Cries of the Children

by Clare McNally

  “So you might have come from another state,” she said. “I know that sounds crazy, but we have to try every possibility. How about that Mr. Henley you told me about the first time we met? Think hard again, Julie. Can you picture him in your mind?”

  Julie closed her eyes and thought a few minutes. Finally she shook her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “He was only in the motel room for a few minutes. Then he left, and we spent some time together in Durango. How come you don’t even remember the train ride?”

  “I wish I knew,” Samantha said wearily.

  She reached across the table to take the child’s hand.

  “It’ll come back to us, I’m sure. We’ll work together—you, and me, and Wil.”

  She pushed her chair back and brought her empty dishes to the sink. Julie did the same.

  “Speaking of Wil,” Samantha said, “he asked me to take a picture of you. You’re dressed so pretty right now, in those tulip pants and that short top. Can I take your picture outside, by the flowers?”

  “How about in front of the little adobe?”

  “Great idea!” Samantha said. “You go on ahead. Unlock the kennels and let the dogs out. I’ll be out as soon as I get my camera.”

  Samantha found her Polaroid. Miraculously, it still had two pictures left in it. She carried it outside, down the columbine-laden path to the playhouse. Julie was playing “fetch-the-stick” with the dogs. She turned and smiled at Samantha.

  “Stand right outside the door,” Samantha said. “That’s great!”

  Samantha looked up at the trees, frowning.

  “It’s a little shady here,” she said. “But I guess the picture will be okay.”

  “Why does Mr. Sherer want my picture?” Julie asked.

  “Oh, just to keep it on file,” Samantha said. She saw no reason to tell Julie it was going to be placed in the missing-persons file.

  She aimed her camera. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” Julie said. She posed, giving a pretty smile.

  Samantha snapped the picture. The automatic flash went off, filling in the dark spaces made by the shade of the trees. And instantly Julie doubled over, her hands covering her eyes.

  She screamed, her voice like the high-pitched keening of a bird. Samantha dropped the camera, running to her.

  “My eyes! My eyes are burning!”

  “Julie, what . . . ?”

  She tried to pull the child’s hands away from her face, unable to understand what had happened. Julie went on screaming, her arms stiff as Samantha moved them to look at her face. She had her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Her face was bright red and tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  Without understanding what was wrong, Samantha lifted the child into her arms and ran back to the house with her. The dogs followed, barking in confusion. Samantha brought Julie into the kitchen, threw open the cold-water faucet, and flushed away whatever it was that had gotten into Julie’s eyes. The child struggled, but Samantha held fast. All her emergency-room training came into play as she tended to the child’s injuries. At last Julie’s screams diminished to a quiet whimpering.

  Samantha hugged her close.

  “Oh, God,” she gasped. “What happened?”

  “The light hurt my eyes,” Julie said. “The flash—it burned my eyes.”

  Samantha sat the child down and knelt to take a good look at her. Julie’s eyes were open now, but bloodshot. Samantha held up a few fingers.

  “What do you see?”

  “Three fingers.”

  Julie was seeing all right. Samantha thanked God for that. She knew of people who had gone temporarily blind from flashbulbs popping in their faces. The little Polaroid could never have done such a thing. Why had Julie’s eyes reacted in such a way? She’d been in terrible pain!

  “Close your left eye.”

  Samantha checked each eye individually and found out that, despite Julie’s obvious suffering, her eyes seemed perfectly normal.

  “I’m going to take you to a friend of mine,” Samantha said. “Just to be sure everything is okay.”

  “I don’t want to see another doctor!”

  “Julie, I think—”

  “No!” Julie cried out. “I’m okay. Really, I’m okay!”

  Julie got up and ran out of the room. As if nothing at all had happened, she began to romp around the backyard with the dogs. Samantha decided to let the incident pass, with plans to watch Julie’s vision very carefully.

  She went back to the playhouse to retrieve her camera. Julie’s picture was on the ground. Samantha picked it up and looked at it. She’d managed to catch the young girl while she was still smiling. It was a clear picture that would certainly be of help to Detective Sherer. And it was a good thing, because obviously she wouldn’t be able to take any more pictures of Julie.

  25

  JOE TREFILL had to bite his lower lip to keep from swearing out loud. He was inches away from the exit to the bus, held fast from behind by a security guard who seemed half his size.

  “Let me go,” he said. “I need to get on that bus!”

  “You so desperate to lose your money down there that you have to knock people down?”

  Trefill did not know what “down there” meant until he read the sign for the departing bus: “ATLANTIC CITY.” He was vaguely aware of crashing into someone, but he hadn’t been paying much attention. He had missed catching Lorraine by a few seconds. Now she was safely on the bus, and he was entertainment for a gathering crowd.

  “Sir, I’m gonna letcha go now . . .”

  Trefill didn’t cause any more trouble. There was no point in it, now that Lorraine had made her escape. But she wouldn’t get too far ahead. All he had to do was follow her. Atlantic City was a big place, but a fat little kid with black hair should be easy to spot.

  He turned to walk away, and found that people were still staring at him. He wanted to shout at them, to curse them for being so intrusive, to take out the gun under his jacket and say:

  Mine’s bigger than the guard’s.

  But that would draw more attention, and Walter LaBerge had made him swear he wouldn’t draw attention to himself.

  “Not like that job I gave you in Orlando, Joe. Remember Disney World? Remember standing up on the trolley and screaming because someone cut you off and that guy got away from you?”

  Remember? LaBerge had never let him forget.

  But he had a second chance now, and all he had to do was calm down and buy a ticket. Keeping his eyes fixed on the counter ahead, he pushed through the crowd. He took a quick glance behind himself to see that they had dispersed, finally realizing there was nothing left to gawk at.

  He went up to the counter and pushed a bill forward.

  “Atlantic City,” he said.

  The man behind the glass window looked at him through wire-framed glasses.

  “I can sell you a ticket,” he said, “but you missed the last bus of the night. Next one leaves seven-o-five A.M.”

  Trefill’s fist clenched. The little freak had nearly ten hours’ head start!

  “I’ll take it,” he said.

  He paid for the ticket, then left the terminal. There was no point in spending the night in this place, among the ragged homeless and the druggies. He’d rent a room for the night, and in the morning he’d head down into Jersey. There he’d find Lorraine, and this time nothing would stop him. If he had to waste the two kids who were helping her, then he’d do it.

  Trefill didn’t realize he was smiling with the idea that he might get to use his gun for real this time.

  The 9:45 bus from Manhattan pulled into Atlantic City close to midnight. Sandy had shaken Lorraine awake, but the ordeal she’d been through made the child as limp as a rag doll. Grumbling, Donny lifted her up and carried her off the bus.

  “Don’t be such a creep,” Sandy said. “That little kid saved our necks, and you know it.”

  “We have to find a place to spend the night,” Donny said
.

  “We can sleep under the boardwalk,” Sandy said. “No one will see us there.”

  They walked down New Jersey Avenue, heading toward the lights of the casinos. Climbing onto the boardwalk, they found themselves near the Showboat Casino. Sandy gazed around in awe at all the activity she was seeing. The boardwalk was sixty feet wide, stretching as far as her eyes could see, and it was full of people. Bright lights and laughter and loud noises were a sharp contrast to the virtually silent bus ride.

  “Wow, it’s barely midnight,” she said. “And there’s people all over the place.”

  “I heard they don’t have clocks,” Donny said. “That’s to keep the suckers gambling at all hours.”

  They walked along the boardwalk, passing casinos with ritzy names like Taj Mahal and Caesar’s, until at last they had come to the end of all the activity. They found stairs leading down to the beach. Donny shifted Lorraine to his other shoulder. She moaned in protest.

  “Where should we set up camp?” he asked.

  “Anyplace,” Sandy said. “I’m exhausted.”

  They walked for some distance. Then they ducked under the boardwalk, tucking themselves into a deep shadowed area so that no one passing by would see them. Donny took off his jacket. Sandy took off hers and laid it down just below her boyfriend’s. It made a small bed, but nothing big enough for either of them. With a sigh, Donny and Sandy exchanged glances. Then they laid Lorraine down on the makeshift bed.

  Using the suitcases for pillows, the teenage couple cuddled together and fell fast asleep.

  26

  THE BLARE OF a truck’s horn made Steven jump, pulling him from the walking reverie he’d been in for the past half-hour. He’d stopped running as soon as he reached the nearest main road to the Freleng house. Without any guidance from Marty, but by his own instincts, he’d followed the darkened streets until he came to the main highway. It had taken him over an hour to get this far, and weariness was taking its toll. Steven had begun to daydream, thinking of Rachel and Eric’s argument. He’d lost track of both time and direction, but the rambling eighteen-wheeler had set him back on the right path.

  He realized that the sky wasn’t quite as dark as it had been when he left the house. He also knew that he couldn’t stay well hidden once the sun came up. He moved into the shadows created by the trees alongside the road, and began to walk in double-time. He didn’t let himself think again how tired he was. There was no time for that.

  Despite the predawn hour, there was a lot of activity on the highway. Steven knew that he had to get across it to reach the airport, and so he began to watch for a break in the traffic. When he found one, he raced as fast as his legs could carry him to the other side. Then he followed the road until he reached the entrance to the airport.

  I’m here now, Marty. What do I do?

  But Marty did not answer him. Steven wondered if his mysterious friend was sleeping.

  Huge signs offered directions to the main terminal. Steven followed them, finally coming to the front entrance. Business people in dark suits hurried by him, briefcases firmly in hand. A few other people had also arrived for early-morning flights. Steven noticed there were no children. He followed a group of people inside, walking close to a black man so that anyone who looked at him would think he was with his father.

  The airport was relatively quiet. Only the restaurant and newsstands had opened. Steven could smell something cooking. He thought of the wonderful breakfasts Helga had made over the last few days and began to feel hungry. His stomach growled. But there was an even more urgent pressure in his bladder. He looked around, finally locating a sign for the men’s room. Steven went inside, relieved himself, then freshened up by splashing water on his face.

  When he came into the lobby again, he could see the sky was as bright and blue as midday. The sun seemed to have come up virtually instantaneously, although Steven knew the light had taken eight minutes to get here. The sudden appearance of morning helped push away the last vestiges of weariness he felt. It was a false energy that overcame him, but he didn’t realize this. Steven didn’t worry that he’d probably collapse from exhaustion. He could only think about how hungry he was.

  He reached into his pocket and took out the roll of bills. Satisfied he had not lost it, he went into the restaurant. There were some businessmen sharing a preflight breakfast at one table. Steven sat as far away from them as possible. As a result, it was nearly fifteen minutes before the waitress even realized he was there.

  “Oh, my goodness,” she said with a Midwestern twang. “You must think I’ve been ignoring you. Well, I don’t suppose you want a cup of coffee?”

  Despite his nervousness, Steven couldn’t help laughing.

  “No,” he said. “Could I have a cup of hot chocolate, please? And then I’d like a stack of pancakes.”

  “You bet,” the waitress said. “Are you travelin’ all by yourself?”

  Steven nodded. His explanation came so quickly it surprised even him.

  “Mom and Dad work all day,” he said. “They couldn’t get off. So they dropped me off. I’m taking a flight into Newark to see my grandma.”

  He leaned forward and spoke in quasi-conspiratorial tones.

  “See, if I had to wait for my folks to get a vacation,” he said, “I’d only see Grandma once a year. But this is my fourth visit.”

  The waitress’s eyebrows went up.

  “Well, a frequent flier! You just wait there and I’ll be back with your breakfast in no time flat.”

  It wasn’t exactly that fast, but Steven took the time to try to call Marty. He still didn’t answer.

  “Here you go,” the waitress said, setting Steven’s breakfast in front of him. “Enjoy. You need anything, you holler.”

  “Thanks,” Steven said.

  He searched a rack of syrup bottles for one marked “Strawberry,” then drowned his pancakes in the red liquid. As he ate, he thought how nice it would be if everyone on his journey was as accepting of his story as the waitress had been. When he finally finished his meal, he did some lightning-fast mathematics in his head and left her a little bit more than the average tip. Then he went up to the register to pay for his breakfast. He handed the man behind the counter the exact change.

  “But we haven’t handed you the check yet, young fellow,” the old man said. “How did you know the right amount?”

  “I’m good at math.”

  “Well, that’s an understatement if I ever heard one,” the man said.

  He watched Steven return the rest of the money to his pocket.

  “Listen, you shouldn’t be flashing twenties around like that,” he said. “I mean, this ain’t New York, but there’s bad types everywhere.”

  “Oh,” Steven said. “I’ll be careful.”

  “You got your ticket in a good safe place?”

  Steven’s heart skipped a beat, but before his face could react with a stricken expression, he swallowed and said, “Safe and sound. G’bye!”

  “So long,” the old man said. “Nice flight!”

  Steven hurried from the restaurant. The lobby was five times more crowded than it had been forty-five minutes ago. Steven hoped no one would see the look of panic on his face.

  A ticket! How could he have forgotten about a ticket?

  How could Marty have forgotten?

  I can’t afford a ticket! he thought. What am I going to do?

  Everything will be okay. Just sit down in one of those chairs and wait.

  Marty! Where’ve you been?

  I was sleeping. Sorry, but they were doing so many . . . I was working so hard I was just exhausted.

  Marty, I forgot to get enough money for a ticket.

  Don’t panic. 1 told you to trust me. Just go sit down and leave everything to me.

  Steven found a comfortable seat in the waiting area. He placed his suitcase on his lap and rested his elbows on it. His chin dropped into his hands. He didn’t have any idea what Marty was going to do, but he knew he h
ad to trust him.

  Around a corner, where Steven couldn’t see, a ticket clerk was preparing herself for the start of a new, busy day. Janie Barkley, late of the Summersun Travel Agency, had been on the job only six months. She worked with eager efficiency, always ready to do her best for her customers. Most days the job was enjoyable, even those days when overbooked flights or bad weather brought countless people up to her desk. She could change a flight or issue a ticket with her eyes closed.

  I’d like a one-way ticket to Newark.

  “Of course, sir,” Janie said, flashing a smile that hung like a hammock between two apple cheeks. “Will that be . . . ?”

  She realized there was no one in front of the counter.

  Jamie, do as I tell you.

  Jamie felt an icy cold draft winding around her body. Instantly she was transfixed by the computer terminal in front of her. Its screen had changed without any human interference.

  Type up a ticket for Steven . . . Steven Frelong. A oneway ticket to Newark. First class.

  Without protest, Jamie did as the voice in her mind commanded. Then she leaned into the microphone on her desk and began to page Steven.

  It took a few calls before Steven realized he was Steven Frelong. He felt himself fill with an overwhelming sense of panic. They’d found him! Eric and Rachel had come after him!

  “Please pick up your ticket at the Mattituck Airlines counter.”

  Steven sighed with relief. Now he understood what Marty had been up to. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten hold of a ticket, but he didn’t ask. He simply walked until he found the desk and took the folder from the clerk.

  She was smiling, but her eyes had a weird, glassy quality about them. Her “Have a nice flight, thank you for flying Mattituck Airlines” was unusually forced.

  The moment Steven walked away from the counter, Jamie snapped to. She blinked a few times, looking around herself. A feeling that she’d lost some time came over her, but she couldn’t explain it. Then someone came up to her counter and the incident was completely forgotten.

  Steven opened the folder and read the information about his flight. He gasped, realizing he was to take off in twenty minutes.