by Dan Walsh
I know we’re called to overcome evil with good. So, I’m going armed with a mincemeat pie (which I abhor), because you said it was his favorite (I’m trusting you on this). And I’m wearing my green dress and hat, even though I’m not Irish. I know this is what your mom wanted too, so that gives me strength. She told me herself just before she died. I promised her, if it took the rest of my life, I wouldn’t stop trying to bring us all back together again.
I’m holding on to this letter until tomorrow, so I can include with it another letter after the visit, to let you know how things went. So there should be two letters in this envelope.
And there will be something else in the envelope, not so easily seen but always present . . .
That is, my unending love,
Liz
It was too amazing to believe. Collins looked at the date again and considered everything the letter said. It had to be true.
Elizabeth was on her way to see him the day she died. With Patrick.
Collins tried to remember what little information he’d been told by Miss Townsend about the accident. It happened just two miles from where she lived, so he’d never even considered the possibility before. Elizabeth was riding through a busy intersection when some guy in a stolen car happened to be fleeing the police. He ran a red light and slammed right into her car door. It put him in the hospital with some broken bones, but Elizabeth was killed instantly. The miracle in the whole thing was Patrick, although knocked unconscious, was otherwise unharmed. Fortunately, he couldn’t recall a thing.
But the pieces of the puzzle were coming together now, and how he wished they were not. If Elizabeth hadn’t been trying so hard to reunite the family, she would not have been in the car that day, at least not heading in that direction. The juvenile fleeing the police would have missed her completely or else hit somebody else. She’d be alive, and Patrick would have a mom. And Shawn would have a—
Or would he? Would Shawn even be coming home?
This whole thing was becoming such a nightmare. Now Patrick had no one, he thought. No one but him. And look how he’d been treating his only grandson, not just recently but for his entire life. And how he had treated the boy’s father, his own son Shawn.
And Elizabeth.
Even Ida.
He had kept Ida from spending any time with her only son and grandson, even on her deathbed. For no reason except his stubborn pride.
He was the source behind all the heartache and confusion for everyone. Shawn had married, what seemed like now, a fine woman. And Collins had never given her a chance. He had more money than he could spend in two lifetimes, and here they were, barely able to make ends meet. Collins didn’t even know about their situation. Why? Because he’d cast them all into exile. So he could live all alone in this cold, dreary house, squandering his remaining years in isolation and solitude. Then Elizabeth dies, his only grandson is brought to him, and all he thinks about is . . . when is he going to leave.
What kind of punishment would a man like this face before God?
There could be no easy penance for him. Collins would be headed straight for hell.
“God forgive me,” he cried. “But I do deserve hell and more. What can I do to make this right? Can I even make it right?”
Twenty-Eight
Collins walked about downstairs, starting to close up the house. It was only a little before 8:00 p.m., but he was totally spent. His mind had mercifully gone numb, more from the day’s events than the whiskey. He was so glad that the boy—Patrick . . . his name is Patrick—stayed asleep the entire time he’d been reading the letters.
Before ascending the stairway, he took one last glance around the room to make sure everything was in place. The last thing he saw was the big box from Elizabeth’s apartment. How it had grown in value over the last few hours.
He climbed the stairs, thinking about what a fine boy Patrick really was, now that he could think more clearly. Collins knew Patrick didn’t shovel his driveway to get that wooden soldier. He did it for love, or maybe to get Collins to stop treating him so poorly. But he wasn’t some scheming conniver, just a little boy who’d lost his mother and was thrust out into the world all alone. Even in Collins’s house, he realized . . . Patrick must still feel all alone.
But tomorrow that changes, Collins thought. Tomorrow we will start over. And I will treat him the way he should be treated.
He didn’t even know where to begin, but he knew he must try. “Ida,” he whispered aloud as he reached the final step, “I’m going to do this. I’m finally going to do what you’ve wanted me to do all along.”
He turned on the hall light and glanced toward Patrick’s room. Part of him wanted to just rush in and scoop Patrick up in his arms, just to say something kind or encouraging. He headed there but stopped. Let the boy sleep, he thought. He’s had a horrible day. We’ll start fresh in the morning. He walked to his own room and got dressed for bed.
A few minutes later he went into the bathroom and turned on the light. As he reached for his toothbrush, he looked toward Patrick’s room. Something caught his eye, something seemed off. He noticed a suitcase on the floor, next to the bed. It belonged in the closet, had been there since Patrick arrived. He walked over to have a look. The suitcase was open and things were spilled out across the floor. He turned on the light.
“Oh no.” The bed was empty, still made up from this morning. Patrick was gone.
“Patrick!” he yelled. “Patrick? Where are you, son?” He ran toward the attic steps. “Please let him be there.” His heart sank as he opened the door. The stairs went upward into solid darkness. Still Collins scrambled up, yelling Patrick’s name all the while.
But there was no reply. Where could he be?
He rushed downstairs, faster than he’d moved in years. Maybe Patrick was in the basement. He had no reason to think he’d be there, but where else could he be? But once again, as he opened the basement door, it was totally black. Still Collins went down, calling out Patrick’s name.
Still no reply.
He went back up and turned on a lamp in the living room. That’s when he noticed Patrick’s coat and boots were gone. It made no sense. How could Patrick have gone outside? Collins had been in the living room reading the letters for hours. When could he have gone, where could he have gone?
“Mrs. Fortini.” He breathed a loud sigh. That’s it. Patrick must have gone next door. He had either gotten mad or afraid at the way Collins treated him earlier and ran next door. Without thinking, Collins opened the front door and was instantly stung by the chill rushing in from the vestibule. He’d completely forgotten about the snowstorm. It was coming down in sheets, almost sideways, driven by a howling wind. Still he went out, straining to see any signs of life next door.
Good, he thought. Through the white haze he could see lights on in Mrs. Fortini’s living room. That’s where Patrick must be. He’s probably sitting in her living room right now, eating cookies and listening to Christmas songs on the radio. He stepped back inside the house, shivering as he closed the door.
But why hadn’t she called?
Mrs. Fortini wouldn’t have let Patrick stay over there this long without calling. Then he remembered . . . he wasn’t in his present state of mind when they parted. He was depressed and angry, fueled by whiskey and hate. He couldn’t recall her final words, but she was plenty sore at him when she left. She probably decided Patrick was better off at her place tonight, planned to square things up with him in the morning.
But it still didn’t sit right with him, didn’t seem the way Mrs. Fortini would operate.
He walked over to the hutch, picked up a white card next to the telephone, and dialed the middle of three numbers written down. He steadied himself, took a deep breath, and waited.
“Hello?”
What should he say? How should he—
“Hello? Is anyone there?” she was yelling. He smiled. Mrs. Fortini, being Italian, always yelled whenever she talked on the phone.
>
“Mrs. Fortini? This is Ian from next door.”
“Ian? Is that you? Is everything all right?”
“I’m fine.” He tried to soften his tone. “I’m just calling to find out if—”
“Is Patrick all right? Is he hurt? Is anything wrong?”
Collins heart fell. Then the room began to spin. He clutched the edge of the hutch.
“Ian . . . Mr. Collins, what’s wrong, what’s the matter?”
He was not with her. Oh God, no.
“Ian, talk to me . . . what’s wrong?”
“It’s Patrick . . . I don’t know. He’s gone.”
“What?”
“He’s gone. I thought he must be with you.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“He’s not in his room, he’s nowhere in the house.”
“Did you check the attic?”
“I checked everywhere. He’s gone. I don’t know what—”
“Ian, he can’t be gone. There’s a blizzard outside. Where could he go?”
“I don’t know!” he yelled. “But he’s gone. What have I done? Patrick . . .”
“Ian, Ian, get hold of yourself. You’ve got to call the police. You need to hang up the phone right now and call the police.”
“I’ve got to go; I’ve got to find him.”
“No . . . listen to me, wherever he is, we need to get some help. You can’t just go out there like this. It’s freezing outside, and this storm is supposed to get even worse. We’re just two old people, Ian. We need help. And we’ve got to act now. If Patrick’s out there in this and we don’t find him soon, he’ll freeze to death.”
Collins dropped to the floor. He just sat down like a child, propping himself up with one hand, holding his head with the other. “I don’t know what to do,” he cried. “God, please, don’t do this to me. Don’t let me lose Patrick, not now.”
“Ian . . . are you there? Ian?” Mrs. Fortini waited on the line a few moments more. “Ian,” she yelled, then waited again. “Are you there?” She hung up the phone. What happened to him? Did he have a heart attack? She couldn’t wait any longer.
She dialed the operator. “Operator, this is an emergency, get me the police.”
“One moment, ma’am.”
A few moments later, someone from the closest precinct was on the phone. She did her best to describe the situation, trying to contain her fears. The officer on call didn’t seem to grasp the seriousness of the situation. All he talked about was the storm and how the storm made it impossible for anyone to help them now. The snowplows weren’t expected to be out till the morning, and even then it would take hours, if not days, to reach individual neighborhoods.
“Sir,” she finally said, “there’s a little seven-year-old boy lost out in this storm. His mother just died a few weeks ago, and we just got a telegram today saying his father is missing in action. For all I know, his grandfather just had a heart attack next door. Can’t you do anything? You’re the police! Who else can we call?”
“Okay, okay. Let me get your number, and I’ll see what I can do.”
She gave him her number, then Collins’s too. “I’m going next door to see what happened. Try my number first, then his.”
She hung up the phone, put on her big coat and boots, and made her way toward the door. Just before she left, she reached in her coat pocket and made sure she still had the card Katherine Townsend had given her the other day at Hodgins’s Grocery.
Twenty-Nine
“What do you mean, gone?” Katherine Townsend felt her legs go weak. She began to sit, barely connecting with a nearby dinette chair. On the other end of the phone, Mrs. Fortini was still talking, saying other things about Patrick, but the words stopped penetrating. Katherine was supposed to be good at dealing with family tragedies—she’d been doing it for years—but she had no resources to draw from for this. And she knew why. Patrick mattered. He mattered from the first hour she’d spent with him that first day at the apartment on Clark Street. He mattered more to her than any child she’d ever worked with, any child she had ever known.
“I am so afraid for him,” said Mrs. Fortini. “We don’t know how long he’s been out in this weather, and I can’t get the police to take me seriously. They say the storm’s too bad for them to do anything. I don’t know what we can do.”
There was a long pause.
“Miss Townsend?”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“Are you all right?”
Katherine sighed, tried to reconnect. “Is there any chance he’s at a friend’s nearby?”
“Mr. Collins says no. The whole time he’s here, he’s either been with him or me. You think you could call the police and get them to help? Maybe they will listen to a government lady.”
If you only knew how little power I have around here, Katherine thought. “I don’t know,” she answered. “I will definitely try. But I don’t understand how this could happen. Did Mr. Collins do something to him?”
“No, nothing like that. There was a bit of a problem earlier, before dark. Mr. Collins said some mean things—that wooden soldier thing came up—but I don’t think it was enough to make Patrick run away. The only thing that makes any sense to me is Patrick must have seen the telegram.”
Katherine heard words in the background. “Mr. Collins is saying that’s impossible. But it’s the only thing that makes sense.” There was a scratching sound, and then: “Listen, old man, you don’t know anything. We both know you were drunk . . . I’m not blaming you, I’m just saying when I left you, you headed back to the dining room, staring at a whiskey bottle, and the telegram was on the table. How do you know Patrick didn’t see it?” A pause, then: “That’s right, you don’t.”
“Mrs. Fortini, why wouldn’t Patrick call me? I gave him my card and told him all he had to do was call me and I would rush right over.”
“I don’t know, Miss Townsend—”
“Please call me Katherine.”
“Okay, Katherine. Maybe he was afraid Mr. Collins would find out. I’m on his phone now, and it’s just a few feet away from the dining room table where he was sitting when I brought Patrick home.”
“Then why didn’t he come to you?”
“I don’t know that, either. We’ve never had a cross moment. I’ve made it very clear to Patrick I’m totally on his side. He’s come to me before when he got upset. I can’t think of why he wouldn’t come to me now.”
Katherine was trying to sound professional, ask all the right questions, uncover the facts, but inside . . . she felt at any moment she might lose it completely. “How is Mr. Collins doing?”
“Let me move into the kitchen.” Mrs. Fortini was whispering now. “He’s a wreck. Keeps saying ‘It’s all my fault, all my fault’ over and over. I’ve never seen him like this, not even when Ida died. And he’s convinced Shawn is dead, not missing. Now he’s sure Patrick is next. To tell you the truth, I can’t blame him. I’m trying to keep calm, but . . . I don’t know. Have you seen what it’s like outside? Halfway from his house to mine, I didn’t think I could take another step.”
“Well, let’s see what happens if I call the police myself. I wish I could think of some way to get them to care. Have you tried calling the fire department?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, give me both numbers if you have them, and I’ll call them right now.”
“Hey . . . I just thought of something.”
“What?”
“Just a minute . . . hey, Mr. Collins.” Mrs. Fortini was yelling off to the side. “You’ve got some money around here, don’t you?” Katherine waited a few moments, then heard: “I don’t mean in your wallet, I’m talking about some real money, big money. Didn’t you make a lot of money when you sold your business a few years ago?”
Katherine couldn’t make out what Collins said but definitely heard a verbal reaction on the other end.
“Katherine, I think we might have an idea. Mr. Collins tells me he’s got money en
ough to burn. He’s up off his chair right now, said he’s got money stashed all around this house. I think we might have a way to motivate these men to start looking for Patrick. We’ll offer them a reward.”
“You think he’s got enough money to make a difference? He didn’t seem like a man who had—”
“I don’t know how much he has, but I know he’s got more than he lets on. I’ve seen little hints of it over the years. Let me ask him to guess how much we’re talking about. That way you could tell the police and firemen there’s a cash reward for anyone who finds Patrick. This time of year, everyone needs extra money. You want me to call you back?”
“No, I’ll hold.”
Katherine hoped it might be at least five hundred dollars, though that seemed unlikely. She didn’t know what policemen made but guessed it couldn’t be much more than two or three hundred a month. A couple months free salary at Christmastime might just be enough to get a few cops willing to pull away from the fireplace.
“Katherine, you’re not going to believe this. Mr. Collins says you can tell them he’ll put up a five-thousand-dollar reward for Patrick’s safe return!”
“Is that even possible?”
“I’m looking at . . . at least three thousand dollars cash right now sitting on the dining room table, and Ian says that’s just from the first two places he’s looked. He said if we need to offer more, he’s got more money than he can count in the bank.”
Katherine couldn’t believe it. The old man was rich. “I’ll call them right away and get back with you as soon as I can.”
Katherine hung up the phone after talking to the fire chief in the little township where Ian Collins lived. Before that, she’d been talking with the captain of the municipal police. Both were now very interested in looking for Patrick. First she had to convince them this was no hoax and that the five thousand dollars really did exist. She gave the men Collins’s address and said they could both send someone over right away to verify the amount.
