Silent Night

  As Siddons raced across an intersection, Chris watched in horror as he barely missed slamming into another car. Siddons was driving like a maniac. There was going to be an accident, he knew it. “Passing Lakewood Avenue,” he reported. Two blocks later he saw the Toyota skid and almost hit a tree. A minute after that, he yelled, “The boy!”

  “What is it?” Folney demanded.

  “The passenger door of the Toyota just opened. The inside light’s on, so I can see the kid struggling. Oh God . . . Siddons has his gun out. It looks like he’s going to shoot him.”

  24

  “Kyrie Eleison,” the choir sang.

  Lord have mercy, Barbara Cavanaugh prayed.

  Save my lamb, Catherine begged.

  Run, Dork, run, get away from him, Michael shouted in his mind.

  * * *

  Jimmy Siddons was crazy. Brian had never been in a car before that was going so fast. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but there must be someone following them.

  Brian looked away from the road for a moment and glanced at Jimmy. He had his gun out. He felt Jimmy tugging at his seat belt, releasing it. Then he reached across Brian and opened the door beside him. He could feel the cold air rushing in.

  For a moment he was paralyzed with fear. Then he sat up very straight. He realized what was about to happen. That Jimmy was going to shoot him and push him out of the car.

  He had to get away. He was still clutching the medal in his right hand. He felt Jimmy poke him in the side with the gun, pushing him toward the open door and the roadway rushing beneath them. Holding on to the seat-belt buckle with his left hand, he swung out blindly with his right. The medal arced and slammed into Jimmy’s face, catching him in his left eye.

  Jimmy yelled and took his hand off the wheel, instinctively slamming his foot on the brake. As he grabbed his eye, the gun went off. The bullet whistled past Brian’s ear as the out-of-control car began to spin around. It jumped the curb, went up into a corner lawn, and caught on a bush. Still spinning, it slowed as it dragged the bush back across the lawn and out onto the edge of the road.

  Jimmy was swearing now, one hand again on the wheel, the other aiming the gun. Blood dripped into his eye from a gash across his forehead and cheek.

  Get out. Get out. Brian heard the command in his head as though someone were shouting it at him. Brian dove for the door and rolled out onto the snow-covered lawn just as a second bullet passed over his shoulder.

  “Jesus Christ, the kid’s out of the car,” Chris yelled. He jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop behind the Toyota. “He’s getting up. Oh my God.”

  Bud Folney shouted, “Is he hurt?” but Chris didn’t hear him. He was already out of his car and running toward the boy. Siddons was in control of the Toyota again and had turned it, clearly planning to run over Brian. In what seemed like an eternity but was actually only seconds, Chris had crossed the space between him and Brian and gathered the boy in his arms.

  The car was racing toward them, its passenger door still open and its interior still illuminated so that the maniacal anger in Jimmy Siddons’s face was clearly visible. Clutching Brian tightly against him, Chris dove to the side and rolled down a snowy incline just as the wheels of the Toyota passed inches from their heads. An instant later, with a sickening sound of metal crashing and glass breaking, the vehicle careened off the porch of the house and flipped over.

  For a moment there was silence, and then the quiet was shattered as sirens screamed and wailed. Lights from a dozen squad cars brightened the night as swarms of troopers raced to surround the overturned vehicle. Chris lay in the snow for a few seconds, hugging Brian to him, listening to the convergence of sounds. Then he heard a small relieved voice ask, “Are you St. Christopher?”

  “No, but right now I feel like him, Brian,” Chris said heartily. “Merry Christmas, son.”

  25

  Officer Manuel Ortiz slipped noiselessly through the side door of the cathedral and instantly caught Catherine’s eye. He smiled and nodded his head. She jumped up and ran to meet him.

  “Is he . . .”

  “He’s fine. They’re sending him back in a police helicopter. He’ll be here by the time Mass is over.”

  Noticing that one of the television cameras was trained on them, Ortiz raised his hand and made a circle of his thumb and forefinger, a symbol that for this moment, on this most special of days, everything was A-OK.

  Those seated nearby witnessed the exchange and began to clap softly. As others turned, they stood, and applause began to slowly rumble through the giant cathedral. It was a full five minutes before the deacon could begin to read the Christmas Gospel, “ ‘And it came to pass . . .’ ”

  “I’m going to let Cally know what’s happened,” Mort Levy told Bud Folney. “Sir, I know she should have called us earlier, but I hope . . .”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to play Scrooge tonight. She worked with us. She deserves a break,” Folney said crisply. “Besides, the Dornan woman has already said she’s not going to press charges against her.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Listen, there’s got to be some toys left in the station houses. Tell the guys to get busy and round some up for that little girl of Cally’s. Have them meet us at Cally’s building in forty-five minutes. Mort, you and I are going to give them to her. Shore, you go home.”

  * * *

  It was Brian’s first helicopter ride, and even though he was incredibly tired, he was too excited to even think about closing his eyes. He was sorry Officer McNally—Chris, as he had said he should call him—hadn’t been able to come with him. But he had been with Brian when they took Jimmy Siddons away, and he had told him not to worry, that this was one guy who would never get out of prison again. And then he’d gotten the St. Christopher medal out of the car for Brian.

  As the helicopter came down it looked like it was almost landing on the river. He recognized the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge and the Roosevelt Island tramway. His dad had taken him for a ride on that. He wondered suddenly if his father knew what had happened to him.

  He turned to one of the officers. “My dad’s in a hospital near here. I have to go see him. He might be worried.”

  The officer, who was by now familiar with the story of the whole Dornan family, said, “You’ll see him soon, son. But now, your mother’s waiting for you. She’s at midnight Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”

  * * *

  When the buzzer sounded at Cally’s Avenue B apartment, she answered it with the resigned belief that she was going to be arrested. Detective Levy had called to say only that he and another officer were coming by. But it was two beaming, self-appointed Santa Clauses who arrived at her door, laden with dolls and games and a sparkling white wicker doll’s carriage.

  As she watched, unbelieving, they placed the gifts under and around the Christmas tree.

  “Your information about your brother was a tremendous help,” Bud Folney said. “The Dornan boy is okay and on his way back to the city. Jimmy is on his way back to prison; he’s our responsibility once again, and I promise we won’t let him get away this time. From now on I hope it gets a lot better for you.”

  Cally felt as though a giant weight had been lifted from her. She could only whisper, “Thank you . . . thank you . . .”

  Folney and Levy chorused, “Merry Christmas, Cally,” and were gone.

  When they left, Cally at last knew she could go to bed and sleep. Gigi’s even breathing was an answered prayer. From now on, she’d be able to hear it every night, and listen without fear that her little girl would be taken away from her again. Everything will get better, she thought. I know it now.

  As she fell asleep, her last thought was that when Gigi saw that the big package with Santa’s present was missing from under the Christmas tree, she could honestly tell her that Santa Claus had come and taken it away.

  * * *

  The recessional was about to start when once again the side door of the cathedral opened and Officer Ortiz
entered. This time he was not alone. He bent down to the small boy beside him and pointed. Before Catherine could get to her feet, Brian was in her arms, the St. Christopher medal he was wearing pressed against her heart.

  As she held him close, she said nothing, but felt the silent tears of relief and joy course down her cheeks, knowing that he once again was safe, and firm in her belief now that Tom was going to make it, too.

  Barbara also did not speak, but leaned over and laid her hand on her grandson’s head.

  It was Michael who broke the silence with whispered words of welcome. “Hi, Dork,” he said with a grin.

  Christmas Day

  Christmas morning dawned cold and clear. At ten o’clock, Catherine, Brian, and Michael arrived at the hospital.

  Dr. Crowley was waiting for them when they got off the elevator on the fifth floor. “My God, Catherine,” he said, “are you okay? I hadn’t heard about what happened until I got here this morning. You must be exhausted.”

  “Thanks, Spence, but I’m fine.” She looked at her sons. “We’re all fine. But how is Tom? When I called this morning, all they would say was that he had a good night.”

  “And he did. It’s an excellent sign. He had a very good night. A lot better than yours, that’s for sure. I hope you don’t mind, but I decided it was best if I told Tom about Brian. The press have been calling here all morning, and I didn’t want to risk his hearing about it from an outsider. When I told him, I started with the happy ending, of course.”

  Catherine felt relief rush through her. “I’m glad he knows, Spence. I didn’t know how to tell him. I couldn’t be sure how he’d take it.”

  “He took it very well, Catherine. He’s a lot stronger than you might think.” Crowley looked at the medal around Brian’s neck. “I understand you went through a lot to make sure you’d be able to give that medal to your dad. I promise all of you that between St. Christopher and me, we’ll make sure he gets well.”

  The boys tugged at Catherine’s hands.

  “He’s waiting for you,” Spence said, smiling.

  * * *

  The door of Tom’s room was partly open. Catherine pushed it the rest of the way and stood looking at her husband.

  The head of the bed was elevated. When Tom saw them, his face brightened with that familiar smile.

  The boys ran to him, then carefully stopped just inches from the bed. They both reached out and grasped his hand. Catherine watched his eyes fill with tears when he looked at Brian.

  He’s so pale, she thought. I can tell that he hurts. But he is going to get better. She did not need to force the radiant smile that her lips formed as Michael lifted the chain with the St. Christopher medal from Brian’s neck and together they put it on Tom. “Merry Christmas, Dad,” they chorused.

  As her husband looked over their sons’ heads and his lips formed the words I love you, other words sang through Catherine’s being.

  All is calm . . . all is bright.

  Mary Higgins Clark Talks About Her Life and Work

  • Does Christmas hold a special significance for you?

  “Yes. It is a family holiday time and my birthday is on Christmas Eve. Christmas 1996 will be very special for me—after many years of widowhood, I am getting married and will be celebrating my first Christmas with my husband, John J. Conheeney.”

  • Your books are worldwide bestsellers. What is the secret of your popularity?

  “I write about universal emotions and relationships. People can walk in the shoes of my characters.”

  • Where do you get the inspiration for your plots?

  “From real life. I attend criminal trials regularly. The amount of coincidence in crime is staggering. For example, a young nurse in New Jersey was on her way to work and someone got into her car at a red light. A few minutes later she was dead. She was going to work. She wasn’t doing anything foolish. She is typical of characters in my books—people to whom things happen, who are not looking for trouble.”

  • What kind of people do you write about?

  “Nice people whose lives are invaded by evil. They are people with whom we can identify—leading ordinary lives and going about their business. My heroines are strong women who take a major role in solving their own problems. A man may come in to help at the end, but the woman basically copes with the menacing situation herself.”

  • When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

  “I knew it as a child. The first thing I wrote was a poem, when I was seven. I still have it. It’s pretty bad, but my mother thought it was beautiful and made me recite it for everyone who came in. I am sure the captive audience was ready to shoot me, but that kind of encouragement nurtures a budding talent. From the time I was seven, I also kept diaries. I can read them now and look back at what I was like at different ages. I still keep diaries; they are a great help to my novels. No one has seen them—they are locked in a trunk.”

  • What early experiences influenced you?

  “I grew up in the Bronx, where my father was the owner of Higgins Bar and Grille. When I was ten years old, I had a terrible shock. Coming home from early Mass one morning, I found a crowd of neighbors outside the house. My father had died in his sleep. My mother went on to raise me and my two brothers alone. When I had said good night to my father, I didn’t know it was for the last time. His sudden death jolted me into awareness of the fragility of life. My mother’s example taught me resilience. The characters in my books are resilient and resourceful. When calamity strikes, they carry on.”

  • How did your father’s death influence the course of your life?

  “Our whole existence changed. My mother tried to get a job, but at that time it was practically impossible for women in late middle-age to return to the job market. She took baby-sitting jobs and, while I was in high school, I worked as a baby-sitter and switchboard operator. After graduating from high school, I went to secretarial school, so I could get a job and help with the family finances.”

  • So you had to sacrifice your college education?

  “Only postpone it. I went to college after my children were grown and I was already an established writer. In 1979, I graduated from Fordham University at Lincoln Center summa cum laude with a B.A. in philosophy. To celebrate, I gave myself a graduation party. The card read: ‘This invitation is 25 years overdue—help prove it’s not too late.’”

  • What happened in the years before you became a professional writer?

  “After completing secretarial school, I worked for a couple of years in an advertising agency. Then one day, a friend—a Pan Am stewardess—spoke seven words that changed my life: ‘God, it was beastly hot in Calcutta.’ I decided that I, too, wanted to see the world and signed up as a Pan Am stewardess. My run was Europe, Africa and Asia. I was in a revolution in Syria and on the last flight into Czechoslovakia before the Iron Curtain went down. I flew for a year and then was married to Warren Clark.”

  • When did you start your writing career?

  “After I got married, I signed up for a writing course at New York University. There, I got advice from a professor which has always served me well. He said, ‘Write about what you know. Take a dramatic incident with which you are familiar and go with it.’ I thought of my experience on the last flight to Czechoslovakia and gave my imagination free rein. ‘Suppose,’ I reflected, ‘the stewardess finds an eighteen-year-old member of the Czech underground hiding on the plane as it is about to leave.’ The story was called ‘Stowaway.’ It took six years and forty rejection slips before I sold it to Extension magazine in 1956 for a hundred dollars. I framed that first letter of acceptance.”

  • You were widowed at an early age, with five young children. Did that discourage you from pursuing your goal?

  “No, on the contrary. To help fill the gap, I decided to concentrate on writing. My children ranged in age from thirteen down to five. Because of his heart condition, Warren Clark wasn’t insurable, so I had to work. Just a few hours before
he died of a heart attack, I had called a friend who did radio script writing. She had often asked me to join her company in writing for radio and I began writing radio shows. For fourteen years, I supported my family writing these programs. The series consisted of five four-minute programs a week, syndicated on five hundred stations and hosted by celebrities such as Betsy Palmer, Hugh Downs, Bill Cullen, Lee Meriwether and Betty White. But I knew that writing radio scripts wasn’t enough. I wanted to write books.”

  • What was your first book?

  “A biographical novel about George Washington, Aspire to the Heavens, based on a radio series I was then writing called ‘Portrait of a Patriot,’ vignettes about presidents. It was a commercial disaster and remaindered as it came off the press. But it showed that I could write a book and get it published.”

  • How did you find time to write books while raising five children and holding a job?

  “When my children were young, I used to get up at five and write at the kitchen table until seven, when I had to get them ready for school. For me, writing is a need. It’s the degree of yearning that separates the real writer from the ‘would-be’s.’ Those who say ‘I’ll write when I have time, when the kids are grown up or when I have a quiet place to work’ will probably never do it.”

  • When do you write now?

  “I still love to work early in the morning, but get up a little later, at 6 A.M. I don’t seek seclusion. Having an active, lively family around keeps my ears sharpened.”

  • What are your children doing at present?

  “My daughter Carol is the author of three suspense novels, Decked, Snagged and Iced, published by Warner Books. My daughter Marilyn is a superior court judge and my daughter Patty is an executive assistant at the Mercantile Exchange. My son Warren, a lawyer, is a municipal court judge; my son David is president of Celebrity Radio, producing syndicated programs. I have six grandchildren.”