Vanished

by Danielle Steel

  When she left John, Marielle went upstairs to Teddy's room. She sat down in a rocking chair, and closed her eyes. It was dusk outside, and there were a few stars in the sky, she could just see them through his bedroom curtains. She thought of the nursery rhymes they had said, the songs she had sung him the last night she put him to bed, and as the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, she heard a noise and turned to see her husband.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked coldly.

  “I came here to be closer to Teddy.”

  “It won't do you any good,” he said evilly, “he's dead. Thanks to your ex-husband.”

  “Why are you so cruel?” she dared to ask him this time. “And how can you be so sure he's dead? How do you know he won't come home to us sometime soon?”

  Malcolm Patterson stood looking at her coldly. The mask had fallen since the trial had begun. He had lost his cover, and he no longer cared. He was going to divorce her. “If he comes back, Marielle, he won't come back to 'us,' or to you, you're not fit to be his mother.” It was exactly what Tom Armour had seen coming. He had consulted on the Vanderbilt case, and he knew just how those cases were built. And that's just what he saw Malcolm doing. The testimony from the nurse, the maid, the telegram from the mental hospital, all of it showing that she was unfit …just in case they found him.

  “Who are you to decide that?” Marielle said sadly. “And why do you hate me so much?”

  “I don't hate you. I have nothing but contempt for you. You're weak …and you let that Communist into our life to steal our son and kill him….”

  “You know that's not true.” She had never moved from the rocking chair as he approached her.

  “You're a fool, Marielle. A fool, and a liar.” His eyes blazed, but so did hers. “How do you expect anyone to respect you?”

  “And Brigitte?” she said quietly. “Is she so much better?” The affront of it still hurt her. She realized now too that he had undermined her for all these years. But why? Why did he hate her? Had he done it for himself or Brigitte?

  “Brigitte has nothing to do with this. We should never have gotten married.”

  “Then why did we?” She no longer knew. She no longer understood anything about him.

  “Perhaps if I'd met Brigitte before you, we wouldn't have. But I met you first. And I so desperately wanted to have children.” After two barren marriages, Marielle had seemed to be the answer to his prayers. And she had been so young, so helpless. He had liked the fact that she was alone in the world. She was his to control, and he liked that. In truth, he hadn't even minded about her history at the sanatorium. It would only serve to make her more dependent on him.

  “Was it all about children then? About having a son?”

  “Perhaps.” She'd been used. That's all she'd been. A tool to give him a baby. But there had been more, she knew it, and he did too, whether he admitted it or not. In the very beginning, for a short time, she had been sure that he loved her. And then …there had been Brigitte. Now she understood it.

  “And what will you do now? Marry Brigitte and have more children?” He didn't tell her that Brigitte was unable to have children, and theirs was a genuine passion.

  “What I do now is none of your business, Marielle.”

  “I'll move out as soon as the trial is over,” she said calmly. But she was going to take Teddy's things …she had to take them with her … in case he came home again … for the first time in years, she began to feel the same confusion she used to feel at the clinic in Villars …that same strange pain somewhere in her head that made it impossible to think, or decide anything … all she could think of now was Teddy.

  “Where will you move to?” His eyes seemed to take in her energy.

  “It doesn't matter. I'll give the FBI my address, so they can find me … in case …when they find him.”

  He looked at her scornfully. She was going crazy again. He could see it. And it never dawned on him that he had driven her to it.

  “They're not going to find him, Marielle. Ever. Don't you understand that?”

  “I'll stay at a hotel.” She ignored his question, and looked away, as Malcolm watched her. He had already told his lawyer how much money he was going to give her. He was going to buy her off, and she was probably going to wind up in an institution. Once he was gone, and Charles was executed, and she understood that she would never see the child again, it would probably kill her.

  “I'm leaving on a trip anyway. You can get organized then.”

  “Where are you going?” Her voice was very faint, as though she had to concentrate, and her hands were shaking.

  “That's none of your concern.”

  Suddenly, as she listened to him, she felt rising panic. Who would take care of her when he was gone? …who would help her take care of Teddy? But suddenly she knew she didn't need anyone. All she needed was time to recover from what had happened. She realized what was happening to her, and wrestled with all her strength to fight the demons. She made a superhuman effort to stand up quietly, and went downstairs to her own room. He could do anything he wanted. But he couldn't take away the memories of the child she had loved, or how much she had loved him. And knowing that, she suddenly knew she could survive it.

  John Taylor called her that night. He was worried about her. He knew the toll the trial was taking. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. It was rough today.” And Malcolm had been even rougher. She was exhausted as she spoke to him, but she was also happy to hear him.

  “It's going to be worse for the next few days. The closing arguments and the verdict are going to be killers. You just have to stay calm, Marielle.” And he would be there with her.

  “I know …I'm all right …John, there's no news of him, is there? … I mean, of Teddy?”

  “No,” he said softly, “there isn't.” He knew she was coming to terms with it now. After four months, there was really no hope, and he knew it. “I'll tell you if anything happens.”

  “I knew you would.”

  “Marielle …” He knew the phones were tapped but he wished he could tell her how much he loved her.

  “I know …it's okay.” Her voice was so small and sad and he ached for her as he longed to hold her. But she sat alone in her bedroom with two lonely tears rolling down her cheeks. They were tears of exhaustion, as much as sorrow.

  “Just be strong for a few more days. Maybe we can spend some time together when this is over.” He knew how badly she'd need to get away. He was afraid she'd break again, and she had come close to it that night, but she hadn't. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he said softly.

  “Good night,” she whispered, and then she hung up the phone. And as she drifted off to sleep that night, Bea Ritter was thinking about calling Tom Armour.

  Tom Armour had been polishing up his closing arguments since late that afternoon when he got home, and he was finally satisfied that they were exactly what he wanted. He stretched, yawned, read through it all again, one more time, and finally decided to make himself a sandwich. His apartment looked as though rats had been nesting everywhere, and when he opened the refrigerator, he remembered that it was empty. He was contemplating it hungrily when the telephone rang and he debated whether or not to answer. It was probably the damn reporters again, but then again it could have been something important.

  “Yeah?” He picked it up absentmindedly. He was trying to decide if it was worth going out to get something to eat, or if he was better off just going to bed and getting some sleep so he'd be rested in the morning. Rested, but definitely hungry. He had skipped lunch that day too, and he could hear his stomach growl as he held the phone to his ear, wondering who would call him at that hour. The only interesting woman in his life had announced that she was marrying someone else shortly before Christmas. She claimed that he was married to his work, and she was tired of hearing about his cases. But at thirty-six years of age, he had managed to establish himself as one of the city's most prominent criminal attorneys.

 
; “Is Mr. Armour there?” It was a female voice he didn't recognize, but she sounded very pleasant.

  “Who do you think this is at this hour? The butler?” And then suddenly he wondered if it was a crank call related to Charles Delauney. Representing him had been interesting, but early in the case it had also won him his share of crank calls and threatening letters …how can you represent a monster like that, etc. etc. etc. “Who is this?” he asked with a puzzled frown. Nobody had called him at home in weeks, months, let alone an attractive-sounding woman.

  “This is Beatrice Ritter. Is this you, Tom?”

  “None other.” He knew who she was by then, and he liked her. He had liked her when she'd come to him and begged him to take Charles's case. And he liked the pieces she had written about Marielle, and Charles, and his trial, since then. It was easy to figure out that she was on his team.

  “I need to talk to you.” She sounded earnest and excited.

  “Go ahead. You got me.” With a growling gut and an empty refrigerator and nothing else to do until the morning.

  “Can you meet me somewhere?”

  He glanced at his watch and winced. He was an attractive man, and he was standing in the kitchen in his white shirt from court that afternoon and his trousers and suspenders, and all he'd had for the past fourteen hours was a hell of a lot of black coffee. “It's almost eleven o'clock. Can it wait till tomorrow morning?”

  “No, it can't.” She sounded desperate.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I have to see you.”

  “Have you murdered anyone?”

  “I'm serious …please …trust me … it can't wait till tomorrow morning.”

  “I assume that this is somehow related to my client?” She had become the champion of his cause for reasons Tom didn't quite understand, but he was willing to take advantage of, if it served his client.

  “Yes, very much so.”

  “And it can't wait?”

  “I don't think so.” She sounded very earnest.

  “Are you willing to come to my apartment?” Most girls weren't willing to visit a man at that hour of the night, but she wasn't just any girl. She was a reporter. She was used to doing things no sane man or woman would do, and he admired the gutsy way she did things. She was a tiny woman with an enormous spirit. And he liked her. One day they might even be friends, but not right at the moment.

  “I be there …” she said excitedly. “Just don't tell me you live in New Jersey.”

  “How's Fifty-ninth Street, between Lexington and Third?” He lived in a quiet brownstone.

  “I'd say lucky. I live on Forty-seventh. I'll catch a cab and be there in five minutes.”

  “Will you do me a favor first?”

  “Sure.”

  “Could you grab me a roast beef sandwich? I haven't eaten since breakfast.”

  “Mustard or mayo?”

  “Both. Anything. I'll eat the bag. I'm starving.”

  “You got it.”

  His doorbell rang twenty minutes later, and she stood there in navy slacks and a bright blue sweater. She had a blue bow in her hair, and she handed him a brown bag, with a beer, two pickles, and his sandwich.

  “You're a saint.” He didn't even care what she had to say to him, he was just grateful she'd brought him dinner. “Do you want to share the beer?”

  “No, thanks.” She shook her head, and slid into a chair in his kitchen. It was as though they were old friends, but he knew she had watched the entire trial, and indirectly, they had been through the war together.

  “How do you think it's going?”

  “I'm not sure. The jury's tough to read. Sometimes I think the guys like him better than the women, sometimes …I'm not sure. At least you gave Marielle Patterson a certain amount of credibility again. What a son of a bitch Patterson turned out to be.” He nodded, still cognizant of the fact that she was a reporter and this could be a trick. “You've done a great job for Charles Delauney.”

  “Thank you. He looked good on the stand today, at least I thought so.”

  “So did I,” she said softly. She had managed to catch his eye as he left the stand, and he smiled when she gave him the high sign. He had been touched by her interest and her faith in him, and a little puzzled by her zeal, but he liked her. Not nearly as much as she liked him, but in Bea's eyes, it was a beginning …unless …but that was up to Tom Armour …and the jury.

  “So what's up? What brings you here at this hour with a roast beef sandwich? I assume you didn't just come here to tell me you admire my style in the courtroom.”

  “No,” she grinned, “but you're very good. Better than most I've seen.” But her eyes grew serious then. She had something important to tell him. And they both knew time was running out for Charles Delauney. Both attorneys would be making their closing arguments the next day and after that, it was up to the jury. “I did a very strange thing,” she admitted to him, as she accepted a bite of one of his pickles. “I called someone I wrote a story on a long time ago …well, anyway …last year. You probably know who he is, Tony Caproni.”

  “The mob boss from Queens?” Tom Armour looked startled. “You hang out with a nice bunch of guys, Miss Ritter.”

  “I wrote a nice piece on him, and he liked it. He said if I ever needed a favor, to call him. So I did.”

  “You called Caproni? Why?” He was impressed once again by her courage. Tony Caproni was one of the most dangerous men in New York, but also one of the most powerful in his own world.

  “I wanted to know if he'd heard anything, if he knew anybody who knew anybody who …maybe someone in the underworld, so called, knew who really kidnapped the kid, or … I don't know, I just figured it was worth it.”

  “And? He came up dry, I assume. The FBI tried the same tactic. They tried all the informants, all their underworld contacts, and they got nothing.”

  “So did Tony, the first time he called.” She put the pickle down and grabbed Tom's arm. “He called me tonight. All he gave me was the name of a guy and his phone number and told me to call him.”

  Tom stopped eating and watched her. “Did he know anything?”

  “Someone … he doesn't know who …paid him fifty thousand dollars to plant the toy and the pajamas. He doesn't want to testify, but if we promise him amnesty, he will. He's scared, Tom. He's scared to death, but he feels sorry for Charles, and he says he'll do it. He also said he thinks the kid is alive, and he wants to speak up before something happens.”

  “Holy shit … oh my God …give me his number.” She pulled it out of her handbag, and he picked up his phone, and then he looked at her. “This isn't a setup, is it? You use this in the papers, and I'll kill you.”

  “I swear. It's for real.” And for reasons he never knew, he believed her.

  Judge Abraham Morrison rapped his gavel and called the court to order at exactly ten-fifteen the following morning. Tom Armour was looking particularly bright-eyed in a starched white shirt and a dark blue suit and a new tie, and he had actually gotten up fifteen minutes early to shine his shoes. He liked to look his best at the end of a trial when it really mattered. And Charles was looking very sober in banker's gray and a tie of his father's.

  “Well be hearing closing arguments today, ladies and gentlemen,” the judge explained to the jury. They had been staying at the Chelsea Hotel for the past month, and it had to be wearing thin. Some of them were beginning to look very peaked.

  But as the judge spoke to them, Tom Armour stood up and asked to approach the bench, which he did, in the company of Bill Palmer.

  “What is it, Counsellor?” the judge asked him with a frown, in an undertone.

  “New evidence, Your Honor, and a bit of a problem. May I see you in chambers?” The judge looked anything but happy. They were almost ready to wrap it up, and now they were talking about new evidence. What the devil did that mean?

  “All right, all right.” He waved them in, and they were there until eleven-thirty, arguing with each other and the
judge. He was perfectly willing to let the man testify, but he was not willing to give him amnesty. If what he said was true, planting the pajamas in Charles Delauney's home was a federal offense, and he probably had additional knowledge about the kidnappers that he was concealing.

  “I say, arrest him,” Palmer said, hands down.

  “I can't violate my source,” Armour told him.

  “What if he's lying?”

  “What if he isn't? If he planted the pajamas and the bear, then Delauney's not guilty.”

  “For chrissake. Who is this guy?” Palmer almost shouted.

  “I can't tell you till we come to an agreement.”

  The judge looked miserable by the time he'd heard them both out, and he was anything but happy with the deal they finally came to.

  “I'll give you forty-eight hours to check this out, to find out if it's bogus or not. Use the FBI, the Marines, the army. I don't give a damn what you do, but see if you can't get me more than this. And I won't promise the man anything. Check it out, find out what's going on. But in forty-eight hours, you'd better be back in this courtroom with evidence, or I'm citing you for contempt, and I'm throwing your hot tip in jail. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Tom Armour was beaming. He had two days to work a miracle, but maybe Bea's friend would help him.

  “Are you amenable to a two-day recess, Mr. Palmer?” the judge asked.

  “Do I have a choice?” Palmer looked annoyed but resigned. He'd been all prepared to give it his best shot with his closing.

  “Not really.” The judge smiled at him, and Tom laughed.

  “Then I agree, don't I? This better be good. Personally, I think it's all a crock. Delauney's guilty as hell, the lousy Commie bastard.”