I'll Walk Alone

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Alvirah sighed. “Oh, Aiden, you can read a person like a book. Well, you know I’ve told you about Zan Moreland, whose little boy disappeared in Central Park.”

  “Yes. I was in Rome at that time,” he said. “No trace of the child ever?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Zan’s parents died in a car accident and she spent every cent of their insurance money hiring private detectives, but there simply hasn’t been a trace of the little guy. He’d be five today. I’d asked Zan to come to dinner, but she’s meeting her ex-husband, and that’s a mistake, too. He blames her for allowing a young babysitter to take Matthew out.”

  “I’d like to meet her,” Fr. Aiden said. “I sometimes wonder which is worse, to bury a child or to have a child disappear.”

  “Alvirah, ask Fr. Aiden about that guy you saw in church last evening,” Willy urged.

  “That was something else, Aiden. I stopped in at St. Francis yesterday—”

  “Probably to slip a donation into St. Anthony’s box,” Aiden interrupted with a smile.

  “Actually, yes. But there was a guy there and his face was in his hands, and you know sometimes you get the feeling you don’t want to crowd next to someone?”

  Fr. Aiden nodded. “I understand, and that was very thoughtful of you.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea,” Willy disagreed. “Tell Aiden what you saw, honey.”

  “Well, anyhow, I walked across the back to the last pew, where I could watch for this fellow when he left. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a good look at him, but then you came out of the Reconciliation Room and started across the atrium to the Friary. I was going to see if I could catch up with you, but then Mr. Devout, whoever he is, jumped up, lifted his dark glasses, and Aiden, let me tell you, he didn’t take his eyes off you for one minute until you were out of sight.”

  “Perhaps he wanted to go to confession and couldn’t work up his courage,” Fr. Aiden suggested. “Unfortunately, that happens, too. People want to unburden themselves, but then can’t bring themselves to admit to what they’ve been doing.”

  “No. It’s more than that. It just has me worried,” Alvirah said firmly. “I mean it does happen sometimes that some crazy person decides he’s mad at a priest. If there’s anyone you know who’s mad at you, keep an eye out for him.”

  The wrinkles on Fr. Aiden’s forehead deepened as a thought occurred to him. “Alvirah, you say that this person was kneeling at the Shrine of St. Anthony for a few minutes before I left the Reconciliation Room?”

  “Yes.” Alvirah put down the glass of wine in her hand and leaned forward. “You suspect someone, don’t you, Aiden?”

  “No,” Fr. Aiden protested unconvincingly. That young woman, he thought. She said she was powerless to prevent someone from being murdered. Was she followed into church or did someone accompany her? She had rushed into the Reconciliation Room. Maybe she came in on an impulse and then obviously regretted it?

  “Aiden, do you have security cameras at the church?” Alvirah asked.

  “Yes, at all the doors that lead into the church.”

  “Well, couldn’t you check them and see who might have come in between 5:30 and 6:30? I mean there weren’t many people there.”

  “Yes, I could do that,” Fr. Aiden agreed.

  “Would you mind if I took a look at them tomorrow morning?” Alvirah asked. “I mean I couldn’t see that guy’s face, but I did get an impression of him. On the tall side, an all-weather coat, like a Burberry. He did have a lot of black hair.”

  A tape will also show that young woman coming into church, Fr. Aiden thought. Not that I have any hope of learning who she is, but it would be interesting to get a sense of whether she was being followed. The burden of concern that he had been carrying all day deepened.

  “Of course, Alvirah, I’ll meet you in the church at nine A.M.” If someone followed the young woman and was afraid of what she might have told him, would that young woman’s own life be in danger now?

  It did not occur to the gentle friar to ask himself if his own life might be at risk because somebody feared the information that the troubled young woman had confided to him.

  9

  Promptly at 7:30 P.M., Zan was at the desk of the Four Seasons Restaurant. She had only to scan the Grill Room to see that Ted was already there, as she had expected he would be. Seven years ago, when they began to date, he had told her that always being early for an appointment was good business. “If it’s a client situation, I’m sending a message that I value their time. If it’s someone looking for something from me, that person is already nervous and it puts them at a disadvantage. Even if they’re on time, they feel as if they’re late.”

  “What would someone want from you?” she had asked him.

  “Oh, the manager of a would-be actor or singer who wants me to handle his client. That kind of thing.”

  “Ms. Moreland, nice to see you again. Mr. Carpenter is waiting.” The maître d’ led her across the room to the table for two that Ted always booked.

  Ted was on his feet when she reached the table. He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Zan.” His voice was husky. When they sat down, his shoulder brushed against hers. “How bad a day have you been having?” he asked.

  She had decided not to say a word about the charges on her credit cards. She knew that if Ted learned about them he would want to help, and she did not want to initiate anything that would keep them in contact, except of course if it involved Matthew. “Pretty bad,” she said quietly.

  Ted’s hand closed over hers. “I will not give up hope that someday the phone will ring and it will be good news.”

  “I make myself believe that, but then I think that by now Matthew has probably forgotten me. He was only three years and three months old when he disappeared. I’ve lost nearly two years of his life.” She stopped. “I mean we’ve lost nearly two years,” she added carefully.

  She saw the flash of anger in Ted’s eyes and was sure she knew what he was thinking. The babysitter. He would never forgive her for the careless babysitter she had hired because she had an appointment with a client. When would it come up? After he had had a couple of drinks?

  There was a bottle of her favorite red wine by the table. At Ted’s nod, the waiter began to pour it. When Ted picked up his glass, he said, “To our little boy.”

  “Don’t,” Zan whispered. “Ted, I can’t talk about him. I simply can’t. We both know what we are feeling today.”

  Ted took a long sip from his glass without answering. As Zan studied him, she thought for the second time that day that Matthew would grow up to look like him, with those wide-spaced brown eyes and even features. By any standards, Ted was a handsome man. Then she forced herself to realize that just as badly as she did not want to talk about Matthew, Ted needed to share some memories of him. But why here? she asked herself bitterly. I’d have cooked dinner for him at my apartment.

  No, I wouldn’t, she corrected herself. But we could have gone to some small, out-of-the-way place, where you don’t get the feeling that the other diners may be people-watching. How many of them in this room might have seen the articles in those magazines today?

  She knew she had to allow Ted to talk about Matthew. “This morning I was thinking how when he grows up, he’s going to look just like you,” she said tentatively.

  “I agree. I remember one day, only a few months before he disappeared, I picked him up from you and took him for lunch. He wanted to walk and I had his hand going down Fifth Avenue. He was so darn cute that people were looking at him and smiling. I ran into one of my old clients and he joked, ‘You’ll never be able to deny that child.’ “

  “I don’t think you’d ever have denied him.” Zan tried to smile.

  As if he realized what an effort she was making, Ted changed the subject. “How’s the design business going? I read somewhere that you were bidding to decorate those model apartments in the Kevin Wilson building.”

  It was safe ground. “I honestly thin
k it went well.” Because she thought Ted was genuinely interested and because she absolutely had to steer the conversation away from Matthew, Zan described the designs she had suggested and said she felt she had a good shot at getting the job. “Of course, Bartley Longe is in there pitching, and from a chance remark Kevin Wilson made, I guess he’s been bad-mouthing me again.”

  “Zan, that man is dangerous. I’ve always felt that about him. He was jealous of me when we started going out together. It isn’t just that he’s a business rival now. He didn’t want to let you out of his sight then, and I would bet anything he’s still crazy about you.”

  “Ted, he’s twenty years older than I am. He’s been divorced and has had numerous affairs. He’s got a nasty temper. If he has any feelings about me, it has to do with the fact that I didn’t feel flattered by his attention when he decided to try to hit on me. The great regret of my life is that I kept allowing him to bully me when something in my very soul was telling me to fly to Rome and visit Mom and Dad.”

  She remembered it all: Arriving at Da Vinci Airport. Looking for their faces when she came through security. The letdown. Then the worry. Then collecting her bags and waiting uncertainly in the terminal. Then the call on her international cell phone. The Italian authorities telling her about the accident that had killed them.

  The hustle and bustle of Rome at the airport in the early morning. Zan could see herself, standing with the phone frozen at her ear, her mouth shaped into a silent scream. “And then I called you,” she told Ted.

  “I’m glad you did. When I got to Rome you were absolutely out of it.”

  I was out of it for months, Zan thought. Ted took me in like some kind of stray. That’s how good he is. There were plenty of women who would have loved to marry him. “And you married me to take care of me, and I rewarded you by allowing an inexperienced babysitter to lose your son.” Zan could not believe she had said those words.

  “Zan, I know I said that the day Matthew disappeared. Can’t you ever understand that I was distraught?”

  Around and around we go and where we stop nobody knows, she thought. “Ted, no matter what you say I still blame myself. Maybe none of those private detective agencies I hired did us any good …”

  “They were a waste of money, Zan. The FBI has the case open and so does the NYPD. You fell for every charlatan who claimed they could find Matthew. Even that weird psychic who had us riding down Alligator Alley in Florida.”

  “I don’t think anything that might help us find Matthew is ever a waste of money. I don’t care if I have to consult every private agency in the phone book. Maybe I’ll eventually find the one person who can follow Matthew’s trail. You asked me about this model apartment job. If I get it, it will open a lot of doors. I’ll be making more money, and every cent I make over my living expenses will be spent trying to find Matthew. Somebody must have seen something. I still believe that.”

  She knew she was trembling. The maître d’ was standing near them. She realized her voice had been raised and he was discreetly trying to pretend that he had not overheard her.

  “Ready for the specials?” he asked now.

  “Yes, we are,” Ted said heartily. Then he whispered, “For God’s sake, Zan, try to keep it down. Why do you keep torturing yourself?” A surprised look came over his face and she turned.

  Josh was hurrying across the room. His face ashen, he stopped at their table. “Zan, I was just leaving the office when some reporters with cameras from Tell-All Weekly came in looking for you. I said I didn’t know where you were. Then they told me some guy from England who was in the park the day Matthew disappeared just had some photos he took that day enlarged for his parents’ wedding anniversary. The reporter told me this guy realized that in the background of a couple of those enlarged photos you can see a woman lifting a child out of a stroller that was parked beside a woman asleep on a blanket …”

  “Oh, dear God,” Ted cried. “How much can they tell from them?”

  “When they blew them up even more, other background details were clear. The boy’s face isn’t visible, but he’s wearing a matching blue plaid shirt and shorts.”

  Zan and Ted stared at Josh. Through lips almost too dry to form words, Zan said, “That’s what Matthew was wearing. Did that man bring the photos to the police?”

  “No. He sold them to that rag Tell-All. Zan, this is crazy, but they swear that you’re the woman who’s picking up the child. They say there’s no mistaking that it’s you.”

  As the sophisticated diners in the Four Seasons Grill Room turned their heads to find the source of the sudden outburst, Ted grabbed Zan by the shoulders and pulled her to her feet. “Damn you! Damn you, you self-pitying lunatic,” he shouted. “Where is my son? What did you do to him?”

  10

  Penny Smith Hammel, like many heavyset women, moved with natural grace. When she had been young, despite her weight she had been one of the most popular girls in high school, with her pleasant features, infectious humor, and ability to make even the most awkward partner on the dance floor feel as if he were Fred Astaire.

  A week after high school graduation she had married Bernie Hammel, who immediately started work as a long-distance truck driver. Content with where they grew up, Bernie and Penny had raised their three children in rural Middletown, New York, a little more than an hour drive from Manhattan and eons away in lifestyle.

  Now fifty-nine years old, the children and grandchildren scattered from Chicago to California and with Bernie on the road so much, Penny had kept happily busy by being available as a babysitter. She loved all her charges, giving them the affection that she would have showered on her grandchildren if they had lived nearby.

  The only real excitement in her life had occurred four years ago, when she and Bernie, together with Bernie’s ten fellow drivers, had won five million dollars in the lottery. They were one of the larger groups ever to win, and after taxes it netted them each about three hundred thousand dollars, which Bernie and Penny immediately put into a college fund for their grandchildren.

  Part of the excitement was that they accepted an invitation to go into Manhattan and meet Alvirah and Willy Meehan and attend a meeting of their Lottery Winners’ Support Group. The Meehans had started the group to help people learn not to squander their winnings on crazy investments or by playing Santa Claus to newly discovered relatives.

  Penny and Alvirah had immediately realized they were kindred souls and kept in touch regularly.

  Penny’s best friend since childhood, Rebecca Schwartz, was a real estate agent who kept Penny informed about houses being bought or sold in her local neighborhood. On March 22, she and Penny had lunch in their favorite diner and Rebecca filled Penny in on the fact that the farmhouse on the dead-end road near her had finally been rented. The new tenant had moved in on March 1.

  “Her name is Gloria Evans,” Rebecca confided. “About thirty. Really attractive. Natural blonde. You know I can always tell when it’s being helped along. Great shape, not like you and me. She just wanted a three-month rental, but I told her that Sy Owens wouldn’t dream of renting it for less than a year. She didn’t bat an eye, just said she was willing to pay for the year in advance because she’s finishing a book and needs to be by herself without interruptions.”

  “Not a bad deal for Sy Owens,” Penny commented. “Then I guess he rented it furnished?”

  Rebecca laughed. “Oh sure. What else would he do with all that tacky stuff? He wants to sell that place as is, lock, stock, and barrel. You’d think it was Buckingham Palace!”

  As was her custom with any new neighbors, the next day Penny drove over to welcome Gloria Evans with a plate of her homemade blueberry muffins. When she knocked on the door, even though there was a car in the breezeway, it was a few minutes before the door was cautiously opened.

  Penny had one foot poised to step inside, but Gloria Evans kept the door partially closed and Penny could tell right away that this woman wasn’t the least bit happy at the
interruption. Penny was immediately apologetic. “Oh, Miss Evans, I know you’re writing a book, and I’d have called if I had your cell phone number. I just want to welcome you to town with some of my famous blueberry muffins, but please don’t think I’m one of those people who will be pestering you with phone calls or drop-in visits — “

  “That’s nice of you. I did come here to be completely isolated,” Evans snapped, as with obvious reluctance she took the plate of muffins from Penny’s extended hand.

  Refusing to be affronted, Penny continued. “Don’t worry about the plate. It’s a throwaway. I wrote my phone number for you on a Post-it I stuck on the bottom, just in case you should ever have an emergency.”

  “That’s very kind, but unnecessary,” Evans replied stiffly. She had been forced to open the door wider to accept the plate, and looking past her Penny spotted a toy truck on the floor.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you had a child,” Penny exclaimed. “I’m a good babysitter if you ever need one. I have references from half the people in town.”

  “I don’t have a child!” Evans snapped. Then following Penny’s glance she turned and saw the toy truck. “My sister helped me get settled. That belongs to her son.”

  “Well, if she ever visits and you two want to go off for lunch, you have my phone number,” Penny said amiably. The last three words were addressed to the door that had closed in her face. For the moment she stood uncertainly, then wishing she had the courage to ring the bell again and grab her blueberry muffins out of the woman’s hand, she turned and hurried back to her car.

  “I hope Gloria Evans isn’t writing a book on manners,” she sniffed as, thoroughly humiliated, she backed up her car, turned it around, and sped away.

  11

  Alvirah and Willy heard the breaking news that Zan Moreland might have been responsible for the disappearance of her son on the eleven o’clock news that night. They had been preparing for bed after their dinner with Fr. Aiden. Shocked, Alvirah called Zan and left a message when she did not answer her cell phone.