“Oh, that poor girl,” Aika began. “Officer, you people have to believe her. She thought she was doing the right thing when she didn’t phone you about her brother kidnapping that little boy . . .”
* * *
Even though Brian was hungry, the hamburger was hard to swallow. His throat felt like there was something stuck in it. He knew that Jimmy was the reason for that. He took a giant swallow of Coke and tried to think about how Daddy would beat Jimmy up for being so mean to him.
But now when he thought about Daddy it was hard to remember anything except all the plans they had made for Christmas Eve. Daddy had planned to come home early, and they were all going to trim the tree together. Then they were going to have dinner and go around their neighborhood singing Christmas carols with a bunch of their friends
That was all he could think about now, because that was all he wanted, to be home and have Daddy and Mommy smiling a lot the way they always did when they were together. When they came to New York because Dad was sick, Mom had told him and Michael that their big presents, the ones they really wanted, would be waiting for them when they got back home. She said that Santa Claus would keep the presents on his sleigh until he knew they were in their own house again.
Michael had said, “Yeah, really,” under his breath to Brian. But Brian believed in Santa Claus. Last year Dad had pointed out marks on the roof of the garage where Santa’s sleigh had landed and where the reindeer had stood. Michael told him he heard Mom tell Dad it was a good thing Dad hadn’t broken his neck sliding around on the icy roof and making tracks all over it, but Brian didn’t mind what Michael said, because he didn’t believe it. Just like he didn’t mind that Michael sometimes called him the Dork; he knew he wasn’t a dork.
He knew things were bad when you wished your jerk brother, who could be such a pain in the neck, was there with you, and that was just how he felt now.
As Brian swallowed over that feeling of something in his throat, the plastic container almost jumped out of his hand. He realized Jimmy had switched lanes fast.
Jimmy Siddons swore silently. He had just passed a state trooper’s car stopped in back of a sports car. The sight of a trooper made him sweat all over, but he shouldn’t have switched lanes like that. He was getting jumpy.
Sensing the animosity that bristled from Jimmy, Brian put the uneaten hamburger and the soda back in the bag and, moving slowly so Jimmy could see what he was doing, leaned down and put the bag on the floor. Then he straightened up, huddled against the back of the seat and hugged his arms against his sides. The fingers of his right hand groped until they closed around the St. Christopher medal, which he had laid on the seat next to him when he opened the package of food.
With a sense of relief he closed his hand over it and mentally pictured the strong saint who carried the little kid across the dangerous river, who had taken care of his grandfather, who would make Dad get better and who . . . Brian closed his eyes . . . He didn’t finish the wish, but in his mind he could see himself on the shoulders of the saint.
16
Barbara Cavanaugh was waiting for Catherine and Michael in the green room at Channel 5. “You both did a great job,” she said quietly. Then, seeing the exhaustion on her daughter’s face, she said, “Catherine, please come back to the apartment. The police will get in touch with you there as soon as they have any word about Brian. You look ready to drop.”
“I can’t, Mother,” Catherine said. “I know it’s foolish to wait on Fifth Avenue. Brian isn’t going to get back there on his own, but while I’m out and about I at least feel as though I’m doing something to find him. I don’t really know what I’m saying except that when I left your apartment, I had my two little boys with me, and when I go back they’re going to be with me, too.”
Leigh Ann Winick made a decision. “Mrs. Dornan, why not stay right here at least for the present? This room is comfortable. We’ll send out for some hot soup or a sandwich or whatever you want. But you’ve said yourself, there’s no point in just waiting on Fifth Avenue indefinitely.”
Catherine considered. “And the police will be able to reach me here?”
Winick pointed to the phone. “Absolutely. Now tell me what I can order for you.”
Twenty minutes later, as Catherine, her mother, and Michael were sipping steaming hot minestrone, they watched the green room’s television monitor. The news bite was about Mario Bonardi, the wounded prison guard. Although still critical, his condition had stabilized.
The reporter was with Bonardi’s wife and teenage children in the waiting room of the intensive care unit. When asked for a comment, a weary Rose Bonardi said, “My husband is going to make it. I want to thank everyone who has been praying for him today. Our family has known many happy Christmases, but this will be the best ever because we know what we so nearly lost.”
“That’s what we’ll be saying, Michael,” Catherine said determinedly. “Dad is going to make it and Brian is going to be found.”
The reporter with the Bonardi family said, “Back to you at the news desk, Tony.”
“Thanks, Ted. Glad to hear that it’s going so well. That’s the kind of Christmas story we want to be able to tell.” The anchor’s smile vanished. “There is still no trace of Mario Bonardi’s assailant, Jimmy Siddons, who was awaiting trial for the murder of a police officer. Police sources are quoted as saying that he may be planning to meet his girlfriend, Paige Laronde, in Mexico. Airports, train stations, and bus terminals are under heavy surveillance. It was nearly three years ago, while making his escape after an armed robbery, that Siddons shot and fatally wounded Officer William Grasso, who had stopped him for a traffic violation. Siddons is known to be armed and should be considered extremely dangerous.”
As the anchorman spoke, Jimmy Siddons’s mug shots were flashed on the screen.
“He looks mean,” Michael observed as he studied the cold eyes and sneering lips of the escaped prisoner.
“He certainly does,” Barbara Cavanaugh agreed. Then she looked at her grandson’s face. “Mike, why don’t you close your eyes and rest for a little while?” she suggested.
He shook his head. “I don’t want to go to sleep.”
It was one minute of eleven. The newscaster was saying, “In an update, we have no further information about the whereabouts of seven-year-old Brian Dornan, who has been missing since shortly after five o’clock today.
“On this very special evening, we ask you to continue to pray that Brian is safely returned to his family, and wish you and all of your loved ones a very Merry Christmas.”
In an hour it will be Christmas, Catherine thought. Brian, you have to come back, you have to be found. You have to be with me in the morning when we go see Dad. Brian, come back. Please come back.
The door of the green room opened. Winick ushered in a tall man in his late forties, followed by Officer Manuel Ortiz. “Detective Rhodes wants to talk to you, Mrs. Dornan,” Winick said. “I’m outside if you need me.”
Catherine saw the grave look on the faces of both Rhodes and Ortiz, and fear paralyzed her. She was unable to move or speak.
They realized what she was thinking. “No, Mrs. Dornan, it isn’t that,” Ortiz said quickly.
Rhodes took over. “I’m from headquarters, Mrs. Dornan. We have information about Brian, but let me begin by saying that as far as we know he’s alive and unharmed.”
“Then where is he?” Michael burst out. “Where’s my brother?”
Catherine listened as Detective Rhodes explained about her wallet being picked up by a young woman who was the sister of escaped prisoner Jimmy Siddons. Her mind did not want to accept that Brian had been abducted by the murderer whose face she had just seen on the television screen. No, she thought, no, that can’t be.
She pointed to the monitor. “They just reported that that man is probably on his way to Mexico. Brian disappeared six hours ago. He could be in Mexico right now.”
“At headquarters we don’t buy that story,” Rho
des told her. “We think he’s heading for Canada, probably in a stolen car. We’re concentrating the search in that direction.”
Suddenly Catherine could feel no emotion. It was like when she was in the delivery room and was given the shot of Demerol and all the pain miraculously stopped. And she’d looked up to see Tom wink at her. Tom, always there for her. “Feels better doesn’t it, Babe?” he had asked. And her mind, no longer clouded with pain, had become so clear. It was that way now, as well. “What kind of car are they in?”
Rhodes looked uncomfortable. “We don’t know,” he said. “We’re only guessing that he’s in a car, but we feel sure it’s the right guess. We have every trooper throughout New York and New England on the alert for a man traveling with a young boy who is wearing a St. Christopher medal.”
“Brian is wearing the medal?” Michael exclaimed. “Then he’ll be all right. Gran, tell Mom that the medal will take care of Brian like it took care of Grandpa.”
“Armed and dangerous,” Catherine repeated.
“Mrs. Dornan,” Rhodes said urgently. “If Siddons is in a car, he’s probably listening to the radio. He’s smart. Now that Officer Bonardi is out of danger, Siddons knows he isn’t facing a death sentence. Capital punishment had not been reinstated when he killed the police officer three years ago. And he did tell his sister that he’d let Brian go tomorrow morning.”
Her mind was so clear. “But you don’t believe that, do you?”
She did not need to see the expression on his face to know that Detective Rhodes did not believe that Jimmy Siddons would voluntarily release Brian.
“Mrs. Dornan, if we’re right and Siddons is heading for the Canadian border, he’s not going to get there for at least another three or four hours. Although the snow has stopped in some areas, the roads are still going to be something of a mess all night. He can’t be traveling fast, and he doesn’t know that we know he has Brian. That’s being kept from the media. In Siddons’s mind, Brian will be an asset—at least until he reaches the border. We will find him before then.”
The television monitor was still on with the volume low. Catherine’s back was to it. She saw Detective Rhodes’s face change, heard a voice say, “We interrupt this program for a news bulletin. According to a report that has just been broadcast by station WYME, seven-year-old Brian Dornan, the boy who has been missing since this afternoon, has fallen into the hands of alleged murderer Jimmy Siddons, who told his sister that if the police close in on him, he will put a bullet through the child’s head. More later, as news comes in.”
17
After Aika left, Cally made a cup of tea, wrapped herself in a blanket, turned the television on, and pressed the MUTE button. This way I’ll know if there’s any news, she thought. Then she turned on the radio and tuned in a station playing Christmas music, but she kept the volume low.
“Hark, the herald angels sing . . .” Remember how Frank and I sang that together when we were trimming the tree? she thought. Five years ago. Their one Christmas together. They’d just learned that she was pregnant. She remembered all the plans they’d made. “Next year we’ll have help trimming the tree,” Frank had said.
“Sure we will. A three-month-old baby will be a big help,” she’d said, laughing.
She remembered Frank lifting her up so that she could place the star on the top of the tree.
Why?
Why had everything gone so wrong? There wasn’t a next year. Just one week later Frank was killed by a hit-and-run driver. He’d been on his way home from a trip to the deli for a carton of milk.
We had so little time, Cally thought, shaking her head. Sometimes she wondered if those months were just a dream. It seemed so long ago now.
“O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant . . .” “Adeste Fideles.” Was it just yesterday that I was feeling so good about life? Cally wondered. At work the hospital administrator had said, “Cally, I’ve been hearing wonderful reports on you. They tell me you’ve got the makings of a born nurse. Have you ever thought of going to nursing school?” Then she’d talked about scholarships and how she was going to look into it.
That little boy, Cally thought. Oh God, don’t let Jimmy hurt him. I should have called Detective Levy immediately. I know I should have. Why didn’t I? she wondered, then immediately answered her own question: Because I wasn’t just afraid for Brian. I was afraid for myself, too, and that may cost Brian his life.
She got up and went in to look at Gigi. As usual, the little girl had managed to work one foot out from under the covers. She did it every night, even when the room was cold.
Cally tucked the covers around her daughter’s shoulders, then touched the small foot and tucked that in, too. Gigi stirred. “Mommy,” she said drowsily.
“I’m right here.”
Cally went back to the living room and glanced over at the television for a moment, then rushed to turn up the volume. No! No! she thought as she heard the reporter explain that police now had information that the missing boy had been kidnapped by escaped cop killer Jimmy Siddons. The police will blame the leak on me, she thought frantically. They’ll think I told someone. I know they will.
The phone rang. When she picked it up and heard Mort Levy’s voice, the pent-up emotions that had seemed so frozen erupted suddenly. “I didn’t do it,” she sobbed. “I didn’t tell anyone. I swear, I swear I didn’t tell.”
* * *
The steady rise and fall of Brian’s chest told Jimmy Siddons that his hostage was asleep. Good, he thought, better for me. The problem was that the kid was smart. Smart enough to know that if he had managed to throw himself out of the car next to the breakdown lane, he wouldn’t risk getting run over. If that jerk hadn’t spun out and caused the fender-bender, it would be all over for me now, Jimmy thought. The kid would have gotten out and the troopers would have been on my tail right then.
It was past eleven o’clock. The kid should be tired. With luck he’d sleep for a couple of hours anyhow. Even with the snow on the roads, they should be at the border in, at most, three or four hours. It’ll still be dark for a long time after that, Jimmy thought with satisfaction. He knew he could count on Paige to be waiting on the Canadian side. They’d worked out a rendezvous point in the woods about three miles from the customs check.
Jimmy debated about where he should leave the Toyota. There was nothing to tie him to it as long as he made sure he wiped it clean of fingerprints. Maybe he’d ditch it in one of the wooded areas.
On the other hand . . . He thought of the Niagara River, where he would make the border crossing. It had a strong current, so chances were it wouldn’t be frozen. With luck, the car might never surface.
What about the kid? Even as he asked himself the question, Jimmy knew there was no way he’d take a chance on the kid being found near the border and able to talk about him.
Paige had told all her friends she was going to Mexico.
Sorry, kid, Jimmy thought. That’s where I want the cops looking for me.
He reflected for a moment, then decided the river would take care of the car and the kid.
That decision made, Jimmy felt some of the tension ease from his body. With every mile, he felt more sure that he was going to make it, that Canada and Paige and freedom were within reach. And with each mile he felt more anxious—and more determined—that nothing happen to screw it up.
Like last time. He’d been all set. He’d had Cally’s car, a hundred bucks, and was heading for California. Then he ran a lousy caution light on Ninth Avenue and got pulled over. The cop, a guy about thirty, thought he was a big shot. He had come to the driver’s window and said real sarcastically, “Driver’s license and registration, sir.”
That’s all he would have needed to see, Jimmy thought, remembering the moment as though it were yesterday, a license issued to James Siddons. He had had no choice. He would have been arrested on the spot. He’d reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his gun, and fired. Before the cop’s body hit the ground,
Jimmy was out of the car and on the street, blending into the crowd around the bus terminal. He had looked at the departure schedule board and rushed to buy a ticket on a bus leaving in three minutes, destination: Detroit.
That was a lucky decision, Jimmy thought. He’d met Paige the first night, moved in with her, then got some phony ID and a job with a low-life security firm. For a while he and Paige had even had a kind of normal life. Their only real arguments were when he got sore at the way she encouraged the guys who made passes at her in the strip joint. But she said it was her job to make them want to make passes at her. For the first time, everything was actually working out. Until he was dumb enough to hit the service station without taking enough time to case it.
He focused his attention back on the snow-covered road ahead of him. He could tell from the feel of the tires that it was getting icy. Good thing this car had snow tires, Jimmy thought. He flashed back to the couple who owned the car—what had the guy said to his wife? Something about can’t wait to see Bobby’s face? Yeah, that was it, Jimmy thought, grinning as he imagined their faces when they found an empty space where their car had been parked, or more likely another car taking up the space.
He had the radio turned on, but the volume was low. It was tuned to a local station to get an update on the weather, but now the sound was fading and static was breaking up the signal. Impatiently Jimmy twiddled the dial until he found an all-news station, then froze as an announcer’s urgent voice reported: “Police have reluctantly confirmed the story broken by station WYME that seven-year-old Brian Dornan, missing since five o’clock this evening, has fallen into the hands of alleged murderer Jimmy Siddons, who is believed to be heading for Canada.”
Swearing steadily, Jimmy snapped off the radio. Cally. She must have called the cops. The Thruway’s probably already lousy with them, all looking for me—and the kid, he reasoned frantically. He glanced to the left, at the car just passing him. Probably dozens of unmarked cars around here, he thought.