Where Are the Children?

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Ray got up to open the door for her, and when she came in with the steaming cups he carefully closed it.

  “Peace,” he said contritely. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “I believe that,” Dorothy said, “and it’s all right, but what’s the matter?”

  “Sit down, please.” Ray gestured to the rust-colored leather chair by his desk. He took his coffee to the window and stared moodily out at the graying landscape.

  “How would you like to come to our house for dinner tonight?” he asked. “We’re celebrating Nancy’s birthday.”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath and spun around. “Do you think it’s a mistake?”

  Dorothy was the only one on the Cape who knew about Nancy. Nancy herself had told her and asked her advice before she had agreed to marry Ray.

  Dorothy’s voice and eyes were speculative as she answered. “I don’t know, Ray. What’s the thinking behind a celebration?”

  “The thinking is that you can’t pretend that Nancy doesn’t have birthdays! Of course, it’s more than just that. It’s that Nancy has got to break with the past, to stop hiding.”

  “Can she break with the past? Can she stop hiding with the prospect of another murder trial always hanging over her?”

  “But that’s just it. The prospect. Dorothy, do you realize that that fellow who testified against her hasn’t been seen or heard of for over six years? God knows where he is now or if he’s even alive. For all we know, he’s sneaked back into this country under another name and is just as anxious as Nancy not to start the whole business up. Don’t forget, he’s officially a deserter from the Army. There’s a pretty stiff penalty waiting for him if he’s caught.”

  “That’s probably true,” Dorothy agreed.

  “It is true. And take it one step further. Level with me, now. What do people in this town think of Nancy?—and I include the girls in my own office here.”

  Dorothy hesitated. “They think she’s very pretty . . . they admire the way she wears clothes . . . they say she’s always pleasant . . . and they think she keeps to herself pretty much.”

  “That’s a nice way of putting it. I’ve heard cracks about my wife thinking she’s ‘too good for the folks around here.’ At the club I’m getting more and more ribbing about why I only have a golf membership and why I don’t bring that beautiful wife of mine around. Last week Michael’s school called and asked if Nancy would consider working on some committee. Needless to say, she turned them down. Last month I finally got her to go to the realtors’ dinner, and when they took the group picture, she was in the ladies’ room.”

  “She’s afraid of being recognized.”

  “I understand that. But don’t you see that that possibility gets less likely all the time? And even if someone said to her, ‘You’re a dead ringer for that girl from California who was accused’ . . . well, you know what I mean, Dorothy. For most people it would end there. A resemblance. Period. God, remember that guy who used to pose for all those whiskey and bank ads, the one who was a ringer for Lyndon Johnson? I was in the Army with his nephew. People do look like other people. It’s that simple. And if there ever is another trial, I want Nancy to be entrenched with the people here. I want them to feel she’s one of them and that they’re rooting for her. Because after she’s acquitted, she’ll have to come here and take up life again. We all will.”

  “And if there’s a trial and she isn’t acquitted?”

  “I simply won’t consider that possibility,” Ray said flatly. “How about it? Have we got a date tonight?”

  “I’d like very much to come,” Dorothy said. “And I agree with most of what you’ve said.”

  “Most?”

  “Yes.” She looked at him steadily. “I think you’ve got to ask yourself how much of this sudden desire to opt for a more normal life is just for Nancy and how much because of other motives.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Ray, I was here when the Secretary of State of Massachusetts urged you to go into politics because the Cape needs young men of your caliber to represent it. I heard him say that he’d give you any help and endorsement possible. It’s pretty hard not to be able to take him up on that. But as things stand now, you can’t. And you know it.”

  Dorothy left the room without giving him a chance to answer. Ray finished the coffee and sat down at his desk. The anger and irritation and tension drained from him, and he felt depressed and ashamed of himself. She was right, of course. He did want to pretend that there wasn’t any threat hanging over them, that everything was just nifty. And he had a hell of a nerve, too. He’d known what he was getting into when he’d married Nancy. If he hadn’t, she certainly had pointed it out. She’d done her best to warn him.

  Ray stared unseeingly at the mail on his desk, thinking of the times in the last few months when he’d blown up unreasonably at Nancy just the way he had this morning at Dorothy. Like the way he had acted when she had shown him the watercolor she’d done of the house. She should study art. Even now she was good enough to exhibit locally. He’d said, “It’s very good. Now which closet are you going to hide it in?”

  Nancy had looked so stricken, so defenseless. He’d wanted to bite his tongue off. He’d said, “Honey, I’m so sorry. It’s just that I’m so proud of you. I want you to show it off.”

  How many of these flare-ups were being caused because he was tired of the constant constriction on their activities?

  He sighed and started going through his mail.

  At quarter past ten, Dorothy threw open the door of his office. Her usually healthy pink complexion was a sickly grayish white. He jumped up to go to her. But shaking her head, she pushed the door closed behind her and held out the paper she’d been hiding under her arm.

  It was the weekly Cape Cod Community News. Dorothy had it open to the second section, the one that always featured a human-interest story. She dropped it on his desk.

  Together they stared down at the large picture that to anyone was unmistakably Nancy. It was one he’d never seen before, in her tweed suit, with her hair pulled back and already darkened. The caption under it said, CAN THIS BE A HAPPY BIRTHDAY FOR NANCY HARMON? Another picture showed Nancy leaving the courtroom during her trial, her face wooden and expressionless, her hair cascading down her shoulders. A third picture was a copy of a snapshot of Nancy with her arms around two young children.

  The first line of the story read: “Somewhere today Nancy Harmon is celebrating her 32nd birthday and the seventh anniversary of the death of the children she was found guilty of murdering.”

  4

  IT WAS TIMING. The whole universe existed because of split-second timing. Now his timing would be perfect. Hurriedly, he backed the station wagon out of the garage. It was such a cloudy day it had been hard to see much through the telescope, but he could tell that she’d been putting the children’s coats on.

  He felt in his pocket and the needles were there—filled, ready to use, to produce instant unconsciousness; dreamless, absolute sleep.

  He could feel the perspiration starting under his arms and in his groin, and great beads of it were forming on his forehead and rolling down his cheeks. That was bad. It was a cold day. Mustn’t look excited or nervous.

  He took a precious few seconds to dab his face with the old towel he kept on the front seat and glanced over his shoulder. The canvas raincoat was the kind many Cape men kept in their cars, especially around fishing season; so were the rods that showed against the back window. But that coat was big enough to cover two small children. He giggled excitedly and swung the car toward Route 6A.

  Wiggins’ Market was on the corner of this road and Route 6A. Whenever he was at the Cape he shopped there. Of course, he brought most of the staples he needed with him whenever he came to stay. It was too risky to go out much. There was always the chance that he’d run into Nancy and she’d recognize him even with his changed appearance. It had almost happened four years ago. He’d been in a supermarket in Hyannis Port
and he’d heard her voice behind him. He was reaching for a jar of coffee, and her hand went right up next to his as she took a jar from the same shelf. She was saying, “Wait a minute, Mike. I want to get something here,” and while he froze, she brushed against him and murmured “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t dare to answer—just stood there—and she moved on. He was positive she hadn’t even looked at him. But after that he had never risked a meeting. It was necessary, though, for him to establish a casual routine in Adams Port, because someday it might be important for people to dismiss his comings and goings as routine. That was why he bought milk and bread and meat at Wiggins’ Market always about ten in the morning. Nancy never left the house before eleven, and even then she always went to Lowery’s Market, down the road a half mile. And the Wigginses had begun to greet him as a customer of long standing. Well, he’d be there in a few minutes, right on schedule.

  There wasn’t anyone out walking at all. The raw wind was probably discouraging any inclination to go outdoors. He was almost to Route 6A and slowed to a full stop.

  The incredible luck. There wasn’t a car in either direction. Quickly he accelerated, and the station wagon shot across the main street and onto the road that ran along the back of the Eldredge property. Audacity—that was all it took. Any fool could try to come up with a foolproof plan. But to have a plan so simple that it was unbelievable even to call it a plan—a schedule timed to the split second—that was real genius. To willingly leave yourself open to failure—to tightrope-walk across a dozen pits so that when the act was accomplished no one even glanced in your direction—that was the way.

  Ten minutes of ten. The children had probably been out one minute now. Oh, he knew the possibilities. One of them might have gone into the house to the bathroom or for a drink of water, but not likely, not likely. Every day for a month straight he’d watched them. Unless it was actually raining, they came out to play. She never came to check them for ten to fifteen minutes. They never went back into the house for those same ten minutes.

  Nine minutes of ten. He steered the car into the dirt road on their property. The community paper would be delivered in a few minutes. That article would be out today. Motivation for Nancy to explode into violence . . . exposure of her part . . . all the people in this town talking in shocked tones, walking by this house, staring . . .

  He stopped the car halfway into the woods. No one could see it from the road. She couldn’t see it from the house. He got out quickly and, keeping close to the protection of the trees, hurried to the children’s play area. The leaves were off most of the trees, but there were enough pines and other evergreens to shield him.

  He could hear the children’s voices before he saw them. The boy, his voice panting a little—he must be pushing the girl on the swing . . . “We’ll ask Daddy what to buy for Mommy. I’ll take both our money.”

  The girl laughed. “Good, Mike, good. Higher, Mike—push me higher, please.”

  He stole up behind the boy, who heard him in that last second. He had an impression of startled blue eyes and a mouth that rounded in terror before he covered both with one hand and with the other plunged the needle through the woolen mitten. The boy tried to pull away, stiffened, then crumpled noiselessly to the ground.

  The swing was coming back—the girl calling, “Push, Mike—don’t stop pushing.” He caught the swing by the right side chain, stopped it and encircled the small, uncomprehending wiggly body. Carefully stifling the soft cry, he plunged the other needle through the red mitten that had a smiling kitten face sewn on the back. An instant later, the girl sighed and slumped against him.

  He didn’t notice that one mitten caught on the swing and was pulled off as he easily lifted both children in his arms and ran to the car.

  At five minutes of ten they were crumpled under the canvas raincoat. He backed down the dirt road and onto the paved highway behind Nancy’s property. He cursed as he saw a small Dodge sedan coming toward him. It slowed up slightly to let him pull into the right lane, and he turned his head away.

  Damn the luck. As he passed, he managed a swift side-long glance at the driver of the other car and got an impression of a sharp nose and thin chin silhouetted from under a shapeless hat. The other driver didn’t seem to turn his head at all.

  He had a fleeting feeling of familiarity: probably someone from the Cape, but maybe not aware that the station wagon he had slowed up for had come off the narrow dirt road leading from the Eldredge property. Most people weren’t observant. In a few minutes this man probably wouldn’t even have a recollection of having slowed for an instant to let a car complete a turn.

  He watched the Dodge through the rearview mirror until it disappeared. With a grunt of satisfaction, he adjusted the mirror so that it reflected the canvas raincoat on the back deck. It was apparently tossed casually over fishing gear. Satisfied, he flipped the mirror back into place without looking into it again. If he had looked into it, he would have seen that the car he had just been watching was slowing, backing up.

  At four minutes past ten he walked into Wiggins’ Market and grunted a greeting as he reached into the refrigerator section for a quart of milk.

  5

  NANCY CAME DOWN THE STEEP STAIRCASE precariously balancing an armful of towels and sheets, pajamas and underwear. On impulse she’d decided to do a wash that could be hung outdoors to dry before the storm broke. Winter was here. It was on the edge of the yard, forcing the last few dead leaves off the trees. It was settling into the dirt road that now was as hardened as concrete. It was changing the color of the bay into a smoky gray-blue.

  Outside, the storm was building, but now, while there was still some weak sun, she’d take advantage of it. She loved the fresh smell of sheets dried outside; loved to pull them against her face as she drifted off to sleep with the way they captured the faint scent of cranberry bogs and pine and the salty smell of the sea—so different from the coarse, rough, dank smell of prison sheets. She pushed the thought away.

  At the foot of the staircase she started to turn in the direction of the back door, then stopped. How foolish. The children were fine. They’d been out only fifteen minutes, and this frantic anxiety that was her constant albatross had to be conquered. Even now she suspected that Missy sensed it and was beginning to respond to her overprotection. She’d turn the wash on, then call them in. While they watched their ten-thirty television program, she’d have a second cup of coffee and look at the weekly Cape Cod Community News. With the season over, there might be some good antiques available and not at tourist prices. She wanted an old-fashioned settee for the parlor—the high-backed kind they used to call a “settle” in the seventeen-hundreds.

  In the laundry room off the kitchen she sorted the wash, tossed the sheets and towels into the machine, added detergent and bleach and finally pushed the button to start the cycle.

  Now it surely was time to call the children. But at the front door she detoured. The paper had just arrived. The delivery boy was disappearing around the curve in the road. She picked it up, shivering against the increasing wind, and hurried into the kitchen. She turned the burner jet under the still-warm coffeepot. Then, anxious to get a look at the classified page, she thumbed quickly to the second section of the paper.

  Her eyes focused on the blaring headline and the pictures—all the pictures: of her and Carl and Rob Legler; the one of her with Peter and Lisa . . . that clinging, trusting way they’d always huddled up to her. Through a roaring in her ears she remembered vividly the time they’d posed for that one. Carl had taken it.

  “Don’t pay attention to me,” he’d said; “pretend I’m not here.” But they’d known he was there and had shrunk against her, and she had looked down at them as he snapped the picture. Her hands were touching their silky, dark heads.

  “No . . . no . . . no . . . no . . . !” Now her body arched in pain. Unsteadily she reached out her hand, and it hit the coffeepot, knocking it over. She drew it back, only dimly feeling the seari
ng liquid that splattered on her fingers.

  She had to burn the paper. Michael and Missy mustn’t see it. That was it. She’d burn the paper so that no one could see it. She ran to the fireplace in the dining room.

  The fireplace . . . that wasn’t cheery and warm and protecting anymore. Because there was no haven . . . there never could be a haven for her. She squeezed the paper together and reached unsteadily for the box of matches on the mantel. A wisp of smoke and a flame, and then the paper began to burn as she stuffed it between the logs.

  Everyone on the Cape was reading that paper. They’d know . . . they’d all know. The one picture they’d surely recognize. She didn’t even remember that anyone had seen her after she’d cut her hair and dyed it. The paper was burning brightly now. She watched as the picture with Peter and Lisa flamed, and charred and curled. Dead, both of them; and she’d be better off with them. There was no place to hide for her . . . or to forget. Ray could take care of Michael and Missy. Tomorrow in Michael’s class the children would be looking at him, whispering, pointing their fingers.

  The children. She must save the children. No, get the children. That was it. They’d catch cold.

  She stumbled to the back door and pulled it open. “Peter . . . Lisa . . .” she called. No, no! It was Michael and Missy. They were her children.

  “Michael. Missy. Come here. Come in now!” Her wail heightened to a shriek. Where were they? She hurried out to the backyard, unmindful of the cold that bit through her light sweater.

  The swing. They must have gotten off the swing. They were probably in the woods. “Michael. Missy. Michael! Missy! Don’t hide! Come here now!”

  The swing was still moving. The wind was making it sway. Then she saw the mitten. Missy’s mitten, caught in the metal loops of the swing.

  From far off she heard a sound. What sound? The children.

  The lake! They must be at the lake. They weren’t supposed to go there, but maybe they had. They’d be found. Like the others. In the water. Their faces wet and swollen and still.