Where Are the Children?

by Mary Higgins Clark

  When Nancy had left Missy at the office with her yesterday, she’d said, “Please make her keep her mittens on when you go out. Her hands get so cold.” Nancy had laughed as she handed Dorothy the mittens, saying, “As you can see, they don’t match—and I’m not trying to set a style. This kid is always losing mittens.” She’d given her one red mitten with a smile face and a blue-and-green-checked one.

  Dorothy remembered the cheerful smile with which Missy had held up her hands when they’d gone for their drive. “Mommy said don’t forget my mittens, Aunt Dorothy,” she’d warned reproachfully. Later on, when they’d picked up Mike and stopped for ice cream, she’d asked, “Is it all right if I take my mittens off when I eat my cone?” Blessed little baby. Dorothy dabbed at the tears that rushed to her eyes.

  Determinedly she composed herself and turned back to John Kragopoulos, who had just finished making notes on the size of the room. “You don’t get high ceilings like these anymore except in these wonderful old houses,” he exulted.

  She couldn’t tolerate being here like this any longer. “Let’s go upstairs now,” she said abruptly. “I think you’ll like the view from the apartment.” She led the way back into the hall and to the front staircase. “Oh, did you notice that there are four heat zones in this house? It saves a lot on fuel bills.”

  They walked up the two flights of stairs quickly. “The third floor is exactly like the second floor,” she explained as they passed it. “Mr. Parrish has been renting the apartment on and off for six or seven years, I guess. His rent is quite minimal; but Mr. Eldredge felt that the presence of a tenant discourages vandals. Here we are—just down the hall.” She knocked at the door of the apartment. There was no answer. “Mr. Parrish,” she called. “Mr. Parrish.”

  She began to open her handbag. “That’s strange. I can’t imagine where he’d go without his car. But I’ve got a key here somewhere.” She started to rummage through her bag, feeling unreasonable annoyance. Over the phone Mr. Parrish had obviously been unhappy that she was bringing someone over. If he had been going out, he might have told her. She hoped the apartment was tidy. There weren’t that many people looking for a three-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar investment. They hadn’t had even a nibble on the property in nearly a year.

  Dorothy did not realize that the handle was being turned from the inside. But when the door was pulled open abruptly, she looked up and gasped and stared into the searching eyes and perspiring face of the fourth-floor tenant, Courtney Parrish.

  “What a dreadful day for you to have to come.” Parrish’s tone was courteous as he stepped aside to let them pass. By holding the door back and getting out of the way, he reasoned, he might be able to avoid shaking hands. He could feel that his hands were drenched in perspiration.

  His eyes darted from one to the other. Had they heard the little girl—that one cry? He was such a fool . . . getting too eager. After the phone call, he’d had to hurry so much. Picking up the children’s clothing, in his excitement he’d almost missed the little girl’s undershirt. Then the can of baby powder had spilled. He’d had to wipe that up.

  He’d taped the children’s hands and feet and mouths and hidden them in that secret room behind the fireplace downstairs that he’d discovered months ago in wandering through the house. He knew those hidden rooms were peculiar to many old Cape houses. The early settlers used to hide in them during Indian attacks. But then he’d panicked. Suppose that fool of a real estate woman knew about that room and decided to show it? It was reached by a spring in the built-in bookcase in the main room downstairs.

  Suppose she knew about it; just suppose. Even as Dorothy’s Buick sedan pulled up and into the garage, he had dashed from his watching point at the window and rushed down to get the children. He’d carried them up and thrown them into one of the deep closets in the bedroom. Better . . . much better. He could say that he used that closet for storage and couldn’t find the key. Since he had put a new lock on, that fool of a real estate woman couldn’t possibly have a duplicate. Besides, the other closet in the room was practically the same size. She could show that one. That was where he could make a mistake . . . by getting complicated.

  They’d dallied downstairs long enough for him to make one last inspection of the apartment; he hadn’t missed anything, he was sure. The tub was still full, but he’d decided to leave it. He knew he’d sounded too annoyed over the phone. Let Dorothy think that that was the reason; he’d been just about to bathe. That would justify annoyance.

  He wanted so much to get back to the little girl that it was painful. From deep in his loins he felt frantic desire. Right now, there she was, just a few feet from them all, behind that door, her little body half-naked. Oh, he couldn’t wait! Be careful. Be careful. He tried to pay attention to the voice of reason that kept cautioning him, but it was so hard. . . .

  “John Kragopoulos.” That damn fellow was insisting on shaking his hand. Clumsily he tried to dry his palm on his trouser leg before grasping the outstretched hand that he could not ignore. “Courtney Parrish,” he said sullenly.

  He could see the fleeting expression of distaste come over the other man’s face when their hands touched. Probably a damned fag. Half the restaurants on this side of the Cape were run by fags. Now they wanted this house too. Well, fine. After today he wouldn’t need it.

  Suddenly he realized that if this house were sold, no one would ever find it suspicious if as Courtney Parrish he didn’t come back to the Cape. Then he could lose weight and let his hair grow and totally change his appearance again, because he would want to be here for Nancy’s trial, after they found the children’s bodies and accused her. Why, this wasn’t a problem at all. Fate was playing into his hands. This was meant to be.

  He shuddered as a wave of exhilaration surged through his body. Why, he could even ask about Nancy. It would be only neighborly. Feeling suddenly confident, he said courteously, “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Kragopoulos, and rue the weather in which you first observe this wonderful house.” Miraculously, the dampness was leaving his hands and armpits and groin.

  The tension in the small foyer relaxed tangibly. He realized that most of it was emanating from Dorothy anyway. Why not? He’d seen her countless times in these past years, in and out of the Eldredge house, pushing the children on the swing, taking them in her car. He had her number: one of those dreary middle-aged widows trying to be important to someone; a parasite. Husband dead. No children. A miracle she didn’t have a sick old mother. Most of them did. That helped them to be martyrs to their friends. So nice to Mother. Why? Because they needed to be nice to someone. They had to be important. And if they had children, they concentrated on them. The way Nancy’s mother had.

  “I have been listening to the radio,” he said to Dorothy, “and am so disturbed. Have the Eldredge children been found yet?”

  “No.” Dorothy felt all her nerve endings tingling. From inside she could hear that the radio was on. She caught the word “bulletin.” “Excuse me,” she cried, and hurried into the living room and over to the radio. Swiftly she turned up the volume. “ . . . storm increasing. Gale winds from fifty to sixty miles an hour are predicted. Driving is hazardous. The air and water search for the Eldredge children has been suspended indefinitely. Special patrol cars will continue cruising in Adams Port and vicinity. Chief Coffin of Adams Port urges that anyone who believes he or she may have any information report it at once. He urges that any untoward incident be discussed with the police, such as a strange vehicle that may have been seen in the neighborhood of the Eldredge home; any unfamiliar person or persons in the area. Call this special number: KL five, three eight hundred. Your privacy will be respected.”

  The commentator’s voice continued. “Despite the urgent appeal for clues to the missing children, we have it on good authority that Mrs. Nancy Harmon Eldredge will be taken to Police Headquarters for questioning.”

  She had to go to Nancy and Ray. Dorothy turned to John Kragopoulos abruptly. “As you can s
ee, this is a charming apartment quite suitable for two people. The view from both the front and back windows in this room is really spectacular.”

  “You are an astronomer, perhaps?” John Kragopoulos spoke to Courtney Parrish.

  “Not really. Why do you ask?”

  “It is just that magnificent telescope.”

  Belatedly, Parrish realized that the telescope was still positioned facing the Eldredge house. Seeing that John Kragopoulos was about to look through it he gave it an abrupt push so that it tilted upward.

  “I enjoy studying the stars,” he volunteered hastily.

  John Kragopoulos squinted as he looked through the lens. “Magnificent equipment,” he cried. “Simply magnificent.” Carefully he manipulated the telescope until it was pointing in the same direction as it had been when he had first noticed it. Then, sensing the other man’s antagonism, he straightened up and began to study the room. “This is a well-laid-out apartment,” he commented to Dorothy.

  “I have been most comfortable here,” Parrish volunteered. Inwardly he was fuming at himself. Once more he had suspiciously overreacted. The moisture was pouring from his body again. Had he forgotten anything else? Was there any sign of the children around? Frantically his eyes darted around the room. Nothing.

  Dorothy said, “I’d like to show the bedroom and bath if it’s all right.”

  “Of course.”

  He’d straightened the coverlet on the bed and shoved the can of baby powder into the night-table drawer.

  “The bathroom is as large as most of today’s second bedrooms,” Dorothy told John Kragopoulos. Then, as she glanced around it, she said, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She stared down at the filled tub. “We did catch you at an inconvenient time. You were just about to bathe.”

  “I have no rigid schedule to follow.” Despite the words, he managed to leave the impression that she had indeed inconvenienced him.

  John Kragopoulos stepped back into the bedroom hastily. He realized that this man obviously resented their coming. Leaving the tub like that was a clumsy way of making the point. And that duck floating in the tub. A child’s toy. He winced, disgusted. His hand touched the closet door. The satiny quality of the wood intrigued him. Really, this house was beautifully constructed. John Kragopoulos was a hardheaded businessman, but he also believed in instinct. His instinct told him that this house would be a good investment. They wanted three hundred and fifty thousand for it. . . . He’d offer two ninety-five and come up to three twenty. He was sure he could get it for that.

  The decision finalized in his mind, he began to take a proprietary interest in the apartment. “May I open this closet?” he asked. The question was perfunctory. He was already turning the handle.

  “I’m sorry. I changed the lock on that closet and can’t seem to find the key. If you’ll look in this other closet . . . they’re practically identical.”

  Dorothy looked sharply at the new handle and lock. Both were run-of-the-mill low-priced hardware-store items. “I do hope you kept the original handle,” she said. “All the doorknobs were specially cast solid brass.”

  “Yes, I have it. It needs fixing.” God, would that woman insist on turning the handle? Suppose the new lock gave? It wasn’t a very tight fit into the old wood. Suppose it slid open?

  Dorothy relaxed her grip on the handle. The slight flare of annoyance she’d felt vanished as quickly as it had come. What, in the name of heaven, difference did it make if all the brass handles all over the universe were changed? Who cared?

  Parrish had to clamp his lips together to keep from ordering that nosy woman and her prospective buyer out. The children were just on the other side of the door. Had he tightened their gags enough? Would they hear the familiar voice and try to make some kind of sound? He had to get rid of these people.

  But Dorothy wanted to go too. She was aware of an indefinably familiar scent in the bedroom—one that made her acutely aware of Missy. She turned to John Kragopoulos. “Perhaps we should start . . . if you’re ready.”

  He nodded. “I’m quite ready, thank you.” He started to leave, this time obviously avoiding shaking hands. Dorothy followed him. “Thank you, Mr. Parrish,” she said hastily over her shoulder. “I’ll be in touch with you.”

  She led the way down the stairs to the main floor in silence. They went through the kitchen, and when she opened the back door she could see why the gale warnings were in effect. The wind had heightened sharply in the brief time they’d been in the house. Oh, God, the children would die of exposure if they were outside all this time.

  “We’d better make a dash for the garage,” she said. John Kragopoulos, looking preoccupied, nodded and took her arm. Together they ran, not bothering to stay under the overhang. With the increased wind velocity there was simply no protection from the sleet, which was now finely blended with snow.

  In the garage, Dorothy walked between the station wagon and her car and opened the door on the driver’s side. As she began to slide into her car, she glanced down. A bright red scrap of material on the garage floor caught her eye. Getting out of the car again, she bent down, picked it up, then slumped back into the car seat holding the object against her cheek. John Kragopoulos, sounding alarmed, asked, “My dear Mrs. Prentiss, what is wrong?”

  “It’s the mitten!” Dorothy cried. “It’s Missy’s. She was wearing it yesterday when I took her out for ice cream. She must have left it in the car. I guess I kicked it out when I got out of the car before. She was always losing her mittens. She never had two on that matched. We always joked about that. And this morning, they found the mate of this one on the swing.” Dorothy began to sob—a dry, hacking sound that she tried to stifle by holding the mitten against her lips.

  John Kragopoulos said quietly, “There is little that I can say except to remind you that a merciful and loving God is aware of your pain and the agony of the parents. He will not fail your need. Somehow I am confident of that. Now, please, wouldn’t you like me to drive?”

  “Please,” Dorothy said in a muffled voice. She pushed the mitten deep into her pocket as she slid over. She wouldn’t want Nancy or Ray to see it; it would be too heartbreaking. Oh, Missy, Missy! She’d taken it off when she started to eat the cone yesterday. She could see her dropping it on the seat. Oh, the poor little kids.

  John Kragopoulos was glad to be driving. A great restlessness had come over him in the room with that hideous man. There was something too slimy and sour-smelling about him. And that scent of baby powder in the bedroom and that incredible toy in the tub. How could a grown man need such trappings?

  Upstairs, Parrish stood to one side and watched from the window until the car had disappeared around the bend in the lane. Then, with trembling fingers, he drew out the key from his pocket and unlocked the closet door.

  The boy was conscious. His sandy hair fell on his forehead, and his large blue eyes were filled with terror as he stared mutely up. His mouth was still securely taped and his hands and legs still firmly tied.

  Roughly he pushed the child aside and reached past him for the little girl. He lifted out her limp body and laid her on the bed—then shrieked in outrage and despair as he stared down at her closed eyes and pinched blue face. . . .

  16

  NANCY’S HANDS WERE clenching and unclenching, pulling at the coverlet. Gently, Lendon covered her fingers with his own strong, well-shaped hands. Anxiety and agitation were causing her to breathe in harsh, labored breaths.

  “Nancy, don’t worry. Everyone here knows that you couldn’t hurt your children. That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

  “Yes . . . yes . . . people think I could hurt them. How could I kill them? They are me. I died with them. . . .”

  “We all die a little death when we lose the people we love, Nancy. Think back with me before all the trouble started. Tell me what it was like when you were growing up in Ohio.”

  “Growing up?” Nancy’s voice trailed off into a whisper. The rigidity of her body began to relax.


  “Yes, tell me about your father. I never knew him.”

  Jed Coffin moved restlessly, and the chair he was sitting on made a creaking sound against the wooden floor. Lendon shot him a warning glance. “I have reason for this,” he said quietly. “Please bear with me.”

  “Daddy?” A lilt came into Nancy’s voice. She laughed softly. “He was such fun. Mother and I used to drive to the airport to pick him up when he came in from a flight. In all those years he never came back from a trip without something for Mother and me. We used to go all over the world on his vacations. They always took me with them. I remember one trip . . .”

  Ray could not take his eyes off Nancy. He had never heard her speak in that tone of voice—animated, amused, a ripple of laughter running through her words. Was this what he had been blindly trying to find in her? Was it more than being tired of living with the fear of discovery? He hoped so.

  Jonathan Knowles listened intently to Nancy, approving of the technique Lendon Miles was using to gain her confidence and relax her before asking about the details of the day the Harmon children had vanished. It was agonizing to hear the soft ticking of the grandfather clock . . . a reminder that time was passing. He realized that he was finding it impossible not to look at Dorothy. He knew he had been harsh when he spoke to her as she was getting into her car. It was his disappointment that had reacted to her deliberate falsehood—the fact that she had made a point of telling him personally about knowing Nancy as a child.

  Why had she done that? Was it perhaps that he had indicated somehow that Nancy looked familiar? Had it been simply an attempt to keep him from the truth because she couldn’t trust him with the truth? Had he perhaps been displaying what Emily used to call his “Your witness, Counsel” manner?

  In any event, he felt that he owed Dorothy an apology. She didn’t look well. The strain was telling on her. She still was wearing her heavy coat, and her hands were jammed in her pockets. He decided that he wanted to talk to her at the first opportunity. She needed calming down. She certainly thought the world of those children.