Night of Reunion: A Novel

by Michael Allegretto

  The boy was in hysterics, and his cries drove Laura to fight.

  But Christine had the advantage in size and weight—and she still had the knife. She seemed unmindful now of the child’s flailing to break free from under her arm. She stabbed at Laura, who grabbed her, and they struggled in a dance of death at the top of the stairs. Suddenly, Timothy fell from Christine’s arm and tumbled down the stairs.

  Laura screamed and started down, but Christine yanked her back. Then she ran down the stairs, scooped up her son, and bolted from the house.

  When Alex returned home, he found rooms smeared with blood and his wife lying near death in the upstairs hallway.

  He frantically called for an ambulance. While he waited for it to arrive, he held Laura’s head and watched the life-blood seep from her body. She described what had happened, her voice barely a whisper.

  Laura died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

  The police found Christine Helstrum that night at her apartment. Timothy was snugly tucked in her bed, dead, his neck broken from the fall down the stairs. Christine calmly, almost gaily, explained to them that she’d only done what any other mother in her situation would do: taken back her son. The police led her away in restraints.

  Christine Helstrum stood trial for the murders of Laura and Timothy Whitaker. She interrupted the proceedings several times, screaming obscenities at the judge and the jury, and especially at Alex, whom she somehow blamed for the death of her son. As she was being removed from the courtroom, she yelled in Alex’s face that she would get even with him if it was the last thing she ever did.

  Christine was found innocent by reason of insanity. She was committed to the Wycroff State Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane near Albany, New York.

  “That was four years ago,” Alex said.

  Sarah sat perfectly still, stunned by what she’d heard.

  “It took me months to get over the pain and the nightmares. Eventually, I pushed it all down, buried it in some corner of my mind, and after a while I almost believed that it hadn’t really happened, not to me, to someone else, perhaps, but not to me. Until yesterday.”

  Alex held the envelope in both hands as if he were reading the shaky blue script.

  “Do you know who Joseph Pomeroy is?”

  “Laura’s father,” Sarah said. Her voice sounded hollow, a stranger’s voice.

  Alex nodded. He took the letter and the clipping from the envelope and handed them to Sarah. She read the letter first.

  Dear Alex:

  I hesitate to send you this because I know it will be upsetting to you. It was for me. Still, I think you should know. I’ll write again if I learn more.

  Sincerely,

  Joseph Pomeroy

  Sarah picked up the flimsy clipping. It had been cut from a New York newspaper and was dated Thursday, November 26, exactly one week ago.

  Albany, NY—Christine Helstrum, an inmate at the Wycroff State Mental Hospital, escaped sometime yesterday afternoon or last night, according to authorities there. No details were given on how she was able to leave the facility, which is said to be highly secure. State and local police have launched a statewide search for Helstrum, who is said to be extremely dangerous.

  Sarah put down the clipping.

  “She’s free, Sarah, and she’ll try to find me. Us. She wants her revenge.”

  “But why? You didn’t do anything.”

  “She blames me for Timothy’s death.”

  “But that’s …”

  “Insane,” Alex finished for her. “I know. But to her it’s real. And now she’s out there somewhere. She’s coming for me.”

  “Alex …” She held his hand, not knowing what to say.

  He pulled gently away from her and stood, then walked to the picture window and looked out at the darkness. Sarah could see one small light shining weakly through the blackness of the trees that surrounded the backyard. She could not believe that someone was stalking Alex. She would not believe it. She reread the letter and the news clipping, looking for something, anything, to grab on to.

  “This clipping—” Sarah said. “It’s a week old. Maybe Christine has already been captured.”

  Alex turned from the window to race her across the room.

  “No,” he said. “I’d hoped for that, too. But I spent most of this morning on the phone.”

  He came back and sat near her on the couch.

  “First I talked to Joseph, but he could tell me nothing. He’s an old man and he’s been sick lately, and he confessed that he had not kept up with the local news. So I called the hospital.”

  “Wycroff?”

  Alex nodded. “They gave me the runaround for nearly an hour. I must have talked to six different people. I explained who I was, that Christine had threatened me, that she’d murdered my wife and—” He took a deep breath, then let his shoulders sag. “In any case, they kept telling me that all information concerning hospital patients was confidential. Finally, though, I spoke to a Dr. Fulbright. He at least admitted that Christine was a patient there and that she had escaped. Although he called it ‘an unauthorized departure.’ He said that the Albany police department and the New York state police had both been notified but that Christine had not yet been returned to them.” Alex smiled sardonically. “He told me not to worry about anything, that Christine would ‘turn up’ sooner or later. His main concern was that she might hurt herself while she was ‘absent from their care.’”

  “What are the police doing to find her? Did he say?”

  “I called them myself—both the city and state cops—and neither of them were too open with me on the phone. I asked to speak to Lieutenant O’Hara, but he’s retired now. The only thing I could find out for sure was that the police had been notified of the escape and that there was an APB out on Christine Helstrum.”

  “An APB?”

  “It means that there’s an alert out for her, but no one has been specifically assigned to track her down.”

  There was a bitterness in Alex’s voice that Sarah had not heard before. It angered her that a woman whom she’d never met or even seen, and in fact before today had never even heard of, a woman who was two thousand miles away and four years buried in her husband’s past, could have such a negative effect on him. On them.

  “Who’s the man you mentioned? Lieutenant O’Hara?”

  “Frank O’Hara,” Alex said. “He’s the homicide lieutenant who led the murder investigation. He was a great help to me back then, very kind and considerate. I’m certain he’d tell me exactly what’s going on now.”

  “But you said he’s retired.”

  “Even so, he might have been able to help. But the Albany police wouldn’t give me his home phone—departmental policy. I asked if they’d give him my number and then ask him to call, and the cop I spoke to said he would, but who knows if he’ll bother? After I talked to him, I called long-distance information. There’s no listing for a Frank O’Hara.” Alex took the clipping and the letter from Sarah, folded them, and stuck them in the envelope. “It probably doesn’t matter,” he said. “He probably couldn’t tell me anything, anyway.”

  Sarah opened her mouth, then closed it. She had an idea about how to get Frank O’Hara’s telephone number, but she decided not to say anything now.

  “Maybe he’ll call you,” she said, trying to sound hopeful.

  “Maybe.”

  Sarah put her hand on the back of his neck. She could feel the muscles there, bunched like ropes.

  “Let’s go to bed,” she said.

  Alex nodded. “You go on up,” he said. “I’ll check the … doors.”

  Their eyes met, and understanding passed between them. Every night, one or the other of them would check to see that the doors were shut and locked. But tonight that simple act seemed to have greater significance.

  And for how many more nights? Sarah wondered.

  6

  THE NEXT MORNING—BEFORE they left for work—neither Sarah no
r Alex mentioned their talk last night. This was partly because they’d both overslept and were rushed to get to work. But mainly they’d kept quiet because Brian was awake and within hearing. Without verbalizing, they’d seemed to agree that it would be better not to talk about Christine Helstrum in his presence. Besides, what could they say to him? Or to each other, for that matter?

  During the morning Sarah tried to concentrate on cuts and perms and tints while attempting to digest all that Alex had revealed. His first wife and adopted child brutally murdered. The murders committed by the child’s natural mother. Her oath of revenge. Her confinement. Her escape.

  It was nearly too much for Sarah to accept, much less to keep inside. More than once that morning she’d stopped herself from telling Kay everything. It had been difficult not to confide in her, because Sarah thought of Kay as a sister. She trusted her implicitly, and there were no secrets between them. That is, there hadn’t been until now.

  But this is different, Sarah thought. It’s just too involved. Too … personal.

  So as Sarah shampooed and trimmed her customers’ hair, she kept her thoughts to herself and her feelings hidden—especially her growing feeling of fear.

  What if Christine finds us? What if she finds Alex?

  She fought her fear with reason. There were two significant factors in their favor, she knew. Time and distance.

  Four years had passed since Christine had been committed to a mental hospital—four years of treatment and care. Surely by now she’d changed, softened. Of course, there had been that phrase in the news clipping, “… said to be extremely dangerous.” But perhaps she’d forgotten about Alex. After all, four years was a long time.

  And then there was the distance. If Christine had escaped from the Colorado state hospital in Pueblo, Sarah knew that she would have been more concerned, for Pueblo was less than fifty miles away, almost walking distance. But Christine was two thousand miles away, probably without money or suitable clothing. Did they let inmates in an asylum keep money on hand? Sarah wondered. If they did, she guessed, it probably wasn’t much—certainly not enough to buy traveling clothes and an airline ticket to Denver or Colorado Springs.

  But reason or not, the fear remained. And it was made worse by not knowing, first, if Christine were still free, and second, if she was, what steps were being taken to apprehend her.

  And so when Sarah took her lunch break from one until two, she went home not merely to eat but to use the telephone in private.

  Sarah made a sandwich with tuna salad and lettuce on thin-sliced whole wheat bread. Patches circled her feet, begging, brushing her leg with his tail. Sarah smiled, then dished up a few spoonfuls of tuna into the cat’s dish. He went after it with enthusiasm. After Sarah’s first bite of the sandwich and her first sip of lemon-lime soda, she got out the phone book. She dialed the number of AT&T’s long-distance information service. Eventually, she got a New York operator on the line, and soon after that she was dialing headquarters of the Albany police department.

  Sarah remembered what Alex had said: The police department wouldn’t give out home phone numbers. So when a man answered with “Albany police,” Sarah was prepared to lie.

  “I’m trying to find the number of a retired Albany policeman. He was a lieutenant. Frank O’Hara. He’s my cousin and …”

  “Hold on, please.”

  After a few minutes another man came on the line and asked Sarah if he could help her. She repeated what she’d said.

  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Sarah O’Hara,” Sarah said before she realized how funny that sounded. “I’m Frank’s cousin and our Uncle Ted just died and it’s important that I talk to Frank.”

  “I’m sorry, we don’t give out the private phone numbers of our officers.”

  “But he’s retired, isn’t he?”

  “Even so. If you’d like to leave a message, then I …”

  “I need to call him right away, don’t you see?” Sarah said, trying to sound anxious. And, in fact, she was. “The funeral is tomorrow, and I’m just at my wit’s end. Frank should be there, he’d want to be there, and I’ve been trying to reach him for several days. He’s apparently changed his number sometime during the past eight years, which is how long it’s been since I’ve talked to him, but I know that Frank was a favorite of Uncle Ted’s, and I know for certain that Ted left something for Frank in his will. If Frank doesn’t hear of this until after the funeral, he’ll feel just terrible, I know, and he might blame me, although he’s such a kind man that—”

  “Okay, okay, lady,” the man said in exasperation. “Hang on a minute.”

  Sarah closed her eyes and crossed her fingers.

  In half a minute the man came back on the line and said, “I’m not supposed to do this, but here’s the number.”

  Sarah wrote it down. “Thank you so much,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  She felt a bit guilty for having lied to get what she wanted. But she also felt more than a little pleased for having gotten it. She dialed the number, then listened to the phone ring three times before a man answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, is this Frank O’Hara?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. O’Hara, you don’t know me, but my name is Sarah Whitaker. I’m calling long—”

  “If you’re selling something, lady, I’m not interested. And by the way, how’d you get this number? It’s unlisted.”

  O’Hara’s voice was slightly hoarse. Sarah wondered if he smoked too much.

  “I’m not selling anything,” she said, “and I got your number from the Albany police. I’m afraid I lied to them in order to get it, but it’s important that I talk to you.”

  “What’s your name, again?”

  “Sarah Whitaker.”

  “Whitaker …”he said, trying to remember.

  “Four years ago you investigated the murders of Laura and Timothy Whitaker.”

  O’Hara was silent for a moment, then said, “Yes, I remember. Laura and Timothy, and the husband’s name was Alex, I believe. You’re a relative?”

  “I’m married to Alex,” Sarah said.

  “I see.”

  “My husband just learned that Christine Helstrum escaped from the Wycroff State Mental Hospital. She was the one who—”

  “I know who she is,” O’Hara said. “And I read about her escape. But that was over a week ago, so I would assume by now she’s been caught. The crazy ones usually don’t get very far.”

  “I’m afraid this one has,” Sarah said.

  “Come again?”

  “My husband phoned the hospital yesterday and was told that Christine Helstrum was still free. Mr. O’Hara, I don’t know whether you remember, but at her trial that woman threatened my husband.”

  Sarah waited for a reply, but all she heard was the soft hiss of the phone lines.

  “Mr. O’Hara?”

  “Yes, I’m here. I was just thinking. I remember Helstrum’s threats at the trial, and I can understand your husband’s concern, and yours, too. Truly, though, you shouldn’t be too worried. Those kinds of threats are common enough, and nothing usually comes of them. I must say, though, that I’m a little surprised Helstrum hasn’t been caught yet. Who told your husband that, anyway?”

  “A Dr. Fulbright,” she said. “We were wondering …”

  “Yes?”

  “We were wondering—hoping, actually—if maybe you could check on what’s being done to find her. That is, on what the police are doing.”

  “Mrs. Whitaker, I’m retired, or didn’t the Albany policeman you lied to tell you that?”

  “Yes, I know, but, well, no one seems to be willing to talk to us about this, and Alex told me that you were very considerate to him during the trial and all. And, well …”

  She heard O’Hara sigh uncomfortably.

  “Mr. O’Hara,” she said, “this is difficult for me. I have a hard time asking people for favors, particularly strangers. Although I alm
ost feel as if I know you. In any case, I am asking you this favor. Will you please check with the Albany police about what’s being done to apprehend Christine Helstrum? It would mean a lot to Alex. He’s … well, both of us are … concerned.”

  “You shouldn’t be, honestly.” His voice sounded strained.

  “But we are. And not just for us. For our son, as well.”

  “Mrs. Whitaker …”

  Sarah said nothing. She heard O’Hara sigh again.

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can find out,” he said, a note of resignation in his voice. “But,” he added quickly, “it may be nothing.”

  “Thank you so much. Anything you can tell us would mean a lot to both of us.”

  “Right,” O’Hara said. “What’s your number there?”

  Sarah gave it to him.

  “I’ll call you in a day or two.”

  “Good-bye, and thanks again.”

  O’Hara hung up.

  Sarah put the receiver in the cradle. It rang at once, startling her. She picked it up, thinking it was probably O’Hara calling back to ask her something.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  Sarah listened for a moment.

  “Mr. O’Hara?” she asked.

  A pause.

  “No.”

  A dial tone.

  Sarah stared at the handset. There had been just that one word, “No.” But the voice had belonged to a woman.

  Brian heard the first bell ring, meaning that the lunch hour was almost over and, further, that he had fifteen minutes to come in from the school yard, walk partway down the long hall to his homeroom, hang up his coat on a hook in the rear of the room, go to his seat (last row on the right, third desk from the front), and sit. But he made no move toward the building.

  “And I got to pick out the tree,” he said.