Dornan alive grew slimmer. Mort Levy and Jack Shore were across the desk from him.

  “Canada,” he said emphatically. “He’s on his way to Canada, and he’s getting close to the border.”

  They had just received further word from Michigan. Paige Laronde had closed all her bank accounts the day she left Detroit. And in a burst of confidence, she had told another dancer that she had been in touch with a guy who was a genius at creating fake IDs.

  It was reported that she had said, “Let me tell you, with the kind of papers I got for my boyfriend and me, we can both just disappear.”

  “If Siddons makes it over the border . . .” Bud Folney muttered more to himself than to the others.

  “Nothing from the Thruway guys?” he asked for the third time in fifteen minutes.

  “Nothing, sir,” Mort said quietly.

  “Call them again. I want to talk to them myself.”

  When he got through to Chris McNally’s supervisor and heard for himself that absolutely nothing was new, he decided he wanted to speak to Trooper McNally himself.

  “A lot of good that’ll do,” Jack Shore muttered to Mort Levy.

  But before Folney could be connected with McNally, another call came in. “Hot lead,” an assistant said, rushing into Folney’s office. “Siddons and the kid were seen by a trooper about an hour ago at a rest area on Route 91 in Vermont near White River Junction. He said the man matches Siddons’s description to a T, and the boy was wearing some kind of medal.”

  “Forget McNally,” Folney said crisply. “I want to talk to the trooper who saw them. And right now, call the Vermont police and have them put up barriers at all the exits north of the sighting. For all we know, the girlfriend may be holed up waiting for him in a farmhouse on this side of the border.”

  While Folney waited, he looked over at Mort. “Call Cally Hunter and tell her what we’ve just learned. Ask her if she knows if Jimmy has ever been to Vermont and if so, where did he go? There might be some place in particular he could be headed.”

  21

  Brian could tell that the car was going faster. He opened his eyes, then shut them as fast as he could. It was easier to stay lying down, curled up on the seat, pretending to be asleep, instead of having to try not to act scared when Jimmy looked at him.

  He also had been listening to the radio. Even though the volume was turned way down, he could hear what they were saying, that cop killer Jimmy Siddons, who had shot a prison guard, had kidnapped Brian Dornan.

  His mother had been reading a book named Kidnapped to him and Michael. Brian liked the story a lot, but when they went to bed, Michael told him he thought it was dumb. He had said that if anyone tried to kidnap him, he’d kick the guy and punch him and run away.

  Well, I can’t run away, Brian thought. And he was sure that trying to hurt Jimmy by punching him wouldn’t work. He wished that he’d been able to open the car door earlier and roll out like he had planned to. He’d have curled up in a ball just like they taught the kids to do in gym class. He would have been okay.

  But now the car door near him was locked, and he knew that before he could even pull up the lock and open the door, Jimmy would grab him.

  Brian was almost crying. He could feel his nose filling up and his eyes getting watery. He tried to think about how Michael might call him a crybaby. Sometimes that helped him when he was trying not to cry.

  It didn’t help now, though. Even Michael would probably cry if he was scared and he had to go to the bathroom again. And it said right on the radio that Jimmy was dangerous.

  But even though he was crying, Brian made sure he didn’t make a sound. He felt the tears on his cheeks, but he didn’t move to brush them away. If he moved his hand, Jimmy would notice and know he was awake, and for now he had to keep pretending.

  Instead, he clasped the St. Christopher medal even tighter and made himself think about how when Dad was able to go back home, they were going to put up their own Christmas tree and open the presents. Just before they had left for New York, Mrs. Emerson who lived next door had come in to say good-bye, and he had heard her say to his mom, “Catherine, no matter when it is, the night you put up your tree, we’re all going to come and sing Christmas carols under your window.”

  Then she’d hugged Brian and said, “I know your favorite carol.”

  “Silent Night.” He’d sung it all by himself in the first-grade Christmas pageant at school last year.

  Brian tried to sing it to himself now, in his mind . . . but he couldn’t get past “Silent night.” He knew if he kept thinking about it, he wouldn’t be able to keep Jimmy from knowing that he was crying.

  Then he almost jumped. Someone on the radio was talking about Jimmy and him again. The man was saying that a state trooper in Vermont was sure he had seen Jimmy Siddons and a young boy in an old Dodge or Chevrolet at a rest stop on Route 91 in Vermont, and the search was being concentrated there.

  Jimmy’s grim smile vanished as quickly as it had come. The first surge of relief at hearing the news bulletin was followed by instant caution. Had some fool claimed he’d spotted them in Vermont? he wondered. It was possible, he decided. When he had been hiding out in Michigan, some two-bit drifter swore he’d seen Jimmy in Delaware. After he got caught at the gas-station job and was taken back to New York, he had found out that the marshals had kept the heat on in Delaware for months.

  Even so, being on the Thruway was really beginning to spook him. The road was good and he could make time, but the nearer you got to the border, the more troopers there might be on the road. He decided that when he got off at the next exit, and got rid of the kid, he’d swing over to Route 20. Now that it wasn’t snowing, he should be able to make okay time there.

  Follow your hunch, Jimmy reminded himself. The only time he hadn’t was when he had tried to hold up that gas station. He still remembered that at the time something had warned him there was a problem.

  Well, after this, there’ll be no more problems, he thought, looking down at Brian. Then when he looked up, he grinned. The sign looming before him read EXIT 42, GENEVA, ONE MILE AHEAD.

  * * *

  Chris McNally had passed the fender-bender on the exit 41 ramp. Two police cars were on the scene already, so he decided there was no need for him to stop. He had traveled fast, and he hoped that by now he had caught up to any cars that had been ahead of him on line at McDonald’s.

  Provided, of course, they hadn’t taken one of the earlier exits.

  A brown Toyota. That’s what he kept looking for. Finding it was the one chance. He knew it. What was it about the license plate? He clenched his teeth, again trying hard to remember. There had been something about it . . . Think, damn it, he told himself, think.

  He didn’t for one minute believe the report that Siddons and the kid had been spotted in Vermont. Every gut instinct kept telling Chris that they were nearby.

  Exit 42 to Geneva was coming up. That meant the border was only another hundred miles or so away. Most of the cars were doing fifty to sixty miles an hour now. If Jimmy Siddons was in this vicinity, he could look forward to being out of the country in less than two hours.

  What was there about the license plate of the Toyota? he asked himself once more.

  Chris’s eyes narrowed. He could see a dark Toyota in the passing lane that was moving fast. He switched lanes and drove up beside it, then glanced in. He prayed that it held a single man or a man with a young boy. Just a chance to find that child. Give me a chance, he prayed.

  Without turning on his siren or dome light, Chris continued past the Toyota. He had been able to see a young couple inside. The guy was driving with his arm around the girl, not a good idea on an icy road. Another time he’d have pulled him over.

  Chris stepped on the gas. The road was clearer, the traffic was better
spaced. But everything was moving faster and faster, and closer and closer to Canada.

  His radio was on low when a call came in for him. “Officer McNally?”

  “Yes.”

  “New York City Chief of Detectives Bud Folney calling you from One Police Plaza. I just spoke to your supervisor again. The Vermont sighting is a washout. The Lenihan woman can’t be found. Tell me what you reported earlier about a brown Toyota.”

  Knowing his boss had dismissed that, Chris realized that this Folney must be really pressing him.

  He explained that if Deidre had been talking about the car directly ahead of him in the McDonald’s line, she was talking about a brown Toyota with New York plates.

  “And you can’t remember the license.”

  “No, sir.” Chris wanted to strangle the words in his throat. “But there was something unusual about it.”

  He was almost at exit 42. As he watched, a vehicle two cars ahead switched into the exit lane. His casual glance became a stare. “My God,” he said.

  “Officer? What is it?” In New York, Bud Folney instinctively knew that something was happening.

  “That’s it.” Chris said. “It wasn’t the license plate I noticed. It was the bumper sticker. There’s just a piece of it left and it says inheritance. Sir, I’m following that Toyota down the exit ramp right now. Can you check out the license?”

  “Don’t lose that car,” Bud snapped. “And hang on.”

  * * *

  Three minutes later the phone rang in apartment 8C, in 10 Stuyvesant Oval, in lower Manhattan. A sleepy and anxious Edward Hillson picked it up. “Hello,” he said. He felt his wife’s nervous grasp on his arm.

  “What? My car? I parked it around the corner at five or so. No, I didn’t lend it to anyone. Yes. It’s a brown Toyota. What are you telling me?”

  * * *

  Bud Folney got back to Chris. “I think you have him, but for God’s sake remember, he’s threatened to kill the child before he lets himself get captured. So be careful.”

  22

  Michael was so sleepy. All he wanted to do was lean against Gran and close his eyes. But he couldn’t do that yet, not until he was sure that Brian was okay. Michael struggled to suppress his growing fear. Why didn’t he grab me if he saw that lady pick up Mom’s wallet? I could have run after her and helped him when he got caught by that guy.

  The cardinal was at the altar now. But when the music stopped, instead of starting to offer Mass, he began to speak. “On this night of joy and hope . . .”

  Off to the right, Michael could see the television cameras. He had always thought it would be cool to be on television, but whenever he had thought about it, the circumstances he envisioned had to do with winning something or with witnessing some great event. That would be fun. Tonight, when he and Mom were on together, it wasn’t fun.

  It was awful to hear Mom begging people to help them find Brian.

  “. . . in a year that has brought so much violence to the innocent . . .”

  Michael straightened up. The cardinal was talking about them, about Dad being sick and Brian being missing and believed to be with that escaped killer. He was saying, “Brian Dornan’s mother, grandmother, and ten-year-old brother are with us at this Mass. Let our special prayer be that Dr. Thomas Dornan will recover fully and that Brian will be found unharmed.”

  Michael could see that Mom and Gran were both crying. Their lips were moving, and he knew they were praying. His prayer was the advice he would have given Brian if he could hear him: Run, Brian, run.

  * * *

  Now that he was off the Thruway, Jimmy felt somewhat relieved, despite a gnawing sense that things were closing in on him.

  He was running low on gas but was afraid to risk stopping at a station with the kid in the car. He was on Route 14 south. That connected with Route 20 in about six miles. Route 20 led to the border.

  There was a lot less traffic here than on the Thruway. Most people were home by now anyway, asleep or getting ready for Christmas morning. It was unlikely that anyone would be looking for him here. Still, he reasoned, the best thing to do was to get on some of the local streets in Geneva, find someplace like a school where there’d be a parking lot, or find a wooded area, somewhere he could stop without being noticed and do what he had to do.

  As he took the next right-hand turn, he glanced in the rearview mirror. His antennae went up. He thought he had seen headlights reflected there as he made the turn, but now he didn’t see them anymore.

  I’m getting too jumpy, he thought.

  A block later it suddenly was like they’d sailed off the edge of the earth. As far as he could see, there were no cars ahead. They were in a residential area, quiet and dark. The houses were mostly unlit, except some of them still had Christmas-tree lights glowing from bushes and evergreens on the snow-covered lawns.

  He couldn’t be sure if the kid was really asleep or faking it. Not that it mattered. This was the sort of place he needed. He drove six blocks and then saw what he was looking for: a school, with a long drive-way that had to lead to a parking area.

  His eyes missed nothing as he carefully searched the area for any sign of an approaching car or someone out walking. Then he stopped the car and opened the window halfway, listening intently for any hint of trouble. The cold instantly turned his breath to steam. He could hear nothing but the hum of the Toyota’s engine. It was quiet out there. Silent.

  Still, he decided to drive around the block one more time, just to be sure he wasn’t being followed.

  As he put his foot on the accelerator, and as the car slowly moved forward, he kept his gaze glued to the rearview mirror. Damn. He’d been right. There was a car behind him, running without lights. Now it was moving, too. The lights from a brilliantly lit tree reflected on its rooftop dome.

  A squad car. Cops! Damn them, Jimmy swore under his breath. Damn them! Damn them! He tromped on the gas pedal. It might be his last ride, but he’d make it a good one.

  He looked down at Brian. “Quit pretending. I know you’re awake,” he shouted. “Sit up, damn you. I shoulda ditched you as soon as I was out of the city. Lousy kid.”

  Jimmy floored the accelerator. A quick look in the rearview mirror confirmed that the pursuing car had also speeded up and was now openly following him. But so far there seemed to be only one of them.

  Clearly Cally had told the cops he had the kid, he reasoned. She’d probably also told them that he said he’d kill the kid first if they tried to close in on him. If that cop behind him knew that, it explained why he wasn’t trying to pull him over right now.

  He glanced at the speedometer: fifty . . . sixty . . . seventy. Damn this car! Jimmy thought, suddenly wishing he had something more powerful than a Toyota. He hunched over the wheel. He couldn’t outrun them, but he still might have a chance to get away.

  The guy chasing him didn’t have backup yet. What would he do if he saw the kid had been shot and pushed out of the car? He’d stop to try to help him, Jimmy reasoned. I’d better do it right away, he thought, before he has time to call in help.

  He reached inside his jacket for his gun. Just then the car hit a patch of ice and began to skid. Jimmy dropped the gun in his lap, turned the wheels in the direction of the skid, then managed to straighten the car just inches away from crashing into a tree at the edge of the sidewalk.

  Nobody can drive like I can, he thought grimly. Then he picked up the gun again and released the safety catch. If the cop stops for the kid, I’ll make it to Canada, he promised himself. He released the lock on the passenger door and reached across the terrified boy to open it.

  23

  Cally knew she had to call police headquarters to see if there was any word about little Brian. She had told Detective Levy she didn’t think Jimmy would try to reach Canada through Vermont. “He got in trouble up there when he was about fifteen,” she’d said. “He never did time there, but I think some sheriff really scared Jimmy. He told him he had a long memory and warned him ne
ver to show up in Vermont again. Even though that was at least ten years ago, Jimmy is superstitious. I think he’d stick to the Thruway. I know he went to Canada a couple of times when he was a teenager, and both times he went that way.”

  Levy had listened to her. She knew he wanted to trust her, and she prayed that this time he had. She also prayed that she was right and they got the boy back safely, so she could know that in some small way she had helped.

  Someone other than Levy answered his phone, and she was told to wait. Then Levy came on. “What is it, Cally?”

  “I just had to know if there’s been any word . . . I’ve been praying that what I told you about Jimmy taking the Thruway helped.”

  Levy’s voice softened even though he still spoke quickly. “Cally, it did help, and we’re very grateful. I can’t talk now, but whatever prayers you know, keep saying them.”

  That means they must have located Jimmy, she thought. But what was happening to Brian?

  Cally sank to her knees. It doesn’t matter what happens to me, she prayed. Stop Jimmy before he hurts that child.

  * * *

  Chris McNally had known it the minute Jimmy spotted him. The radio was open between him and headquarters and was tied in to One Police Plaza in Manhattan. “He knows he’s being followed,” Chris reported tersely. “He’s taking off like a bat out of hell.”

  “Don’t lose him,” Bud Folney said quietly.

  “We’ve got a dozen cars on the way, Chris,” the dispatcher snapped. “They’re running silent and on dim lights. They’ll surround you. We’re bringing in a chopper, too.”

  “Keep them out of sight!” Chris pressed his foot on the accelerator. “He’s going seventy. There’s not many cars out, but these streets aren’t completely cleared. This is getting dangerous.”