Night of Reunion: A Novel

by Michael Allegretto

  She opened her mouth to apologize, more to Kay than to her customer. Then she saw Kay suppressing a grin.

  The hell with it, she thought.

  She resumed cutting Martha’s hair, and her thoughts returned to last night.

  After she and Alex had had their talk with Brian about the knife and then put him to bed, they’d discussed their options concerning Christine. Assuming that she was here in Colorado Springs, what should they do? Should they lock themselves in their house and not go out until Christine was captured? And if she wasn’t captured right away, how long should they remain locked in? A few days? Weeks?

  “Assuming she’s even alive,” Sarah had said.

  Because the more she’d thought about it, the more uncertain she’d become about whether the woman who’d called herself Mrs. Green was really Christine Helstrum. The woman had resembled the old newspaper photograph, to be sure—dark, thick eyebrows and wide nose. But, Sarah had to admit now, that’s all it had been—a resemblance, not a certainty.

  Mrs. Green aside, the question was whether they should make themselves prisoners in their own home.

  They’d both decided the answer was no. After all, the police had been informed. If Christine, or for that matter an innocent Mrs. Green, showed up, they’d be quick to respond to a call from Sarah or Alex and apprehend her. The most that Sarah and Alex could do was stay alert.

  However, there was another, greater concern: Brian.

  What should they do about ensuring his safety? They could come up with only three options.

  One, they could leave Brian with someone while they both were at work. However, that someone would have to be a neighbor, since neither of them had any relatives in Colorado, much less in town. And they both felt that there were no neighbors with whom they could leave Brian and feel comfortable.

  Two, one of them could take Brian to work for the day. But they quickly decided that this would be too much of a strain both on the adult and on the boy, who’d be forced to spend most of the day basically alone in the corner of an office or the shop. Moreover, if Mrs. Green returned to the shop or if Christine attempted to get to Alex at work, Brian would be placed in the path of danger.

  Three, they could take Brian to school. They’d decided on this option not because it was the least disruptive to their normal lives, which it was, but because they both felt Brian would be safest there. He’d be surrounded by classmates, who would certainly camouflage his presence. More importantly, he’d be surrounded by teachers.

  Alex had talked to several of them this morning when he’d taken Brian to school. He’d given them a story about a fictitious ex-wife who might try to contact Brian.

  “If you see anyone unusual hanging around the school,” he’d said, “phone the police immediately and then phone me. In no case is Brian to leave school with anyone but me or his mother.”

  Sarah felt they’d made the best decision under the circumstances. Still, she was worried.

  19

  BRIAN TOOK THE BOX cutter from his toy chest.

  He’d been thinking about it since this morning. Charley Brooks had made him so mad that he’d planned on bringing it to school the next day. If Charley wanted to see something that could cut, well, boy, he’d show him something.

  But then had come his turn before the class at show-and-tell. And what do you know? His Sword of Power had been a big hit. Not everyone shared Charley Brooks’s scorn over a cardboard sword. Just the opposite—most everyone thought it was neat. So, impressing Charley Brooks had promptly been forgotten.

  However, the box cutter had stayed on Brian’s mind.

  He was afraid his parents might find it. He didn’t think that they’d dig clear down to the bottom of his toy chest. But what if they did? He’d already promised them that he wouldn’t take any more knives—and he wouldn’t. But what if they found this knife. How could he explain it?

  Brian shook his head.

  I’d be in really big trouble, he thought.

  But what to do with the box cutter? He couldn’t hide it, not where it would be completely safe. And he couldn’t just throw it away, because what if his dad saw it in the trash?

  There was only one thing to do. He’d have to put it back where he’d found it. In the basement.

  That wasn’t an appealing idea. The basement was scary. It was big and cold and kind of dirty, and there were lots of rooms, rooms where people used to live. His dad had said so. But no one lived down there now. Except it looked like someone should be living down there, with the furniture and everything.

  Brian turned the box cutter over in his hand. The blade was dull and rusty except for a thin line along the edge, where it shone sharply in the light. Brian touched it with his thumb. It was sharp, all right, and he wished he could keep it. But he couldn’t. He had to put it back.

  He loosened the screw, slid the blade into the handle, and slipped the box cutter into his jeans’ pocket. He moved to the head of the stairs. Someone was knocking on the front door. Brian sat on the top step, leaning over so that he could just see the door. His father answered it. There were two men in long coats, and his father let them in. Then he and his mother went with the men into the living room.

  Brian crept down the stairs and crossed the foyer. He stood just outside the doorway into the living room, out of sight. He could hear the men talking to his parents, talking about someone named Christine.

  Brian tiptoed quickly through the short hall and the kitchen to the laundry room. He stood before the basement door. He hesitated, then reached up and tried to slide the bolt. It seemed to be stuck, until he saw that he had to rotate it first in order to free the small knob from its slot. Then the bolt slid easily.

  Brian pulled open the door.

  The light from the kitchen cast his shadow onto the half-dark landing. He hesitated, afraid to go even that far into the dark. Then he reached high around the doorframe, searching blindly for the light switch, waiting to yank his hand back at the first feel of anything with spidery legs or pointed teeth or gnarled hands.

  He found the light and clicked it on.

  He stepped onto the landing and looked down the old wooden stairs. The dusty hallway at the bottom appeared to be a mile away. Brian wondered how fast he could run back up the stairs if he had to.

  He swallowed once, then cautiously started down.

  Brian stopped on each step, feet together, right hand clutching the banister, eyes focused on the empty floor below, ears straining for the slightest sound.

  The trouble was, there were lots of sounds. A creak. A tick. A soft thumping. He realized the latter was his own heart. But the other sounds—He didn’t know what they were.

  He continued down.

  When he’d gone about halfway down, one foot in mid-descent to the next step, the air suddenly was filled with an explosive, monstrous roar.

  Brian was frozen with fear, unable to move. His eyes were glued to the bottom of the stairs and the open doorway on the right. It was from here that the wild noise had come. The roar continued, but now it sounded tamer.

  The furnace, Brian thought, trying to slow his pounding heart, it’s just the furnace.

  He stood there for long minutes until his entire body was convinced that the roar was not coming from a boy-hungry monster. Then he continued his descent.

  Brian stepped off the last step and held perfectly still. The long, dusty hallway stretched before him, then disappeared in a distant left-hand curve. He’d been frightened when he’d been down here before with his parents, but it was nothing compared with what he felt now—a tingling that went clear out to the ends of his fingertips.

  He strained his ears, trying to hear beyond the muffled roar of the furnace.

  Suddenly, the furnace clicked off.

  The silence seemed to press around him, punctuated only by an occasional tick.

  But now there was another sound. A new sound. A rustling. It came from the open doorway to his right. Something was in that room.
And it was moving. The rustling was tiny, slight, but it was distinct. It was getting closer to the doorway.

  Then Brian saw something—movement at the bottom of the doorway. A gray mouse looked up at him and twitched its tiny pink nose.

  Maybe it was the mouse that had made the rustling sound, or maybe not—Brian didn’t wait around to find out. All he knew was that there was something down here and it was alive and he wanted no part of it.

  He turned and fled up the stairs.

  The detectives’ names were Yarrow and Keene. They sat in chairs, one on either side of the Christmas tree. Sarah and Alex sat together on the couch.

  Detective Yarrow asked all the questions. He was a good-looking man, Sarah thought, about forty years old, with soft brown eyes and a touch of gray in his hair. Detective Keene was younger, with horn-rimmed glasses and stringy black hair. He sat with an open notebook and a ballpoint pen.

  “I know you’ve already talked to our men,” Yarrow said, “so a few of my questions may seem redundant. First, though, I’d like you to look at some pictures.”

  He opened a large manila envelope and removed several eight-by-ten prints. He stood, and Alex stepped over to him and looked at the photographs. He nodded grimly.

  “That’s her,” he said. “That’s Christine Helstrum.”

  “Yes, it is,” Yarrow said. “Four years ago.”

  Alex handed the photographs to Sarah.

  The pictures were in color—a woman’s face, straight on and in profile. She had thick, dark eyebrows and a wide nose.

  “Mrs. Whitaker, is that the woman who approached you in your shop?” Yarrow asked. “The woman who called herself Mrs. Green?”

  “I … I’m not sure.”

  Sarah studied the photographs of Christine Helstrum. Her hair was cropped close to the skull, shorter than Mrs. Green’s had been. And Christine’s face looked fuller, more round. The biggest difference, though, was the makeup. Mrs. Green’s face had been caked with it, and Christine’s face was colorless. And her facial expression in the photo was dull and lifeless—different from Mrs. Green and much different from the old newspaper photo. In fact, Sarah thought, looking more closely at the photo, she looks drugged. Then she realized it was because Christine’s right eyelid drooped slightly lower than her left. Sarah tried to remember if Mrs. Green had that feature.

  “I just don’t know,” she said to Yarrow.

  “Are you sure, Sarah?” Alex asked. “Look again.”

  She glanced at the photos and shook her head.

  “There’s some resemblance,” she said.

  Yarrow removed a notebook from his overcoat. Both he and Keene had unbuttoned their coats but had left them on. Now Keene stepped over and took the photos from Sarah.

  “Would you describe Mrs. Green,” Yarrow asked.

  As Sarah did so, Keene took notes. Yarrow seemed to be checking his own notebook, but he wrote nothing. When Sarah had finished, Yarrow said, “That fits with the description you gave to the officers yesterday.”

  “It fits Christine,” Alex said.

  “It certainly could, and we’re not ruling her out as a possibility.”

  “She’s more than a possibility,” Alex said loudly.

  “Of course she is,” Yarrow said. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. We’ve contacted the Albany police and the New York State police, and they’re giving us their complete cooperation. They’ve already supplied us with these photographs, background information, and even some medical records from …”

  Yarrow glanced at Keene.

  “Wycroff State Hospital.”

  Yarrow looked back at Alex. “So we’re proceeding on the assumption that this woman could be Christine Helstrum.”

  “She is,” Alex said.

  Yarrow flipped a few pages of his notebook.

  “Mr. Whitaker,” he said, “I understand that Christine Helstrum once threatened your life. Is that right?”

  Alex nodded yes.

  “Could you give me the details, please? Exactly what she said, and so on.”

  “I’ve been through that with your officers,” Alex said. There was a pained look on his face, as if an old wound had been touched. “And besides, didn’t you just say that the Albany police sent you their files?”

  “That’s true, sir. However, sometimes things get inadvertently left out of files. Also, I’d like to hear your impression of this woman and of what happened. So, if you wouldn’t mind …”

  Alex sighed. “Yes, of course.”

  Sarah held Alex’s hand while he related the tragedy of his past life. Detective Keene wrote furiously to keep up. When Alex was finished, he seemed drained, as if he’d relived the events not just verbally but emotionally as well.

  “Mrs. Whitaker,” Yarrow said, “would you tell us exactly what happened when Mrs. Green came in your shop. I know you’ve gone through this before, but if you wouldn’t mind …”

  “Of course,” Sarah said, and told them everything.

  When she was through, Yarrow asked, “How do you suppose Mrs. Green found out where you worked?”

  Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “The shop is listed in the telephone book.”

  “With your name?”

  “Well, no. Then I don’t know how she found it. Except …”

  “Yes?”

  “I remember now. I asked her who’d recommended me, and she said a name I’d never heard before. An odd name, at that. Ettle. She said she’d gotten my name from Mrs. Kay Ettle.”

  Yarrow frowned, then flipped through his notebook. He wrote something in it.

  “You called the police here Monday also, is that correct? The day before yesterday?”

  “Yes …” Sarah felt warmth on her cheekbones.

  “Something about a teakettle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you mind telling us about that?”

  Sarah felt embarrassed to describe how she’d been startled by the kettle on the burner after she’d been certain she’d removed it.

  “I was probably just being forgetful,” she said.

  “Hmm.” Yarrow frowned at his notebook.

  Alex sat forward on the couch. “What is it?”

  “Maybe just a coincidence,” Yarrow said. “The name, Kay Ettle. ‘K’ plus ‘ettle’ equals ‘kettle.’”

  Sarah looked from Yarrow to Keene.

  “It may mean nothing,” Yarrow said.

  “Or maybe,” Keene said, “this Mrs. Green was in your house on Monday and she wants you to know about it.”

  “You can stop calling her ‘Mrs. Green,’” Alex said. “The woman is Christine Helstrum.”

  Yarrow said, “Not necessarily. Unfortunately, there are a lot of nuts running around. Mrs. Green might be one of them.”

  “She’s Christine,” Alex said firmly.

  “We don’t think so,” Keene said.

  “What?”

  “Let me rephrase that,” Yarrow said. “The New York police don’t think so. They have serious doubts that Christine could have left the area surrounding the hospital, much less the state. She escaped the building with no money and no clothes other than a hospital gown and slippers. It was below freezing and snowing heavily on the night of her escape and—”

  “Yes, yes,” Alex said impatiently.

  “—and it’s doubtful that she survived the storm.”

  “We’ve heard all that before,” Alex said. “What I want to know is what are you going to do now?”

  Yarrow paused and breathed out through his nose.

  “We’ve alerted the patrol cars in your neighborhood and in the neighborhood of your shop to keep an eye on things.”

  “What about Brian’s school?” Sarah asked.

  “We’ll watch it, too. Which school is it?”

  Sarah told him, and Keene wrote it down.

  “Is that it? Is that all you’re going to do?”

  Yarrow glanced at Alex, then stood. So did Keene.

  “There’s one more thing we’
ll do, Mr. Whitaker,” Yarrow said. “We’ll be waiting near your wife’s shop tomorrow when Mrs. Green shows up for her appointment.”

  There were no more questions, so Alex and Sarah showed the two men to the door. Alex closed it, and Sarah put her arms around him.

  She sighed. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe Mrs. Green is just some nut.”

  “I hope not,” Alex said seriously.

  “Why?”

  “Sarah, when this woman comes to your shop tomorrow, the police will question her, right? What if she really is just someone named Mrs. Green? Then we’ll still have Christine to worry about.”

  Sarah hugged him tighter.

  “On the other hand,” he said quietly, “if Mrs. Green and Christine are the same person, then after tomorrow our worries will be over.”

  “God, Alex, I hope you’re right.”

  “Come on,” he said, and rubbed her back. “Let’s go build a fire.”

  Sarah nodded, her cheek against his chest. “Brian would like that, too.”

  Sarah climbed the stairs, trying to force thoughts of Christine from her mind. We’re a family, she told herself. We’re together. That’s all that matters.

  She found Brian on his knees, digging in his toy chest.

  “Hi, pumpkin.”

  He turned around quickly and closed the lid of the chest.

  “Hi.”

  “Dad’s going to build a fire.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t you bring your checkers?” She made what she thought was a tough-looking face. “I challenge you.”

  “Okay.”

  He turned tentatively, opened the lid of his toy chest just enough to reach in, then dug out the box of checkers.

  Alex was putting a match to wadded-up sheets of newspaper as Sarah and Brian came into the family room. The flames danced around the log on the grate. Soon the log began to crackle.

  Alex reclined in one of the chairs and flipped through the current issue of Time, while Sarah and Brian sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace and played checkers. Brian picked up a black king and slapped it on the board beyond one of her red kings.