Two Little Girls in Blue

  “That’s what I think, too.”

  They went back into the office where Gus was sitting. “Gus, by any chance did Clint have a lot of cash with him when you went out?”

  “Nah. He let me pick up the check both nights.”

  “Do you know anyone else who might have given him a ride somewhere today?”

  “No.”

  The sergeant from the Danbury police who had visited the cottage at the golf club had been making his own inquiries. He walked into the office in time to hear the last question. “Clint Downes was driven by Danbury Taxi to the Continental Airlines drop-off at LaGuardia,” he said. “He got there about five thirty.”

  Only two hours ago, Walter Carlson thought. We’re tightening the net on him, but will we be fast enough to close it before it’s too late for Kathy?

  84

  At the police station in Hyannis, the desk sergeant, Ari Schwartz, listened patiently to David Toomey’s irate protest that there had been no theft in the parking lot of his motel. “I’ve worked at the Soundview for thirty-two years,” Toomey declared vehemently, “and I’m not going to let that conniver, who doesn’t even have the brains to take care of a sick kid, lie to Sam Tyron about a car seat that she never owned being stolen.”

  The sergeant knew and liked Toomey. “Dave, take it easy,” he said soothingly. “I’ll talk to Sam. You say your night manager swears the woman didn’t have a car seat in the car?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We’ll make sure that the record is corrected.”

  Somewhat mollified by the promise, Toomey turned to go, then hesitated. “I really worry about that little boy. He was one sick kid. Would you mind phoning over to the hospital and see if he’s a patient, or if maybe he was treated in the emergency room? His name is Steve. The mother is Linda Hagen. I could do it, but they’ll pay a lot more attention if the call comes from you.”

  Schwartz did not let the flash of irritation he felt show on his face. It was nice of Dave Toomey to be concerned about the kid, but, on the other hand, checking it out was going to be difficult. The mother could have taken the child to any one of a dozen urgent care centers on the Cape. He could have pointed that out to Dave, but instead he made the call to the hospital.

  No pediatric patient by that name had been admitted to the hospital.

  Anxious as he was to get home, Toomey was still reluctant to go. “There’s something that bothers me about her,” he said, as much to himself as to the sergeant. “If that was my grandson, my daughter would be frantic with worry.” He shrugged. “I’d better mind my own business. Thanks, Sarge.”

  * * *

  Four miles away, Elsie Stone was turning the key in the door of her white frame house. She had taken Debby home to Yarmouth but turned down the offer to stay for dinner with her daughter and son-in-law. “I’m feeling my age,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll go on home, heat up some of my vegetable soup, and enjoy it while I’m reading the paper and watching the news.”

  Not that the news is something you want to see, she thought as she turned on the foyer light. But much as that kidnapping makes me heartsick, I do want to see if they’re any closer to catching those terrible people.

  She hung up her coat and went straight into the den to turn on the television. The anchorman on the six-thirty news was saying, “An unnamed source has revealed that the FBI are now operating under the assumption that Kathy Frawley may still be alive.”

  “Oh, praise God,” Elsie said aloud. “Lord, let them find that poor little lamb.”

  Turning up the sound of the television so as not to miss a word, she went into the kitchen. As she poured her homemade vegetable soup into a bowl and put it in the microwave, she realized that the name “Kathy” was running through her mind.

  “Kathy . . . Kathy . . . Kathy . . .” What was it? she wondered.

  85

  “She was there,” Margaret cried as Steve held her tightly. “I saw the crib they kept the twins in. The mattress smelled of Vick’s, just as Kelly’s pajamas did when we got her back. All those days, they were so near, Steve, so near. That woman who bought the clothes the night I bought the birthday dresses is the one who has Kathy now. And Kathy is sick. She is sick! She is sick!”

  Ken Lynch, a rookie cop from the Danbury police force, had driven Margaret home and was surprised to see that the block was thick with media trucks. His hand under her arm, he had rushed her into the house, past Steve who was holding the door open for them. Now feeling helpless, he stepped through the archway and entered the living room. There, he stopped and turned.

  This must be the room where the babysitter was on the phone and heard one of the twins cry out, he thought. Then, as his eyes darted around, absorbing all the details so he could share them with his wife, he saw the dolls on the floor in the center of the room. Identical baby dolls, covered by the same blanket, their fingers touching. A child’s table and chairs in front of the fireplace was set for a tea party. Two identical teddy bears sat at the table, facing each other.

  “Mommy, Mommy.”

  From upstairs he heard the excited cry, then the sound of feet rushing down the uncarpeted steps. He watched as Kelly threw herself into Margaret’s arms. Feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur, Ken could not resist studying the anguish on the mother’s face as she hugged her daughter to her.

  That has to be the pediatrician who’s staying with them, he thought, as an older woman with silver hair hurried down the stairs.

  Margaret put Kelly down and knelt beside her, her hands on Kelly’s shoulders. “Kelly,” she said softly, “have you been talking to Kathy again?”

  Kelly nodded. “She wants to come home.”

  “I know, darling, I know she does. I want her to come home, too, just as much as you do. Do you know where she is? Did she tell you?”

  “Yes, Mommy. I told Daddy. And I told Dr. Sylvia. And I told you. Kathy is in old Cape Cod.”

  Margaret gasped and shook her head. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t you remember, when you were in bed with me this morning, I was the one who talked about Cape Cod. That’s where you heard about it. Maybe Kathy told you she was at some other place. Can you ask her now?”

  “Kathy is very sleepy now.” With an injured look, Kelly turned and walked past Officer Lynch. She sat down on the floor by the dolls. As Lynch stared, transfixed, he heard her say, “You are so on old Cape Cod.” Then, though he strained to hear, he could not make sense of the gibberish she was whispering.

  86

  Eating the hamburger and drinking the coffee made Angie feel better. I didn’t know how hungry I was, she thought resentfully, as she sat in the one comfortable chair in the motel room, ignoring Kathy. The sherbet Angie had given her was untouched, and she was lying on the bed with her eyes closed.

  I had to drag the kid out of McDonald’s because that nosy old waitress started talking to her, Angie thought, mentally reviewing the difficult day. “What’s your name, little boy?” “My name is Kathy. My name is Stevie.” “Oh, my granddaughter has a pretend friend, too.” And all the while there’s a picture of the twins lying there on the table. My God, if Grandma had looked closely, she’d have been yelling for that cop.

  What time would Clint get here? she wondered. The earliest would have to be about nine o’clock. He sounded sore. I should have left him some money. But he’ll get over it. I did make a mistake using the credit card to buy that stuff at Abby’s Discount. I should have used the cash Lucas gave me. Oh, well, it’s too late to worry about it now. I should be okay here until Clint shows up. Whatever car he rented, he’ll probably ditch, then steal another one to use until we can get off the Cape.

  And then we’ll have a million bucks to ourselves. A million bucks! I’m going to have a real makeover, Angie promised herself as she reached for the television remote. She glanced at the bed. And no more big ideas about having a kid of my own. They’re too damn much trouble.

  87

  The various law enforcement agencies had estab
lished a command post in the FBI’s Danbury office. Agents Tony Realto and Walter Carlson, along with Captain Jed Gunther and the Danbury police chief were in a conference room.

  “We’re now certain that Clint Downes and Lucas Wohl were cellmates in Attica,” Realto said. “They both broke parole as soon as they were released from prison, assumed new identities, and somehow have managed to stay under the radar for all these years. We now know how Bailey’s credit card got used to hire the Excel car. Lucas knew the number since he often drove Bailey, and Bailey paid him by credit card.”

  Realto had given up smoking when he was nineteen, but he now found himself longing for a cigarette. “According to Gus Svenson, Angie has been living with Downes for the last seven or eight years,” he continued. “Unfortunately there isn’t a single picture of either one of them anywhere in the cottage. You can bet the old mug shot of Downes doesn’t even look like him anymore. The best we can do is give the media an artist’s sketch and description of both of them.”

  “Someone’s been leaking to the press,” Carlson said. “The rumor is already out that Kathy is alive. Are we going to comment on it?”

  “Not yet. I’m afraid if we say that we think she is alive, it might be a death sentence for the kid. By now, Clint and Angie probably suspect that we’re looking for them, and if they realize every cop in America is studying the face of every three-year-old they come in contact with, they could panic and decide to get rid of her. As long as they think we actually believe she is dead, then they might very well try to travel as a family.”

  “Margaret Frawley swears that the twins are communicating,” Carlson said. “I was hoping I’d hear from her. If Kelly had said anything significant, I know she would have called me. Is the officer who drove her home still around?”

  “That would be Ken Lynch,” the Danbury police chief said. “I know he’s back from the Frawleys.” He picked up the phone on his desk. “Radio Lynch to get over here.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Lynch walked in. “I swear Kelly is in touch with her sister,” he told them flatly. “I was right there, and she insisted that Kathy is on Cape Cod.”

  88

  The traffic was light on the Sagamore Bridge. As he crossed the Cape Cod Canal, Clint drove with increasing impatience, constantly glancing at the speedometer to be sure he wasn’t going too fast. He knew he had narrowly escaped being stopped by a cop on Route 3, when he’d been doing seventy in a fifty-five-mile-an-hour zone.

  He looked at his watch. It was exactly eight o’clock. It’s at least another forty minutes more before I get there, he thought. He turned on the radio just in time to hear the excited voice of the newscaster say, “The rumors continue that the suicide confession to the death of Kathy Frawley may be a hoax. While authorities will neither confirm nor deny the truth of the rumor, they have just released the names of two suspects in the kidnapping of the Frawley twins.”

  Clint felt perspiration begin to pour from his body.

  “An all-points bulletin has been issued for the arrest of an ex-convict named Ralph Hudson. Using the alias of Clint Downes, he was most recently employed as the caretaker of the Danbury Country Club in Danbury, Connecticut. Also named in the warrant is his live-in girlfriend, Angie Ames. Downes was reportedly last seen when he was dropped off at LaGuardia Airport sometime after five P.M. The woman, Angie Ames, has not been seen since Thursday evening. She is believed to be traveling in a twelve-year-old, dark brown Chevy van with Connecticut plate number . . .”

  It won’t take them anytime to trace me to the shuttle, Clint thought frantically. The next thing, they’ll trace me to the rental agency and get the description of this car. I have to dump it fast. He drove off the bridge onto the Mid-Cape Highway. At least I was smart enough to ask the guy behind the rental counter for a map of Maine, he thought. That may buy me a little time. I’ve got to think. What should I do?

  I have to take a chance and stay on the highway, he decided. The closer I get to Chatham, the better. If the cops suspect we’re on the Cape, they’ll be checking motels—if they’re not already checking them, he thought grimly.

  His eyes darted over the road as he passed the exits, searching for police cars. The landscape became more familiar to him as he reached Exit 5 for Centerville. That’s where we did the job, he thought. Exit 8, Dennis/Yarmouth. It seemed to him to be an interminable time before he finally got to Exit 11, Harwich/Brewster, and turned on to Route 137. I’m almost at Chatham, he thought, trying to reassure himself. It’s time to dump this car. Then he spotted what he was looking for, a movie complex with a crowded parking lot.

  Ten minutes later, parked two rows back, he watched as a pair of teenagers left an economy sedan and walked into the lobby of the theatre. He got out of the rental car and followed them into the lobby, standing in a corner as he watched them get on the ticket line. He waited until he saw the usher tear their tickets, then watched them disappear down a corridor before he went back outside. They didn’t even bother to lock the door, he thought, as he tried the handle of the boy’s car. Don’t make it too easy for me. He got in the car, then waited a moment until he was sure no one was nearby.

  He bent down under the dashboard and, with deft, practiced movements, attached wires together. The sound of the engine turning over gave him his first feeling of relief since he had heard the broadcast. He turned on the lights, put the car in gear, and began the final phase of his trip to Chatham.

  89

  “Why is Kelly so quiet, Sylvia?” Margaret asked, fear in her voice.

  Kelly was sitting on Steve’s lap, her eyes closed.

  “It’s all reaction, Margaret.” Sylvia Harris tried to sound convincing. “Besides, she’s having an allergic reaction to something.” She reached over and pulled up the sleeve of Kelly’s polo shirt, then bit her lip. The bruise was turning purple, but that was not what she wanted Margaret to see. It was the sprinkling of red marks on Kelly’s arm.

  Margaret stared at them then glanced back and forth between Dr. Harris and Steve. “Kelly doesn’t get allergies,” she said. “It’s one of the few ways she and Kathy are different. Is it possible that Kathy is having some kind of allergic reaction?”

  Her insistent tone demanded an answer.

  “Marg, Sylvia and I have talked about it,” Steve said. “We’re starting to believe that it’s possible that Kathy may be having an allergic reaction to something she’s been given, maybe to some medication.”

  “You don’t mean—not penicillin? Sylvia, remember when Kathy was so allergic to even the test drops of penicillin that you tried on her? She broke out in red spots, and her arm got swollen. You said that if you’d given her an injection of it, you might have killed her.”

  “Margaret, we simply don’t know.” Sylvia Harris tried to keep her own fearful anxiety out of her voice. “Even too much aspirin can cause a reaction.” Margaret was at the breaking point—or beyond it—she thought. And now a new worry, one too frightening to even consider, was pulsing through her mind. Kelly was becoming so listless. Was it possible that Kathy and Kelly’s vital functions were so entwined that if anything happened to Kathy, Kelly’s reaction would be to follow her?

  Sylvia had already shared that awful possibility with Steve. Now she could see that it was occurring to Margaret as well. Margaret was seated beside Steve on the couch in the living room. She reached over and took Kelly from him. “Sweetheart,” she implored, “talk to Kathy. Ask her where she is. Tell her Mommy and Daddy love her.”

  Kelly opened her eyes. “She can’t hear me,” she said drowsily.

  “Why, Kelly? Why can’t she hear you?” Steve asked.

  “She can’t wake up anymore,” Kelly said with a sigh as she curled into a fetal position in Margaret’s arms and went back to sleep.

  90

  Slouched down in the car, the Pied Piper listened to the radio. The breaking news, being repeated every few minutes, was that Kathy Frawley might still be alive. Two suspects were being sought, an ex-conv
ict going by the name of Clint Downes and his girlfriend, Angie Ames. She was believed to be traveling in a twelve-year-old, dark brown Chevy van with a Connecticut license number.

  After the first moment of panic passed, the Pied Piper weighed his options. He could drive to the airport and get back on the plane, which was probably the smartest thing to do. But there was always that chance, that one single chance, that Lucas had revealed his identity to Clint Downes. If the feds arrest Clint, he’ll give me up for a lighter sentence, he thought. I can’t take that chance.

  Cars began to arrive and depart from the motel parking lot. With any luck, I’ll see Clint before he gets too near to Angie’s room, he thought. I’ve got to talk to him first.

  An hour later, his patience was rewarded. A sedan drove slowly around the parking lot, up one row and down the other, then pulled into the vacant spot near Angie’s van. A heavyset figure climbed out. In an instant, the Pied Piper was out of his car and positioned by Clint’s side. Clint spun around, his hand reaching for his jacket pocket.

  “Don’t bother to pull out a gun,” the Pied Piper said. “I’m here to help you. Your plan won’t work. You can’t drive around in that van.”

  He watched as Clint’s startled look was replaced by one of cunning understanding. “You’re the Pied Piper.”

  “Yes.”

  “With all the risks I took, it’s about time I met you. Who are you?”

  He didn’t have a clue, the Pied Piper realized, and now it’s too late. I have to see it through. “She’s in there,” he said, pointing to Angie’s room. “You have to tell her that I came up here to help you get away. What car are you driving?”

  “I helped myself to it. The people who own it are at the movies. I’m safe for a couple of hours.”