Disillusions

by Seth Margolis

  She cleared her throat, got no response, and coughed. He looked at her, blinked, and started to get up.

  “You must be the new girl.”

  New girl? She let it pass. The man was suffering.

  “Gwen Amiel. You must be Tess’s grandfather.”

  He glanced over at the crib, as if hoping to find it occupied.

  “What do you think of my granddaughter?”

  “She’s adorable. A very sweet little—”

  “That’s not what I’m after. Is she smart?”

  She’s a year old, for Christ’s sake.

  “Very bright, I’d say.”

  He squinted at her a few seconds. “Her mother went to Smith, you know.”

  Gwen didn’t know, but nodded anyway. He flicked an ash into a small pewter cup on which Tess’s name and birth date were engraved.

  “And her father attended Julliard. Didn’t graduate, but I expect the tough part’s getting in.”

  Again a nod seemed in order.

  “I’m a Harvard man, myself. Like my father.”

  She managed not to say that she’d gone to Cornell—gotten in and graduated. She didn’t think he’d care that the new girl was a nanny from the Ivy League.

  “Tess is…” He glanced around the room, from the crib to the changing table to the corner cupboards bursting with brand-new stuffed animals. “Tess is special. I hope…” He cleared his throat. “I hope you know that.”

  She nodded. “Sometimes when we’re outside, Tess points to your house…”

  “You can’t see my place from here.”

  “She points to the trees, actually, the ones that separate your house from Penaquoit.”

  “She does?”

  She nodded again.

  “Does she say anything?”

  Gwen swallowed and plunged deeper into the lie. “‘Gan-pa,’ I think. Something like that.”

  “I never heard her even come close,” he snapped.

  “Maybe she—”

  “But it wouldn’t surprise me.” His features softened. “‘Gan-pa,’ is it? You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Well, we’re very close, you know. Birds of a feather. She even looks like me, don’t you think? My hair was gold, like hers. And we both have hazel eyes.”

  Gwen nodded, but Tess’s eyes were brown, not hazel. Surely he’d noticed that.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just put these away.”

  She circled around him and carefully placed the clothes in their designated spots in the double dresser. As she left the room the old man slowly lowered himself into the rocking chair, saying “grandpa” softly as he sat.

  Jimmy rolled down the back window of the Pearsons’ Buick, which had a cardboard pine tree hanging from the mirror that made the car smell like the kitchen floor right after his mom washed it.

  “Jimmy, did you roll that window down?” Mrs. Pearson said without turning around. “We have the air on.”

  Hey, I’m choking to death, he wanted to say. But Mrs. Pearson would probably scream or have a heart attack if he did—she was always worried about something. He rolled up the window and held his breath for as long as he could, noticing how the two of them looked like brother and sister: same white hair, cut short, same pink skin over the same blue collar. Pretty funny, actually. If only there was somebody to laugh with. Laughing alone wasn’t much fun.

  He looked out the window as they drove through downtown Sohegan. Up ahead was the diner. He kind of missed hanging out there, getting to eat all the cake and pie he wanted when his mom wasn’t looking—Mike said it was their secret, man to man. The car stopped at the light in front of the diner. Jimmy pressed his face against the window to see if Mike was there.

  And felt his insides go soft. There, at the table nearest the front door, right by the window. Not Mike. Him.

  The car moved along but Jimmy felt like his face was stuck to the window, like when it’s so cold metal turns to glue when you touch it. A right-hand turn, a left, and then they pulled into the Pearsons’ driveway and Mrs. Pearson got out and opened his door and he practically fell out onto the ground.

  “Why, Jimmy, you almost fell right—” She stepped back, put a hand on her cheek. “Jimmy, you’ve wet yourself.” She took another step back. He got out of the car and ran to the house.

  “He wet the car seat,” he heard Mrs. Pearson tell her husband. “Now why would he do a thing like that?”

  Chapter 9

  It had taken Gwen only a few weeks to learn her way around Sohegan and the surrounding countryside. The long, narrow valley was divided by Route 24; if you strayed too far east or west of 24 you ran up against the bordering Ondaiga Mountains, which were sparsely populated and crisscrossed by dusty, unpaved roads. Ten miles to the north and south of downtown, LEAVING SOHEGAN signs let you know that you’d gone too far. Within these borders was an orderly grid of streets; only three intersections merited stoplights.

  Gwen pulled her red Honda into the parking lot of Mario’s, the town’s sole car dealership, which was situated on Route 24 just north of town. The turnoff for Penaquoit was about a half mile south, so the Lawrences would have to pass directly in front of Mario’s on their way to the transfer point.

  She turned off the engine and checked the time: five minutes to two. Sticky heat trickled in through the open window, and within minutes the back of her T-shirt was clinging to the vinyl seat. She’d gone home, tried to forget what was happening, but couldn’t. She was worried about Tess, burdened by a sense of responsibility that angered her by its intensity.

  If only Tess hadn’t asked for her. Why couldn’t she have asked for her mother or father? Why her?

  Or maybe it was only boredom, the need for something interesting in her life. She and Jimmy were safe in Sohegan; her job was low-stress; most nights she didn’t bother locking the door. No wonder she couldn’t mind her own business! So she’d driven up to Mario’s; at least she’d reassure herself that things were going according to plan.

  And then what?

  Christ, it was hot. She wondered what Tess was wearing. One of her cotton stretchies, she hoped; Tess tended to get prickly heat, the back of her neck got all red and—

  Tess was not her child. She was not her problem.

  Not her child, but Priscilla wasn’t exactly nurturing, and Nick’s love for his daughter was too idealized to be of much practical use in a crisis. She closed her eyes and saw Tess in the middle of a vast field, all but swallowed by tall grass, crying, wailing. When she opened her eyes the field vanished but the wailing remained. The cicadas, she realized after a tense moment. The goddamn cicadas in the field behind the showroom.

  She rolled up her window, started the engine, and switched on the air-conditioning, aiming the center vent directly at her face. Better. A minute later the green Range Rover drove by, moving slowly. Without thinking she put the car in reverse, backed out of the space, shifted into first, and made a left onto 24.

  She quickly caught up to the car, then concentrated hard to maintain a safe distance. Nick was driving, Priscilla was next to him, and Russell Cunningham was in back. Suddenly the car veered left, making the turn at the last possible moment. Gwen braked her car until the Range Rover had completed the turn and traveled a good way into the road before she turned. As soon as she’d turned she realized she had been this way only yesterday—Pleasant Ridge Road led to the Devil’s Ravine, just a mile or so ahead, on the right.

  She drove very slowly; there were no other cars on this road, and the Lawrences would recognize her Honda if it suddenly appeared in their rearview mirror.

  A few minutes later she saw the Range Rover on the right, about ten yards from the spot where she’d parked with Jimmy. She pulled into a long, unpaved driveway on the left, coasting a good fifteen yards before stopping where the car couldn’t be seen from the road.

  She got out and walked to the end of the driveway. The Lawrences’ car was about twenty-five yards down the road. She wa
ited behind a large tree until she was convinced that it was empty.

  Now what?

  Well, the choice was simple enough. Get back in the car and drive home. Or behave like a complete idiot and follow them into the woods. The decision took just a second.

  Idiot it was.

  Chapter 10

  Gwen ran across the street and quickly found the path she and Jimmy had taken down to the ravine. The Lawrences must have used a different, parallel path. They’d be upstream from her, about twenty-five yards or so.

  The woods were densely humid, pungent with decay. Gnats swarmed around her face as she walked, the cicadas humming their tuneless mating song. Sweat was soon trickling onto her forehead. She’d keep going until she reached the stream, find out what was going on, then get the hell back to the air-conditioned Honda.

  She reached the top of the ridge. Below, the stream flickered through the foliage like shards of mirror, sending flashes of white light up into the treetops. She stopped and listened to the rushing water…and heard footsteps.

  Twenty yards upstream, three figures made their way down the steep embankment: Nick, Priscilla, and, clearly working hard to keep up, Russell Cunningham, clutching the large duffel bag she’d seen him with yesterday at Penaquoit.

  She crouched behind a tree and watched. Halfway down the embankment, Nick stopped, turned, and tried to take the bag from his father-in-law. Russell shook his head and barreled down the bank with renewed speed, though he was obviously having some difficulty with the steep grade. Now Priscilla trailed the two men, fastidiously navigating her way among the rocks and bushes, eyes fixed on the ground.

  When they reached the stream, all three looked up at the surrounding forest, slowly turning around. Under the circumstances, Gwen might have expected them to huddle together, but they kept a sizable distance from each other, like three strangers waiting for introductions. The old man growled something she couldn’t quite make out; the only response came from two crows feeding on the ground nearby, who took flight with raucous irritation.

  A moment later Gwen heard a faint ringing sound. Priscilla placed a cell phone to her ear, listened for a few seconds, and then said something to her father, who immediately waded into the rushing stream. Nick bolted after him, trying to grab the duffel bag, but the old man ignored him, charging through the current. Nick began shouting at him; then Priscilla joined the argument, but none of it had any impact on Russell Cunningham, who squeezed the bulging bag to his chest as the water reached his hips. Nick, watching him, raised his arms and let them fall against his hips.

  The old man waded to the far side of the stream and kept walking up the west embankment. The other two watched him, standing at least five yards apart. When Russell got halfway up the hill he dropped the bag and looked around. He glanced back at the bag, leaned over, and touched it, as if expressing a regretful farewell, then turned and scrambled back down to the stream, which he quickly crossed.

  The reunited family once again stared at the other side of the stream, none of them speaking, let alone touching. Like competitors in a scavenger hunt, Gwen thought. The phone chirped again. Priscilla raised it to her ear, listened for a moment or two, and placed it back in her pants pocket. She said something to the two men, and immediately started walking back up the hill toward the Range Rover.

  But the two men stood there for a minute, staring across the stream. Gwen followed their gaze. Nothing stirred, not even a breeze. She couldn’t make out the exact spot where Russell had left the bag; the thick canopy of tall oaks and maples all but blotted out the sunlight.

  After a while the old man clapped his hands, turned, and headed up the hill. Nick continued to stare across the stream, but a loud growl from his father-in-law seemed to break his reverie, and soon he too was climbing up the hill toward the car. Within moments all three were out of sight.

  Gwen didn’t move, eyes fixed on the spot where she thought the bag had been left. If she saw the person who retrieved it, perhaps she’d be able to identify him for the police. As long as she remained perfectly still she was at no risk, and if no one knew she was there, her presence couldn’t endanger Tess in any way.

  From up the hill she heard a car engine start—the Range Rover. A drop of icy sweat streaked down her neck and under her T-shirt. A shadow flitted across the stream. She looked up; a large hawk swooped effortlessly over the swath of sky above the stream, gliding back and forth on a breeze too high above ground to give mere humans relief.

  She heard a sound. Footsteps? Nothing moved across the stream.

  That noise again, not footsteps. It sounded like…

  Crying. Someone was crying. A baby.

  Tess. Gwen slowly got to her feet and craned her neck toward the sound. The crying had escalated to wailing, echoing off the steep embankment in eerily hollow and plaintive waves of sound. Gwen took a cautious step down the hillside toward the stream, eyes glued to the spot where the bag had been left. Still no movement, no sign of Tess other than the pathetic sobbing.

  “Gen? Gen?” The wailing was punctuated by pleas for…Gwen darted down the hill, jumping behind a thick tree trunk just a few yards from the stream. The crying continued, a succession of desperate gasps, choking coughs. She had to help her…What if she’d been left there, in this awful heat, with mosquitoes and who knew what else?

  Suddenly a figure streaked across the clearing on the other side of the stream, pausing a moment at the spot where the bag had been left, then disappearing into the woods. Tall, dressed in black, possibly wearing a mask of some kind, since she couldn’t make out a face. The sobbing continued.

  She waited, sorting out what she’d seen. The kidnapper must have retrieved the duffel bag and fled, leaving Tess. The Lawrences had driven off—she’d heard the engine start a full minute ago. Who was going to get the baby?

  She hesitated a few moments to make sure no one was across the stream. Tess’s incessant wailing made it hard to concentrate, but she managed to convince herself that whoever had picked up the bag was gone. She moved out from behind the tree, walked slowly toward the stream, and waded in, eyes focused on the other side, on that clearing where the bag had been.

  Halfway across she dropped into the deep hollow she and Jimmy had floated across. She swam slowly, eyes still peeled on the clearing halfway up the hillside. The kidnapper must have picked the spot upstream because he knew the old man would be able to walk across at that point without getting the money wet.

  She left the stream, wet clothes clinging to her body, Tess’s wailing louder and louder as she climbed the hill on the other side, alert for movement.

  “Tess?” she whispered. “Tess?”

  The crying was now a shrill, piercing wail that reverberated all around her. A few more yards and she’d be at the spot where she thought the old man had left the bag. Tess would be nearby. She’d pick her up and calm her and then—

  Holy God. She froze, one hand covering her mouth. The duffel bag was still there…The kidnapper hadn’t picked it up. Unless it was empty. Please, God, let it be empty. She walked as quickly and quietly as she could to the bag, unzipped it a few inches. Thick packets of bills were crammed right up to the opening.

  Shit, the kidnapper must still be—

  An explosion, then a whizzing sound just inches from her ear. She spun around in time to see the dark-clad figure duck behind a tree. Her right ear was ringing from the explosion—the gunshot—but as she ran for the shelter of a large boulder wedged into the hillside she realized that the woods were otherwise completely quiet: Tess had stopped crying.

  She crouched behind the rock, gasping for air, trembling. Nothing moved, at least she heard nothing move; from behind the boulder she couldn’t see the clearing. Where was Tess? Why had she quieted down so suddenly? What if the bullet—

  Something moved behind her and she jumped. A fat gray squirrel scampered up a tree. Slowly, legs jittery, she started to stand. As soon as her eyes cleared the top of the boulder there was a second
shot and an explosion just to the left of her. She felt something sting her face as she threw herself on the ground behind the rock. Blood dripped onto her shirt…She’d been hit.

  No, not hit, just scratched on the neck by the spray of rock fragments. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to think. Another gunshot. She flattened herself against the rock. This one sounded as though it came from across the stream. She slid over to the edge of the boulder and peeked out. Nick Lawrence was charging down the far side of the ravine, a gun thrust in front of him.

  Still another gunshot from directly in front of the boulder. Nick ducked to the side, taking cover behind a tree, and fired back.

  “Where’s my daughter?” he shouted. “Where is Tess?”

  He was answered by another shot, which he returned immediately. Where was Tess? Gwen crawled to the other side of the boulder and looked out, catching a glimpse of the kidnapper crouched behind a tree. Tall, face covered by a black ski mask, a bulky black parka disguising the contours of his body. But no Tess.

  Why the hell had she gotten involved? If she’d minded her own goddamn business the kidnapper would have grabbed the money and taken off, leaving Tess behind. Now bullets were flying, Tess was ominously silent…

  She peered around the side of the rock. Nick was running from one tree to another, his gun still pointed across the stream at the kidnapper, who was out of her line of sight. Nick was approaching the stream, but couldn’t possibly cross it, not without making himself a clear target. And yet he was heading right for them.

  “Nick, go back!” she shouted. He glanced at her and froze for a second. A shot was fired, hitting the ground a few feet from him and scattering dirt into the air. He jumped behind a tree, then emerged and plunged into the stream.

  “Get the police!” she yelled. “Don’t try to cross the—”