“Don’t scream!” he whispered, as he muffled her terrified moan with his palm. “Understand?”
She nodded, eyes wide open in fear.
“Where’s Gigi? Why isn’t she with you?”
He released his grip long enough to let her gasp in an almost inaudible voice, “She’s at the baby-sitter’s. She’s keeping her longer today, so I can shop. Jimmy, what are you doing here?”
“How much money have you got?”
“Here, take my pocketbook.” Cally held it out to him, praying that he would not think to look through her coat pockets. Oh God, she thought, make him go away.
He took the purse and in a low and menacing tone warned, “Cally, I’m going to let go of you. Don’t try anything or Gigi won’t have a mommy waiting for her. Understand that?”
“Yes. Yes.”
Cally waited until he released his grip on her, then slowly turned to face him. She hadn’t seen her brother since that terrible night nearly three years ago when, with Gigi in her arms, she had come home from her job at the day-care center to find him waiting in her apartment in the West Village.
He looks about the same, she thought, except that his hair is shorter and his face is thinner. In his eyes there wasn’t even a trace of the occasional warmth that at one time made her hope there was a possibility he might someday straighten out. No more. There was nothing left of the frightened six-year-old who had clung to her when their mother dumped them with Grandma and disappeared from their lives.
He opened her purse, rummaged through it, and pulled out her bright green combination change purse and billfold. “Eighteen dollars,” he said angrily after a quick count of her money. “Is that all?”
“Jimmy, I get paid the day after tomorrow,” Cally pleaded. “Please just take it and get out of here. Please leave me alone.”
There’s half a tank of gas in the car, Jimmy thought. There’s money here for another half tank and the tolls. I might just be able to make Canada. He’d have to shut Cally up, of course, which should be easy enough. He would just warn her that if she put the cops onto him and he got caught, he’d swear that she got someone to smuggle the gun in to him that he’d used on the guard.
Suddenly a sound from outside made him whirl around. He put his eye to the peephole in the door but could see no one there. With a menacing gesture to Cally, indicating that she had better keep quiet, he noiselessly turned the knob and opened the door a fraction, just in time to see a small boy straighten up, turn, and start to tiptoe to the staircase.
In one quick movement, Jimmy flung open the door and scooped up the child, one arm around his waist, the other covering his mouth, and pulled him inside, then roughly set him down.
“Eavesdropping, kid? Who is this, Cally?”
“Jimmy, leave him alone. I don’t know who he is,” she cried. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Brian was so scared he could hardly talk. But he could tell the man and woman were mad at each other. Maybe the man would help him get his mother’s wallet back, he thought. He pointed to Cally. “She has my mom’s wallet.”
Jimmy released Brian. “Well, now that’s good news,” he said with a grin, turning to his sister. “Isn’t it?”
4
A plainclothesman in an unmarked car drove Catherine to the hospital. “I’ll wait right here, Mrs. Dornan,” he said. “I have the radio on so we’ll know the minute they find Brian.”
Catherine nodded. If they find Brian raced through her mind. She felt her throat close against the terror that thought evoked.
The lobby of the hospital was decorated for the holiday season. A Christmas tree was in the center, garlands of evergreens were hung, and poinsettias were banked against the reception desk.
She got a visitor’s pass and learned that Tom was now in room 530. She walked to the bank of elevators and entered a car already half full, mostly with hospital personnel—doctors in white jackets with the telltale pen and notebook in their breast pockets, attendants in green scrub suits, a couple of nurses.
Two weeks ago, Catherine thought, Tom was making his rounds at St. Mary’s in Omaha, and I was Christmas shopping. That evening we took the kids out for hamburgers. Life was normal and good and fun, and we were joking about how last year Tom had had so much trouble getting the Christmas tree in the stand, and I promised him I’d buy a new stand before this Christmas Eve. And once again I thought Tom looked so tired, and I did nothing about it.
Three days later he collapsed.
“Didn’t you push the fifth floor?” someone asked.
Catherine blinked. “Oh, yes, thank you.” She got off the elevator and for a moment stood still, getting her bearings. She found what she was looking for, an arrow on the wall pointing toward rooms 515 to 530.
As she approached the nurses’ station, she saw Spence Crowley. Her mouth went dry. Immediately following the operation this morning, he had assured her that it had gone smoothly, and that his assistant would be making the rounds this afternoon. Then why was Spence here now? she worried. Could something be wrong?
He spotted her and smiled. Oh God, he wouldn’t smile if Tom were . . . It was another thought she could not finish.
He walked quickly around the desk and came to her. “Catherine, if you could see the look on your face! Tom’s doing fine. He’s pretty groggy, of course, but the vital signs are good.”
Catherine looked up at him, wanting to believe the words she heard, wanting to trust the sincerity she saw in the brown eyes behind rimless glasses.
Firmly he took her arm and ushered her into the cubicle behind the nurses’ station. “Catherine, I don’t want to bully you, but you have to understand that Tom has a good chance of beating this thing. A very good chance. I have patients who’ve led useful, full lives with leukemia. There are different types of medicine to control it. The one I plan to use with Tom is Interferon. It’s worked miracles with some of my patients. It will mean daily injections at first, but after we get the dosage adjusted, he’ll be able to give them to himself. When he recuperates fully from the operation, he can go back to work, and I swear to you that’s going to happen.” Then he added quietly, “But there is a problem.”
Now he looked stern. “This afternoon when you saw Tom in ICU, I understand you were pretty upset.”
“Yes.” She had tried not to cry but couldn’t stop. She’d been so worried, and knowing that he had made it through the operation was such a relief that she couldn’t help herself.
“Catherine, Tom just asked me to level with him. He thinks I told you it was hopeless. He’s starting to not trust me. He’s beginning to wonder if maybe I’m hiding something, that maybe things are worse than I’m telling him. Well, Catherine, that is simply not so, and your job is to convince him that you have every expectation that you two will have a long life together. He mustn’t get it in his head that he has a very limited time, not only because that would be harmful to him, but equally important because I don’t believe that’s true. In order to get well, Tom needs faith in his chances to get better, and a great deal of that has to come from you.”
“Spence, I should have seen he was getting sick.” Spence put his arms around her shoulders in a brief hug. “Listen,” he said, “there’s an old adage, ‘Physician, heal thyself.’ When Tom is feeling better, I’m going to rake him over the coals for ignoring some of the warnings his body was giving him. But now, go in there with a light step and a happy face. You can do it.”
Catherine forced a smile. “Like this?”
“Much better,” he nodded. “Just keep smiling. Remember, it’s Christmas. Thought you were bringing the kids tonight?”
She could not talk about Brian being missing. Not now. Instead, she practiced what she would tell Tom. “Brian was sneezing, and I want to make sure he’s not starting with a cold.”
“That was wise. Okay. See you tomorrow, kiddo. Now remember, keep that smile going. You’re gorgeous when you smile.”
Catherine nodded and started dow
n the hall to room 530. She opened the door quietly. Tom was asleep. An IV unit was dripping fluid into his arm. Oxygen tubes were in his nostrils. His skin was as white as the pillowcase. His lips were ashen.
The private duty nurse stood up. “He’s been asking for you, Mrs. Dornan. I’ll wait outside.”
Catherine pulled up a chair next to the bed. She sat down and placed her hand over the one lying on the coverlet. She studied her husband’s face, scrutinizing every detail: the high forehead framed by the reddish brown hair that was exactly the color of Brian’s; the thick eyebrows that always looked a bit unruly; the well-shaped nose and the lips that were usually parted in a smile. She thought of his eyes, more blue than gray, and the warmth and understanding they conveyed. He gives confidence to his patients, she thought. Oh, Tom, I want to tell you that our little boy is missing. I want you to be well and with me, looking for him.
Tom Dornan opened his eyes. “Hi, Love,” he said weakly.
“Hi, yourself.” She bent over and kissed him. “I’m sorry I was such a wimp this afternoon. Call it PMS or just old-fashioned relief. You know what a sentimental slob I am. I even cry at happy endings.”
She straightened up and looked directly into his eyes. “You’re doing great. You really are, you know.”
She could see he did not believe her. Not yet, she thought determinedly.
“I thought you were bringing the kids tonight?” His voice was low and halting.
She realized that with Tom it was not possible to utter Brian’s name without breaking down. Instead she said quickly, “I was afraid they’d be hanging all over you. I thought it was a good idea to let them wait until tomorrow morning.”
“Your mother phoned,” Tom said drowsily. “The nurse spoke to her. She said she sent a special present for you to give me. What is it?”
“Not without the boys. They want to be the ones to give it to you.”
“Okay. But be sure to bring them in the morning. I want to see them.”
“For sure. But since it’s just the two of us now, maybe I should climb in the sack with you.”
Tom opened his eyes again. “Now you’re talking.” A smile flickered on his lips. And then he was asleep again.
For a long moment, she laid her head on the bed, then got up as the nurse tiptoed back in. “Doesn’t he look fantastic?” Catherine asked brightly as the nurse put her fingers on Tom’s pulse.
She knew that even slipping into sleep, Tom might hear her. Then with a last glance at her husband, she hurried from the room, down the corridor and to the elevator, then through the lobby, and into the waiting police car.
The plainclothesman answered her unasked question: “No word so far, Mrs. Dornan.”
5
“I said, give it to me,” Jimmy Siddons said ominously.
Cally tried to brave it out. “I don’t know what this boy is talking about, Jimmy.”
“Yes, you do,” Brian said. “I saw you pick up my mom’s wallet. And I followed you because I have to get it back.”
“Aren’t you a smart kid?” Siddons sneered. “Always go where the buck is.” His expression turned ugly as he faced his sister. “Don’t make me take it from you, Cally.”
There was no use trying to pretend she didn’t have it. Jimmy knew the boy was telling the truth. Cally still had her coat on. She reached into the pocket and took out the handsome Moroccan leather wallet. Silently she handed it to her brother.
“That belongs to my mother,” Brian said defiantly. Then the glance the man gave him made him shiver. He had been about to try to grab the wallet; instead, now suddenly fearful, he dug his hands deep in his pockets.
Jimmy Siddons opened the billfold. “My, my,” he said, his tone now admiring. “Cally, you surprise me. You run rings around some of the pick-pockets I know.”
“I didn’t steal it,” Cally protested. “Someone dropped it, I found it. I was going to mail it back.”
“Well, you can forget that,” Jimmy said. “It’s mine now, and I need it.”
He pulled out a thick wad of bills and began counting. “Three hundred-dollar bills, four fifties, six twenties, four tens, five fives, three ones. Six hundred and eighty-eight dollars. Not bad, in fact, it’ll do just fine.”
He stuffed the money in the pocket of the suede jacket he had taken from the bedroom closet and began to dig through the compartments in the wallet. “Credit cards. Well, why not? Driver’s license—no, two of them: Catherine Dornan and Dr. Thomas Dornan. Who’s Dr. Thomas Dornan, kid?”
“My dad. He’s in the hospital.” Brian watched as the deep compartment in the wallet revealed the medal.
Jimmy Siddons lifted it out, held it up by the chain, then laughed incredulously. “St. Christopher! I haven’t been inside a church in years, but even I know they kicked him out long ago. And when I think of all the stories Grandma used to tell us about how he carried the Christ child on his shoulders across the stream or the river or whatever it was! Remember, Cally?” Disdainfully he let the medal clatter to the floor.
Brian swooped to retrieve it. He clutched it in his hand, then slipped it around his neck. “My grandpa carried it all through the war and came home safe. It’s going to make my dad get better. I don’t care about the wallet. You can have it. This is what I really wanted. I’m going home now.” He turned and ran for the door. He had twisted the knob and pulled the door open before Siddons reached him, clapped a hand over his mouth, and yanked him back inside.
“You and St. Christopher are staying right here with me, buddy,” he said as he shoved him roughly to the floor.
Brian gasped as his forehead slammed onto the cracked linoleum. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He felt like the room was spinning, but he could hear the woman he had followed pleading with the man. “Jimmy, don’t hurt him. Please. Leave us alone. Take the money and go. But get out of here.”
Brian wrapped his arms around his legs, trying not to cry. He shouldn’t have followed the lady. He knew that now. He should have yelled instead of following her so that maybe somebody would stop her. This man was bad. This man wasn’t going to let him go home. And nobody knew where he was. Nobody knew where to look for him.
He felt the medal dangling against his chest and closed his fist around it. Please get me back to Mom, he prayed silently, so I can bring you to Dad.
He did not look up to see Jimmy Siddons studying him. He did not know that Jimmy’s mind was racing, assessing the situation. This kid followed Cally when she took the wallet, Siddons thought. Did anyone follow him? No. If they had, they’d be here by now. “Where did you get the wallet?” he asked his sister.
“On Fifth Avenue. Across from Rockefeller Center.” Cally was terrified now. Jimmy would stop at nothing to get away. Not at killing her. Not at killing this child. “His mother must have dropped it. I picked it up off the sidewalk. I guess he saw me.”
“I guess he did.” Jimmy looked at the phone on the table next to the couch. Then, grinning, he reached for the cellular phone he had taken from the glove compartment of the stolen car. He also took out a gun and pointed it at Cally. “The cops may have your phone tapped.” He pointed at the table next to the couch. “Go over there. I’m going to dial your number and tell you I’m turning myself in and I want you to call that public defender who is representing me. All you have to do is act nice and nervous, just like you are now. Make a mistake and you and this kid are dead.”
He looked down at Brian. “One peep out of you and . . .” He left the threat unspoken.
Brian nodded to show he understood. He was too scared to even promise that he’d be quiet.
“Cally, you got all that straight?”
Cally nodded. How stupid I’ve been, she thought. I was fool enough to believe I’d gotten away from him. No chance. He even knows this phone number.
He finished dialing and the phone beside her rang. “Hello.” Her voice was low and muffled.
“Cally, it’s Jimmy. Listen, I’m in trouble. You probably know
by now. I’m sorry I tried to get away. I hope that guard will be all right. I’m broke and I’m scared.” Jimmy’s voice was a whine. “Call Gil Weinstein. He’s the public defender assigned to me. Tell him I’ll meet him at St. Patrick’s Cathedral when midnight Mass is over. Tell him I want to turn myself in and I want him to be with me. His home number is 555-0267. Cally, I’m sorry I messed up everything so badly.”
Jimmy pressed the disconnect on the cellular phone and watched as Cally hung up as well. “They can’t trace a cellular phone call, you know that, don’t you? Okay, now phone Weinstein and give him the same story. If the cops are listening, they must be jumping up and down right now.”
“Jimmy, they’ll think I . . .”
In two steps Jimmy was beside her, the gun to her head. “Make the call.”
“Your lawyer may not be home. He may refuse to meet you.”
“Naw. I know him. He’s a jerk. He’ll want the publicity. Get him.”
Cally did not need to be told to make it quick. The moment Gil Weinstein was on the line, she rushed to say, “You don’t know me. I’m Cally Hunter. My brother, Jimmy Siddons, just called. He wants me to tell you . . .” In a quavering voice she delivered the message.
“I’ll meet him,” the lawyer said. “I’m glad he’s doing this, but if that prison guard dies, Jimmy is facing a death-penalty trial. He could get life without parole for the first killing, but now . . .” His voice trailed off.
“I think he knows that.” Cally saw Jimmy’s gesture. “I have to go now. Good-bye, Mr. Weinstein.”
“You make a great accomplice, big sister,” Jimmy told her. He looked down at Brian. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Brian,” he whispered.
“Come on, Brian. We’re getting out of here.”
“Jimmy, leave him alone. Please. Leave him here with me.”
“No way. There’s always the chance you’d go running to the cops even though the minute they talk to that kid, you’re in big trouble yourself. After all, you did steal his mama’s wallet. No, the kid comes with me. No one is looking for a guy with his little boy, are they? I’ll let him go tomorrow morning when I get to where I’m headed. After that you can tell them anything you like about me. The kid’ll even back you up, won’t you, sonny?”