Silent Night

by Mary Higgins Clark

  2

  “God rest you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay . . .” The familiar words seemed to taunt Catherine, reminding her of the forces that threatened the happily complacent life she had assumed would be hers forever. Her husband was in the hospital with leukemia. His enlarged spleen had been removed this morning as a precaution against it rupturing, and while it was too early to tell for sure, he seemed to be doing well. Still, she could not escape the fear that he was not going to live, and the thought of life without him was almost paralyzing.

  Why didn’t I realize Tom was getting sick? she agonized. She remembered how only two weeks ago, when she’d asked him to take groceries from the car, he’d reached into the trunk for the heaviest bag, hesitated, then winced as he picked it up.

  She’d laughed at him. “Play golf yesterday. Act like an old man today. Some athlete.”

  “Where’s Brian?” Michael asked as he returned from dropping the dollar in the singer’s basket.

  Startled from her thoughts, Catherine looked down at her son. “Brian?” she said blankly. “He’s right here.” She glanced down at her side, and then her eyes scanned the area. “He had a dollar. Didn’t he go with you to give it to the singer?”

  “No,” Michael said gruffly. “He probably kept it instead. He’s a dork.”

  “Stop it,” Catherine said. She looked around, suddenly alarmed. “Brian,” she called “Brian.” The carol was over, the crowd dispersing. Where was Brian? He wouldn’t just walk away, surely. “Brian,” she called out again, this time loudly, alarm clear in her voice.

  A few people turned and looked at her curiously. “A little boy,” she said, becoming frightened. “He’s wearing a dark blue ski jacket and a red cap. Did anyone see where he went?”

  She watched as heads shook, as eyes looked around, wanting to help. A woman pointed behind them to the lines of people waiting to see the Saks windows. “Maybe he went there?” she said in a heavy accent.

  “How about the tree? Would he have crossed the street to get up close to it?” another woman suggested.

  “Maybe the cathedral,” someone volunteered.

  “No. No, Brian wouldn’t do that. We’re going to visit his father. Brian can’t wait to see him.” As she said the words, Catherine knew that something was terribly wrong. She felt the tears that now came so easily rising behind her eyes. She fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief and realized something was missing: the familiar bulk of her wallet.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “My wallet’s gone.”

  “Mom!” And now Michael lost the surly look that had become his way of disguising the worry about his father. He was suddenly a scared ten-year-old. “Mom. Do you think Brian was kidnapped?”

  “How could he be? Nobody could just drag him off. That’s impossible.” Catherine felt her legs were turning to rubber. “Call the police,” she cried. “My little boy is missing.”

  * * *

  The station was crowded. Hundreds of people were rushing in every direction. There were Christmas decorations all over the place. It was noisy, too. Sound of all kinds echoed through the big space, bouncing off the ceiling high above him. A man with his arm full of packages bumped a sharp elbow into Brian’s ear. “Sorry, kid.”

  He was having trouble keeping up with the woman who had his mom’s wallet. He kept losing sight of her. He struggled to get around a family with a couple of kids who were blocking his way. He got past them, but bumped into a lady who glared down at him. “Be careful,” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry,” Brian said politely, looking up at her. In that second he almost lost the woman he was following, catching up to-her again as she went down a staircase and hurried through a long corridor that led to a subway station. When she went through a turnstile, he slipped under the next one and followed her onto a train.

  The car was so crowded he could hardly get in. The woman was standing, hanging on to a bar that ran over the seats along the side. Brian stood near her, his hand gripping a pole. They went only one long stop, then she pushed her way to the opening doors. So many people were in Brian’s way that he almost didn’t get out of the subway car in time, and then he had to hurry to catch up with her. He chased after her as she went up the stairs to another train.

  This time the car wasn’t as crowded, and Brian stood near an old lady who reminded him of his grandmother. The woman in the dark raincoat got off at the second stop and he followed her, his eyes fixed on her ponytail as she practically ran up the stairs to the street.

  They emerged on a busy corner. Buses raced past in both directions, rushing to get across the wide street before the light turned red. Brian glanced behind him. As far as he could see down the block there were nothing but apartment houses. Light streamed from hundreds of windows.

  The lady with the wallet stood waiting for the light to turn. The WALK sign flashed on, and he followed his quarry across the street. When she reached the other side she turned left and walked quickly down the now sloping sidewalk. As he followed her, Brian took a quick look at the street sign. When they visited last summer, his mother had made a game of teaching him about street signs in New York. “Gran lives on Eighty-seventh Street,” she had said. “We’re on Fiftieth. How many blocks away is her apartment?” This sign said Fourteenth Street. He had to remember that, he told himself, as he fell in step behind the woman with his mom’s wallet.

  He felt snowflakes on his face. It was getting windy, and the cold stung his cheeks. He wished a cop would come along so he could ask for help, but he didn’t see one anywhere. He knew what he was going to do anyway—he would follow the lady to where she lived. He still had the dollar his mother had given him for the man who was playing the violin. He would get change and call his grandmother, and she’d send a cop who would get his mom’s wallet back.

  It’s a good plan, he thought to himself. In fact, he was sure of it. He had to get the wallet, and the medal that was inside. He thought of how after Mom had said that the medal wouldn’t do any good, Gran had put it in her hand and said, Please give it to Tom and have faith.

  The look on his grandmother’s face had been so calm and so sure that Brian knew she was right. Once he got the medal back and they gave it to his dad, he would get well. Brian knew it.

  The woman with the ponytail started to walk faster. He chased after her as she crossed one street and went to the end of another block. Then she turned right.

  The street they were on now wasn’t bright with decorated store windows like the one they had just left. Some places were boarded up and there was a lot of writing on the buildings and some of the streetlights were broken. A guy with a beard was sitting on the curb, clutching a bottle. He stretched out his hand to Brian as he passed him.

  For the first time, Brian felt scared, but he kept his eyes on the woman. The snow was falling faster now, and the sidewalk was getting slippery. He stumbled once, but managed not to fall. He was out of breath trying to keep up with the lady. How far was she going? he wondered. Four blocks later he had his answer. She stepped into the entranceway to an old building, stuck her key in the lock, and went inside. Brian raced to catch the door before it closed behind her, but he was too late. The door was locked.

  Brian didn’t know what to do next, but then through the glass he saw a man coming toward him. As the man opened the door and hurried past him, Brian managed to grab it and to duck inside before it closed again.

  The hall was dark and dirty, and the smell of stale food hung in the air. Ahead of him he could hear footsteps going up the stairs. Gulping to swallow his fear, and trying to not make noise, Brian slowly began to climb to the first landing. He would see where the lady went; then he would get out of there and find a telephone. Maybe instead of calling Gran, he would dial 91l, he thought.

  His mom had taught him that that was what he should do when he really needed help.

  Which so far he didn’t.

  * * *

  “All right, Mrs. Dornan. Describe your son to m
e,” the police officer said soothingly.

  “He’s seven and small for his age,” Catherine said. She could hear the shrillness in her voice. They were sitting in a squad car, parked in front of Saks, near the spot where the violinist had been playing.

  She felt Michael’s hand clutch hers reassuringly.

  “What color hair?” the officer asked.

  Michael answered, “Like mine. Kind of reddish. His eyes are blue. He’s got freckles and one of his front teeth is missing. He has the same kind of pants I’m wearing, and his jacket is like mine ’cept it’s blue and mine is green. He’s skinny.”

  The policeman looked approvingly at Michael. “You’re a real help, son. Now, ma’am, you say your wallet is missing? Do you think you might have dropped it, or did anyone brush against you? I mean, could it have been a pickpocket?”

  “I don’t know,” Catherine said. “I don’t care about the wallet. But when I gave the boys money for the violinist, I probably didn’t push it down far enough in my purse. It was quite bulky and might have just fallen out.”

  “Your son wouldn’t have picked it up and decided to go shopping?”

  “No, no, no,” Catherine said with a flash of anger, shaking her head emphatically. “Please don’t waste time even considering that.”

  “Where do you live, ma’am? What I mean is, do you want to call anyone?” The policeman looked at the rings on Catherine’s left hand. “Your husband?”

  “My husband is in Sloan-Kettering hospital. He’s very ill. He’ll be wondering where we are. In fact, we should be with him soon. He’s expecting us.” Catherine put her hand on the door of the squad car. “I can’t just sit here. I’ve got to look for Brian.”

  “Mrs. Dornan, I’m going to get Brian’s description out right now. In three minutes every cop in Manhattan is going to be on the lookout for him. You know, he may have just wandered away and gotten confused. It happens. Do you come downtown often?”

  “We used to live in New York, but we live in Nebraska now,” Michael told him. “We visit my grandmother every summer. She lives on Eighty-seventh Street. We came back last week because my dad has leukemia and he needed an operation. He went to medical school with the doctor who operated on him.”

  Manuel Ortiz had been a policeman only a year, but already he had come in contact with grief and despair many times. He saw both in the eyes of this young woman. She had a husband who was very sick, now a missing kid. It was obvious to him that she could easily go into shock.

  “Dad’s gonna know something’s wrong,” Michael said, worried. “Mom, shouldn’t you go see him?”

  “Mrs. Dornan, how about leaving Michael with us? We’ll stay here in case Brian tries to make his way back. We’ll have all our guys looking for him. We’ll fan out and use bullhorns to get him to contact us in case he’s wandering around in the neighborhood somewhere. I’ll get another car to take you up to the hospital and wait for you.”

  “You’ll stay right here in case he comes back?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Michael, will you keep your eyes peeled for Brian?”

  “Sure, Mom. I’ll watch out for the Dork.”

  “Don’t call him. . . .” Then Catherine saw the look on her son’s face. He’s trying to get a rise out of me, she thought. He’s trying to convince me that Brian is fine. That he’ll be fine.

  She put her arms around Michael and felt his small, gruff embrace in return.

  “Hang in there, Mom,” he said.

  3

  Jimmy Siddons cursed silently as he walked through the oval near Avenue B in the Stuyvesant Town apartment complex. The uniform he had stripped from the prison guard gave him a respectable look but was much too dangerous to wear on the street. He’d managed to lift a filthy overcoat and knit cap from a homeless guy’s shopping cart. They helped some, but he had to find something else to wear, something decent.

  He also needed a car. He needed one that wouldn’t be missed until morning, something parked for the night, the kind of car that one of these middle-class Stuyvesant Town residents would own: medium-sized, brown or black, looking like every other Honda or Toyota or Ford on the road. Nothing fancy.

  So far he hadn’t seen the right one. He had watched as some old geezer got out of a Honda and said to his passenger, “Sure’s good to get home,” but he was driving one of those shiny red jobs that screamed for attention.

  A kid pulled up in an old heap and parked, but from the sound of the engine, Jimmy wanted no part of it. Just what he’d need, he thought; get on the Thruway and have it break down.

  He was cold and getting hungry. Ten hours in the car, he told himself. Then I’ll be in Canada and Paige will meet me there and we’ll disappear again. She was the first real girlfriend he’d ever had, and she’d been a big help to him in Detroit. He knew he never would have been caught last summer if he had cased that gas station in Michigan better. He should have known enough to check the john outside the office instead of letting himself be surprised by an off-duty cop who stepped out of it while he was holding a gun on the attendant.

  The next day he was on his way back to New York. To face trial for killing a cop.

  An older couple passed him and threw a smile in his direction. “Merry Christmas.”

  Jimmy responded with a courteous nod of the head. Then he paid close attention as he heard the woman say, “Ed, I can’t believe you didn’t put the presents for the children in the trunk. Who leaves anything in sight in a car overnight in this day and age?”

  Jimmy went around the corner and then stepped into the deep shadows on the grass as he returned to watch the couple stop in front of a dark-colored Toyota. The man opened the door. From the backseat he took a small rocking horse and handed it to the woman, then scooped up a half-dozen brightly wrapped packages. With her help he transferred everything to the trunk, relocked the car, and got back on the sidewalk.

  Jimmy listened as the woman said, “I guess the phone’s all right in the glove compartment,” and her husband answered, “Sure it is. Waste of money, as far as I’m concerned. Can’t wait to see Bobby’s face tomorrow when he opens everything.”

  He watched as they turned the corner and disappeared. Which meant from their apartment they wouldn’t be able to glance out and notice an empty parking space.

  Jimmy waited ten minutes before he walked to the car. A few snowflakes swirled around him. Two minutes later he was driving out of the complex. It was quarter after five. He was headed to Cally’s apartment on Tenth and B. He knew she’d be surprised to see him. And none too happy. She probably thought he couldn’t find her. Why did she suppose that he didn’t have a way to keep track of her even from Riker’s Island? he wondered.

  Big sister, he thought, as he drove onto Fourteenth Street, you promised Grandma you’d take care of me! “Jimmy needs guidance,” Grandma had said. “He’s in with a bad crowd. He’s too easily led.” Well, Cally hadn’t come to see him once in Riker’s. Not once. He hadn’t even heard from her.

  He’d have to be careful. He was sure the cops would be watching for him around Cally’s building. But he had that figured out, too. He used to hang around this neighborhood and knew how to get across the roofs from the other end of the block and into the building. A couple of times he’d even pulled a job there when he was a kid.

  Knowing Cally, he was sure she still kept some of Frank’s clothes in the closet. She’d been crazy about him, probably still had pictures of him all over the place. You’d never think he’d died even before Gigi was born.

  And knowing Cally, she’d have at least a few bucks to get her little brother through the tolls, he figured. He’d find a way to convince her to keep her mouth shut until he was safely in Canada with Paige.

  Paige. An image of her floated through his mind. Luscious. Blond. Only twenty-two. Crazy about him. She’d arranged everything, gotten the gun smuggled in to him. She’d never let him down or turn her back on him.

  Jimmy’s smile was unpleasant. Y
ou never tried to help me while I was rotting in Riker’s Island, he thought—but once again, sister dear, you’re going to help me get away, like it or not.

  He parked the car a block from the rear of Cally’s building and pretended to be checking a tire as he looked around. No cops in sight. Even if they were watching Cally’s place, they probably didn’t know you could get to it through the boarded-up dump. As he straightened up he cursed. Damn bumper sticker. Too noticeable. WE’RE SPENDING OUR GRANDCHILDREN’S INHERITANCE. He managed to pull most of it off.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Jimmy had picked the flimsy lock of Cally’s apartment and was inside. Some dump, he thought, as he took in the cracks in the ceiling and the worn linoleum in the tiny entranceway. But neat. Cally was always neat. A Christmas tree in the corner of what passed for a living room had a couple of small, brightly wrapped packages under it.

  Jimmy shrugged and went into the bedroom, where he ransacked the closet to find the clothes he knew would be there. After changing, he went through the place looking for money but found none. He yanked open the doors that separated the stove, refrigerator, and sink from the living room, searched unsuccessfully for a beer, settled for a Pepsi, and made himself a sandwich.

  From what his sources had told him, Cally should be home by now from her job in the hospital. He knew that on the way she picked up Gigi from the baby-sitter. He sat on the couch, his eyes riveted on the front door, his nerves jangling. He’d spent most of the few dollars he found in the guard’s pockets on food from street vendors. He had to have money for the tolls on the Thruway, as well as enough for another tank of gas. Come on, Cally, he thought, where the hell are you?

  At ten to six, he heard the key inserted in the lock. He jumped up and in three long strides was in the entryway, flattened against the wall. He waited until Cally stepped in and closed the door behind her, then put his hand over her mouth.