Safe and Sound

by Fern Michaels

  “Is this your lunch hour, too?” Isabelle blurted.

  “In a manner of speaking. This is a very good sandwich, Izzy. You were right when you said I would like it. I like the tea, too. Sometimes I get tired of drinking milk.”

  Isabelle decided it was time to take a gamble. “Are you homeschooled, Ben?”

  Isabelle froze in place as Ben grew still and stopped eating. She instantly regretted asking the question and wished she could have taken it back. She knew instinctively that she’d crossed some invisible line. It made her want to cry. “Never mind, that’s none of my business. So,” she said, as cheerfully as she could, “are those pickles everything I said they were?”

  “They’re very good. I guess you could say I’m homeschooled. See that building with all the ivy growing up the front? I go there on Mondays. The rest of the week, I do my studies at home and turn it all in on the next Monday. Sometimes, I have to go during the week to be tested. Usually from one o’clock till six o’ clock.”

  “You go to the Institute?” Isabelle asked in stunned surprise.

  “I do.”

  “That has to mean . . .”

  Ben grinned. “One of those wussy geniuses who go there.” He grinned again. “What grade do you think I’m in?”

  Isabelle blinked. “Well, let’s see, you said you were eight, so I guess either the fourth or fifth grade.”

  Ben hooted with laughter. “I finished high school in May. Now I’m a college freshman.” The grin left his face. “Knowing that, do you still want to be my friend?”

  Isabelle was stunned. “Of course I do. What kind of a question is that?”

  “Most people are uncomfortable around me. I guess you figured out by now that I don’t have any friends. I try to act like the kids my age, but I can’t manage to do it. Normal kids my age make fun of me. The instructors, the doctors, stress to all of us who go to the Institute that we’re not normal. My IQ is so far off the charts that they’re not sure exactly what it is. That’s why I’m registered at the Institute. The instructors call me Mr. Ryan because, in their eyes, I’m their equal. Actually, Izzy, I’m smarter than every single one of them. Please understand, I’m not bragging about that. It’s just a fact. And you can’t argue with facts, now, can you?” He grinned that endearing grin, and Isabelle laughed.

  Isabelle fought the urge to hug the little boy, who was already a college freshman. “No, you can’t argue facts. And I’m honored to be your friend. I hope I measure up. I’m . . . ah . . . pretty much just normal, to use your word.”

  “Oh, you do. I made up my mind about you a long time ago, Izzy. What’s your story?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, your story. Your schtick. Like what do you do? Are you a mother? What makes you tick? When you told me I could call you Izzy, I knew we could be friends because only friends allow friends to call them by a nickname. I think that’s a fact. At least I hope it is.

  “That’s why I told you to call me Ben. I thought you would laugh if I told you I was Mr. Ryan. No one ever called me Ben except my grandmother.”

  “What do your parents call you?” Isabelle asked uneasily.

  “That’s another can of worms. I don’t have any real parents. My mother died when I was two years old. I don’t know anything at all about my biological father. My mother was smart like me. My mother married Connor Ryan, and he adopted me. After my mother died, I lived with my grandmother for a few years. Then, two years after my mother died, Connor Ryan married a woman named Natalie.”

  Ben threw his hands in the air. “So, no real parents. But to answer your question, they call me Benjamin most of the time. Okay. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I’m an architect. In fact, I designed the Circle. And the building where you go every morning as well as the six houses on the Circle. I’m very proud of that. I’m married to a great guy named Abner. If you ever want to meet him, I can have him stop by on his lunch hour. He’s very smart, too. You two would probably have a lot in common. We don’t have any children, so no, I’m not a mother. I wish I were. I have quite a few friends, all nice people. My office is over there,” Isabelle said as she waved her hand in the direction of the Institute. “I bought a building there just so I could come to this park and see the Circle. Weather permitting, I come here every day.”

  “That’s a valid reason,” Ben said. “I pretty much surmised something along those lines.”

  Isabelle blinked. She had to remember this was an eight-year-old she was talking to. “Do you live near here?”

  “I do, but behind the Institute. I used to live on the Circle until my mother died, but I was only two, so I don’t remember much about living there with my mother and my stepfather. But until I was four, I lived with my grandmother. At first, Connor moved into an apartment. I’m not allowed to ride my bike there because Connor hates my grandmother. I come here for the same reason you do, to look at the Circle and hope to get a look at my grandmother. I used to sneak in to see her, but I got caught, and they told me if I did it again, they’d make me live at the Institute. See, I’m smart, but not that smart. I got caught.”

  Isabelle suddenly felt sick to her stomach. “Ben, is your grandmother by any chance Eleanor Porter Lymen?”

  “Yes!” Ben shrieked, his voice rising in excitement. “Do you know her?”

  “Yes, I do. Very well, in fact. I don’t understand. Why aren’t you allowed to visit her?”

  “Because Connor hates my grandmother. Shortly before Connor married Natalie, my grandmother took him to court to get custody of me. The lawyer told my grandmother that he thought she had a chance to win because Connor had let me live with her for the past two years, he was not related to me by blood, and I was her daughter’s son. Once Connor married Natalie, the judge said because Connor had adopted me and had a stable family life, I had to stay with him and Natalie. I told the judge I wanted to stay with my grandmother, but he said I was just a kid, and he knew better than I did what was good for me. Connor, Natalie, and I moved into the house that my mother had purchased before she married Connor, when I was about seven months old. Apparently, she intended for us to live in it, but for some reason she never got around to moving before she died. Now I own the house because the deed was in my mother’s name and my name. They also said that my grandmother has to give all my mother’s money to Connor. He gets some every month now, but he wants it all.

  “That happened before I was tested, and they found out how smart I was. Can you find out where my grandmother is, Izzy?”

  “Isn’t she home in her house?”

  “No. She’s gone, and so are Rita and Irene, her two best friends who live next to her. Rita lives on the right and Irene lives on the left. They do everything together. Grandma told me they are both my godmothers.”

  “How long has your grandmother been gone, Ben?”

  “Six months! Almost seven. Just before they left, Connor had gone back to court and told the judge Grandma was a bad influence on me. He was mad at her because she won’t turn over my mother’s money to him.

  “Grandma showed me where she kept a key, and I sneaked over there and went into the house.”

  “You mean in the birdhouse up in the tree?” Isabelle interrupted.

  “Yes. I cried when I went into my old bedroom. Big boys aren’t supposed to cry, but I cried anyway. And I didn’t care. Everything looks the same, but she’s gone. All the electrical plugs were pulled out. There is no food in the refrigerator. The water still runs, and the lights still come on. The whole foyer is full of mail the postman drops through the slot. I checked Rita’s and Irene’s houses, too, but only by looking in the windows. All three of them are gone. Can you look into it for me?”

  Isabelle swallowed hard. She nodded. “I can try.”

  “I have to go now. Connor said if I take more than an hour, he’ll ground me.”

  “Then by all means go. I’ll see you on Tuesday. I’ll see what I can do over the weekend. Would you have any
objections to my asking my friends to help?”

  “Do you trust them?” Ben asked as he fastened the strap under his helmet.

  “With my life.” Isabelle reached out and hugged the rail-thin little boy. She held him tight, and he didn’t object. “Ben, do you have a cell phone?”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Ben said when she finally released him. “My grandmother used to hug me like that. I miss the feeling. You can hug me anytime you want to. And no, I don’t have a cell phone. Grandma was going to get me one, and it was going to be our secret. But Connor said I didn’t need one.”

  “You may not have one, but I want you to have my business card, so you can get in touch with me if you need to.” Isabelle took out a pen and scribbled something on the back of the card. “I just wrote my cell phone number on the back. You can call me at any time of the day or night if you need me. Okay.”

  “Thanks, Izzy. I really have to be going now.”

  Isabelle’s eyes burned. All she could do was nod as she watched the little boy with the old man’s eyes pedal away. She smiled when he bellowed over his shoulder, “Thanks for lunch, Izzy.”

  Isabelle sat back down on the bench and kneaded her hands. Her head felt like a beehive. What to do? She closed her eyes, hoping a bolt of lightning would strike, showing her what her next move should be. When nothing happened, she gathered up the remnants of her and Ben’s lunch. She was about to bag it all up when she noticed two fat little squirrels watching her. She scattered the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and the crust from her sandwich. Before she knew it, there was a whole family of plump little squirrels chewing away. Must be the peanut butter, she mused.

  Isabelle pulled out her cell phone and called her office. “I’m running late, Carol. Cancel my one-thirty appointment. The Sinclairs are nice people, they won’t mind. Reschedule at their convenience. I’ll work around them.”

  Isabelle slid to the opposite end of the bench so as not to startle or disturb the squirrels, who were contentedly dining on their unexpected meal.

  The park was full now, something she’d barely noticed while she had been with Ben. Runners, joggers, and mothers pushing baby gear filled the paths and benches. Isabelle picked her way down one path, crossed over another, and found her way to the monster gates that led to the enclave, her pride and joy. She leaned down to allow the retina scanner to identify her. When the gate opened, she walked through as if she belonged there. Since all the houses were empty, at least according to Ben, there was no one to see her. Unless someone at the Institute was watching from one of the ivy-bordered windows. And if someone was, she felt confident she could talk her way out of any kind of confrontation given her background and credentials.

  Isabelle looked around as she made her way to Eleanor Porter Lymen’s house. The Circle didn’t look deserted; it just looked quiet. The shrubs were pruned and clipped, the lawns were mowed, the fall flowers were watered, probably by the same person who maintained the Institute’s campus.

  Isabelle didn’t bother going to the front door of the Lymen McMansion. She walked around to the back of the huge house. She stopped at the edge of the terrace and looked up at the beautiful sycamore tree, whose leaves were unbelievably gorgeous. She could clearly see the one-of-a-kind birdhouse she’d designed as a special gift to Eleanor when she’d finished the project. It was a mini replica of the McMansion, right down to the cedar-shake shingles on the roof. She smiled when she remembered how Eleanor had clapped her hands and said it was the perfect spot to hide her house key. But, she had said, “I’ll need you to install a pulley of some kind, so I can raise and lower it.” Isabelle had complied, and Eleanor clapped her hands again, then hugged her.

  Isabelle had to poke through the Virginia creeper crawling up the tree, which hid the pulley completely. When she found it, she frowned. For some reason, she remembered its being higher. Stupid. Of course Eleanor would lower it so her grandson would have access to the key. She released the pulley, and the birdhouse slid downward.

  Isabelle stuck her hand in the small opening and withdrew the key to Eleanor’s house. She looked around to see if anyone was watching. She couldn’t see anyone, which was understandable, given all the foliage that surrounded the immense backyard. More importantly, she couldn’t feel anyone watching her.

  Isabelle was inside the house within seconds. Lightning-fast, she locked the door behind her, then clutched the key tightly in her hand. What was she doing here? What did she hope to find? Did Eleanor, Rita, and Irene leave of their own accord, or had someone taken them. Taken them, as in kidnapped?

  Ben was right, she noticed, all the plugs were pulled. The coffeemaker, the toaster, the blender, the refrigerator. She looked inside. A box of baking soda to absorb odors. Otherwise, totally empty.

  Isabelle walked through the rest of the house, noting that lamps were also unplugged as well as the various television sets, which seemed to be in every room. She looked around, poking here and there, not even sure what she was looking for. Clues. Clues to what? She simply did not know.

  Isabelle made her way to the second floor and Eleanor’s suite of rooms. She almost laughed out loud when she entered the huge bedroom decorated in polka dots. Eleanor loved polka dots in her furnishings as well as her clothing.

  As Isabelle checked dresser drawers and the walk-in closet, she had no idea what, if anything, was missing. There was some of everything in the drawers, but none of them were full, so some garments might be missing. It was the same thing with the closet. There were tons of clothes, coats, jackets, rain gear, dresses, slacks, formal wear in plastic dry-cleaning bags. Shelves held shoes and handbags. There were empty slots, so it was perfectly possible that some items were missing. Not very many, though.

  All indications were that the owner had left of her own accord and would return at some point. The question was when?

  Isabelle sat down on the side of the bed and looked around. What am I looking for? What? Her gaze went to the little desk in an alcove by the huge bay window. Would Eleanor leave anything important in her desk? Knowing the woman as well as she did, she was absolutely certain that the answer was no, she wouldn’t. Probably anything important was in the hands of her battery of lawyers. She made a mental note to identify the firm who handled legal matters for her. She corrected the thought. She would have Abner look into it.

  Still, she went through the small desk, but she found nothing that could help determine where Eleanor had gone or why she had left.

  There was a safe. She’d had her crew chief install it, that much she remembered. She had to squeeze her eyes shut to try to remember where it was situated. In the bathroom, in the linen closet. Eleanor had been exceptionally pleased when she’d explained how it all worked.

  Isabelle made her way to the large luxury bathroom and the linen closet, which was the size of a small room. She opened the door to the scent of lavender. She slid a pile of thick snow-white towels bordered with black-and-white polka dots to the side. She pressed down on the shelf, then stood back as the shelf holding the piles of towels slid to the side. It was a large safe with a digital locking mechanism. And she did not have the combination. She doubted Ben had it. Annie would be able to open it if it came to that. Annie was proud of her safecracking abilities.

  Isabelle stared at the safe, wondering what Eleanor kept in it. Her thoughts were all over the place. She couldn’t help but wonder if there was a clue inside that would tell her who Ben’s biological father was. She sighed as she pressed the shelf to slide it back in place. She closed the door to the linen closet and left the room.

  Isabelle walked down the stairs to the front foyer, where she stared at the mountain of mail that was all over the floor. Hundreds and hundreds of glossy catalogs, piles and piles of flyers and brochures, all addressed to either Occupant or Resident. As she sifted through the mail, she realized that there was not a single piece of mail that was personal in any way. There were no electric or water bills. No insurance notices, no bank statemen
ts. No bills of any kind. She supposed Eleanor did all that online the way so many people did. The only problem with that theory was that Eleanor was an admitted Neanderthal when it came to anything electronic. She did carry a cell phone called a Jitterbug. She knew how to dial 911, and that was the extent of her usage. Isabelle knew this because she’d had many, many conversations with her employer concerning the convenience. Eleanor had retorted that there was no need for anyone on this earth to have to be able to get in touch with her twenty-four /seven. In the end, Isabelle had given up, consoling herself with the old saying that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink.

  Isabelle picked her way through the mess of slick paper till she was standing by the front door. The mail was piled as high as the slot. She swept at it with both hands, sending it toppling and scattered far and wide. Who knew that six months of mail could look like what she was looking at right now.

  Isabelle looked at her watch. She’d been here almost an hour. Time to go. Time to put the key back in the birdhouse and secure the pulley and the Virginia creeper vines, so no one would know that anyone had been here. On the assumption, of course, that someone periodically checked the property.

  A bust. A total bust. Still, she was glad that she’d come here and walked through the house. At the kitchen door, Isabelle took one last look around before she closed and locked the door behind her. Outside, she noticed that the sun was gone, and gray clouds were scudding across the sky. The temperature had fallen, too. She shivered when she adjusted the one-of-a-kind birdhouse in its nest in the old sycamore and hid the chain in the Virginia creeper. Perfect.

  One last look. Nothing had changed since she’d gotten here except the weather.

  Time to head back to the office to think about young Ben’s plea to find his grandmother.

  Where are you, Eleanor?

  Chapter 2

  Isabelle let herself into the old pickle factory that her husband, Abner, had meticulously converted into their living quarters. They lived upstairs, while the first floor of the building was used to store Abner’s fishing skiff, his jet skis, the family Mercedes, his Silverado truck, and Isabelle’s Range Rover. The space was so large that there was still enough room to house four more vehicles. She noticed right away that the Mercedes was missing, which meant Abner wasn’t home. Yet. Usually, he made it home before her, especially on Fridays.