Vanished

by Danielle Steel

  “I'm so sorry, Malcolm … I don't know what to say. …” He nodded, not telling her that she wasn't to blame. And Marielle knew then, as she looked at him, that he did blame her. He rose slowly, and walked away, and as he stood looking into the garden where Teddy used to play, she saw that he was crying. She was almost afraid to comfort him, to say anything, to reach out to him in his pain. If he blamed her for not guarding Teddy closely enough, what could she possibly say to console him? As she stood watching him helplessly, she felt the familiar vise begin to crush her head, and for a moment she almost fainted. He turned and looked at her then, and he recognized the symptoms. She looked terrible, but he wasn't surprised. He felt as awful as she did.

  “You look pale, Marielle. Are you having a headache?”

  “No,” she lied. She wouldn't allow anyone to see how weak she was now, how afraid, how vulnerable, how broken. She had to be strong, for him, for the child, for all of them. She tried to keep her balance as she fought a familiar wave of nausea. “I'm fine. I'll get dressed.” She should have gone to bed, but she knew she wouldn't sleep. And she couldn't have borne the nightmares.

  “I'm going to speak to the men from the FBI.” Malcolm had called some of his connections in Washington and they had promised to call J. Edgar Hoover. The director had provided a police escort that had allowed Malcolm to get home as fast as his Franklin Twelve would allow. The German ambassador had also called to express his shock and concern over what had happened.

  “They've been very kind,” Marielle said in a barely audible whisper, wondering now if Agent Taylor would tell Malcolm about Charles. But if it would help them find Teddy, she was willing to endure it. Taylor had promised her that he would keep her secrets if he could, but not if it would harm the boy, and she had readily agreed to it. She was willing to sacrifice herself, her marriage, her life, for Teddy.

  Malcolm looked at her long and hard then, and for a moment he felt guilty. “I don't mean to blame you, Marielle … I know it's not your fault. I just don't understand how it could have happened.” He looked so mournful, like a dying man. He had lost the love of his life, but so had she. And yet she could not help him.

  “I don't understand it either,” she said quietly. And then he left the room, and she changed into a gray cashmere dress and gray silk stockings. She brushed her hair and washed her face, and put on black alligator shoes, and prayed that she would be able to control the headache.

  She went to the kitchen after she dressed, and was planning to organize the cook into providing meals for the police and the FBI working in the house, but she discovered as soon as she arrived that Haverford had already done that. Sandwiches were being sent up on trays, with platters of fruit, and cakes, and huge mugs of steaming coffee. When she went back upstairs, she discovered that there was a buffet set up in the dining room, but it was barely touched, the men scarcely had time to eat, they were still so busy.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked the sergeant in charge. O'Connor had gone home hours before, and the shift had changed. She recognized none of the men from the night before, as they continued to dust the house for fingerprints, and wait for calls requesting the ransom. Only she had not gone to bed. And as she wandered past the library, she saw that Malcolm was in deep conversation with two of the FBI men. He glanced briefly up at her, and then away, and for an instant she wondered if they were talking about her. The men looked at her strangely as she stood there, and then she walked away. What could they have said? What was there to say? It wasn't her fault that Teddy had been taken … or was it? Did they blame her because of Charles? Were they right? Were they telling Malcolm?

  As she walked back to the front hall, she was startled to hear a tremendous scuffle. There were voices raised outside, and as the front door opened only a few inches, suddenly there were half a dozen shouting strangers standing near her, flashbulbs exploded in her face, and a phalanx of police rose like a shield and pushed them back outside, but only one small redheaded woman escaped them. She was pretty and young and very tiny, and she was wearing a ridiculous black hat and a very ugly outfit. She stood looking at Marielle as though she knew her, and before Marielle could realize what was happening, the little redhead was asking her questions.

  “How do you feel, Mrs. Patterson? Are you all right? Is there any news? Have you heard anything from little Teddy? What does it feel like? Are you afraid? Do you think he could be dead?” And all the while, there were lights exploding in the distance, blinding her with the light and pain, almost like part of her headache. And as she struggled to get away, a powerful voice roared next to her, and a strong pair of hands moved Marielle away by the shoulders. It was John Taylor.

  “Get that woman out of here!” And suddenly the redhead was gone, the front door was closed again, and the noise was far, far in the distance. And she realized that John Taylor was supporting her arm, and leading her to a chair in the hallway. As he had come back into the house, the press had forced their way in with him. “Damn scum. Next time, I'll come in through the kitchen.” He was looking down at her with obvious concern, and he looked very tired. But she looked worse, and as he handed her a glass of water he had signaled one of his men to get, she took a small sip and tried to smile, but she couldn't fight back the tears this time. The headache was too much, Malcolm's anger, her terror over Teddy and just sheer exhaustion. And the redheaded woman had asked such awful questions. What if he was dead? What if they had killed him? And yes, she was afraid. Desperately. And Malcolm had seemed so heart-broken, and so angry when he returned. She looked at John Taylor and sighed, embarrassed at having lost her composure.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “What for? Being human? Those bastards make me sick.” And then he lowered his voice as he looked at her. He had just been to see Charles Delauney. “Is there somewhere we can speak alone? The library again?”

  She shook her head. “My husband is there, speaking to two of your men.” And then she thought for a moment. “I know.” She led the way to a small music room they never used. It was filled with old books and instruments, and some of Malcolm's files. Once in a great while, Brigitte used it as an office. There was a desk, and two chairs, and a small settee, where he settled her, and then he pulled up one of the chairs, and looked at her for a long moment. He had only known her since the night before, but he was willing to believe every word she said and stake his reputation on it. He had never met another human being like her. She was like someone in a book, or a dream, with the kind of inner strength and ideals that real people didn't have, or not the ones he knew. And yet at the same time she was a powerfully attractive young woman. And she'd had nothing but raw deals, from two men, neither of whom he had much use for. Delauney had struck him as a spoiled rich boy, drunk, self-indulged, and deluded in his political ideals, and still whining about what had happened to him almost ten years before, and the fact that she hadn't been willing to come back to him again after he'd almost killed her. Taylor felt that, given the opportunity, he could be impetuous and crazy, possibly even dangerous, and he could have done it for revenge. And Taylor had no use for Malcolm either. So far, he only knew him from the press, and he had always appeared to be very cold and pompous.

  “Is something wrong?” More wrong than it already was? Was that possible, she wondered. “Have you heard anything?” She looked at him with huge eyes, suddenly frightened, but he was quick to shake his head, and reassure her.

  “Not about Teddy.” He felt as though they had shared the secrets of a lifetime the night before. And he wanted to do anything he could to protect her now. She'd been through enough, she had trusted him, and he didn't want to betray that. But he also didn't want to endanger the child, and John Taylor was worried. “I've just spent three hours with Charles Delauney.” Marielle watched him with anxious eyes, wondering what Charles had said.

  “Did you tell him I told you everything?”

  “Yes. He blames himself, or so he says, for being crazed after it happened and
reacting very badly. But he also claims that when he saw you in the park with Teddy the other day, he was still drunk from the night before, and he says he's not sure what he said, but he's willing to admit it was probably pretty out of line. But he insists he meant no harm, and he would never do anything to hurt Teddy.”

  “Do you believe him?” She searched his eyes, needing to know the truth, and willing to believe him. She trusted him. There was something about him that seemed innately fair, and she sensed correctly that he would not betray her. She remembered how he had held her hand the night before, and taken her in his arms as she cried for Andre.

  “That's the problem.” He looked back at her, and then shook his head as he leaned back in the chair. “I don't. I don't think he'd hurt him, not like the Lindbergh case or anything like that. But I think he's a spoiled young man. I think he'd do almost anything to get what he wants—threats, coercion, maybe worse. Maybe he would take Teddy to bring you closer to him. Maybe in his mind that's an all-right way to do it. I'm not sure. I don't even know what I think. But I can tell you that I don't think I believe him. Telling me he was drunk, and trying to excuse the threats he made didn't wash with me when I listened.” His eyes had been wild, and his black hair uncombed, he'd been unshaven, and there was the smell of booze in the air. He looked like a wild dissolute type whose life had not gone well, and maybe he was capable of some pretty frightening things, all in the name of justice. He was involved in a war, after all, that wasn't his, just for the sheer pleasure of killing, or at least that was how John Taylor saw it. He didn't understand political causes, or noble wars, or running with the bulls in Spain, or beating his pregnant wife up when they had just lost their little boy. He didn't understand any of these people. The only one he understood or cared about, God only knew why, was Marielle, and he wanted to help her.

  “I'm worried about him, and I want you to know it. It means we're going to watch him, and I'd like to go back and search the house. But it also means that I may not be able to keep your secret, and I wanted to warn you. You may want to tell your husband some of this before it gets to him some other way.”

  She nodded, grateful for the warning, at least he was allowing her to tell him herself. He was every bit as decent as she had suspected, and she tried to smile at him, but her head hurt so badly she couldn't. She winced in sudden pain, and he saw it. “Are you all right?”

  “I'm fine.” They were words that no longer meant anything, but they were expected.

  “You'd better get some sleep at some point. Or you're going to fall apart when we really need you.” She nodded, but she couldn't imagine ever sleeping again …not until Teddy was returned. How was she going to live without him? She couldn't touch him or hold him or know where he was, or if he was safe, or decently cared for …she suddenly longed for the powdery smell of his neck and his hair …his laughter …the chubby little arms around her neck, or the way he looked at her that told her just how much he loved her. How was she going to survive without him until they found him? As she thought of it, she almost swooned, and then she felt a firm hand on her arm, as though pulling her back from her own terrors. “Marielle, hang on …we're going to find him.” She nodded and stood up, realizing that she had some very difficult things to say to Malcolm.

  “Are you going to say anything to my husband about Charles?” She looked concerned, but not really worried. If she had to tell him, she would. It was as simple as that. This was no time to hide anything, if it could hurt Teddy.

  “I'm going to tell him that, like many people at this point, Charles Delauney is a possible suspect. I'm not really sure he would do anything. But I can tell you right now, I don't like him. I don't like the threats he made, or the idea that he's so angry you have a child again, and he doesn't. I think in his own crazy way, he still loves you. He says he wants you back. And in his mind that's enough reason for you to come running back to him, because he says so.” He didn't tell her what Charles had said about her marriage to Malcolm, that it was all a fraud and a sham, and everyone in town knew that he had other women, that people said she lived like a nun, and Malcolm didn't give a damn about her. Charles Delauney seemed to feel that that was all reason enough for her to leave him. He had also said that he didn't think Marielle loved Malcolm, and that she had married him for all the wrong reasons, because she had no one in her life at the time and she was afraid and shaky after her release from the clinic in Switzerland. He said she'd been looking for a father and not a husband. But seeing Delauney with his wild looks, and crazed airs, it was easy to see why she would have. Taylor could see the appeal of a man like Malcolm Patterson and yet he could also understand why a girl of eighteen would have been drawn to Delauney. He was colorful and handsome and wild and full of romance, but men like that were dangerous too …men like that did foolish things …like beat their wives … or make terrible threats and accusations. But did they kidnap other people's children? Was that part of it? That was the question. Taylor didn't know the answer to that one. But one thing was certain, if he had done it, he hadn't done it for the money. And perhaps that was why there was no request for ransom. He would have just hired people to take the boy away from her, and conceal him. But what would he do with him once he had him?

  John Taylor stood up then and walked her slowly out of the room, and she thanked him again for the warning about what he was going to have to tell Malcolm. She turned and looked at John Taylor for a last moment, with a worried frown. It was all so confusing. “Do you really think he'd do a thing like that? Charles, I mean.” It was hard to believe. He had always been wild and uncontrolled but not like this …she couldn't believe he would really take Teddy. Did he hate her that much then? It was hard to imagine.

  “I don't know.” Taylor was honest with her. “I wish I knew the answer.”

  She nodded, and went back to the chaos in the main living room. Malcolm was standing there, looking grim, with an FBI man on either side, and she introduced him to John Taylor.

  “I've been waiting to see you,” Malcolm growled, seemingly unimpressed by Taylor.

  “I've been out talking to some people about the case.” His eyes never looked once at Marielle. He knew better than that. But he also wasn't sure, as he watched Malcolm, that he disagreed with Delauney. There seemed to be no warmth toward Marielle, no visible support, only Malcolm's own concern, and his grief at losing his only son. Instead of asking for John's help, he demanded that he find him. “We're all set for a possible ransom request, sir,” John Taylor said with a respect he didn't feel. In fact, he had already decided, he didn't like him.

  “So am I,” Malcolm said. “The U.S. Treasury Department is sending us marked notes this morning.”

  “We'll have to be very careful how that's handled.” It had been a disaster in the Lindbergh case, and John didn't want anything going wrong this time. “I'd like to speak to you this afternoon, if you have time.” John wanted to know if there was anyone he suspected, or was afraid of. And as he had with Marielle, he wanted to see him alone, but he also wanted to give Marielle time to tell him about Charles Delauney.

  “I'll see you now,” Malcolm said with a frown. He had slept in the car coming up from Washington, and he was more rested than either Marielle or John Taylor.

  “I'm afraid I have some other matters to attend to first.” If nothing else, he wanted to get back to his office and shower and shave, have another stiff cup of coffee, and take some time to think about what they were doing. The truth was, they had no leads at all. All they had was Charles, and the fact that the driver had admitted that morning that someone had called him a few weeks before and offered him a hundred dollars if he'd choose that particular night to go out with Edith. He had figured the joke was on them anyway, because they'd been planning for ages to go to the Irish Christmas dance in the Bronx, so it was no effort for him. But the hundred had arrived in a plain envelope at the back door the week before, and he'd thrown the envelope away and spent the cash, and never given it another tho
ught. He said he hadn't recognized the voice on the phone, except that they'd had an accent, what kind of accent he wasn't sure, maybe English, maybe German. He insisted he couldn't remember. But even if Delauney had taken the child, he wouldn't have done it himself. And supposedly the week before, he hadn't seen Marielle, and didn't know she had a child … or did he? Was it all a clever plan? Had he been watching her for weeks? Months? Had he been getting news of her while he was in Europe? Had he planned his revenge for years? It was hard to make sense of it, there was so little to go on, and it was still way too early. But why hadn't the driver been suspicious of the call? It could have meant a robbery was being planned or an attack on Malcolm or Marielle. But it was clear to John Taylor that the driver didn't care about his employers.

  Malcolm looked annoyed that Taylor wasn't ready to speak to him just then, and just so he understood who he was dealing with, he mentioned his trip to Washington again. But Taylor understood perfectly. The message was, do it right, do it now, do it my way, or you're going to regret it. The trouble was, Taylor wasn't that kind of man. And he wasn't about to take any pressure from Malcolm.

  “I'll see you this afternoon, sir. Say around four?”

  “That'll be fine. I assume your men know how to find you, if a call comes in before that?” It was a very gentle slap in the face, an inference that he was “disappearing.”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well. Is there anything you can do with those vultures on our front doorstep, by the way?”