Cries of the Children

by Clare McNally

  There was no need for backup, because the cop wasn’t in any danger. The shooting, a first in Westbrook’s history, was finished.

  Walter LaBerge had had a ringside seat at the shooting, in the back of a van. He climbed to the front and got into the passenger seat.

  “Go that way,” he said to the driver. “There’s a path that cuts through the woods. We’ll get them ourselves.”

  They drove in the opposite direction from the incoming police cars.

  “I don’t get it,” the driver said. “Why’d you wait so long to shoot him?”

  “I should have got him after he lost her the first time,” LaBerge said. “I was an idiot to let an incompetent handle such an important job. But I knew he’d lead me to her.”

  “What do you suppose she was doing with those other kids?”

  LaBerge shrugged. He was a massively big man, nearly three hundred pounds, with small eyes that gave him the appearance of a hog. There was anger in those eyes, anger at himself for letting Trefill go as far as he had, anger at the kid for running away.

  The driver of the van, though he thought LaBerge was the ugliest man he’d ever seen, had nothing but respect for the man’s intelligence.

  “You don’t think they have something to do with her?”

  “Maybe,” LaBerge said. “We’ll find out, won’t we? The most important thing to do is find out what she has to do with that little monster we’ve got back at headquarters.”

  With that, the driver turned into the path that cut through the woods. After he’d driven a short distance, LaBerge ordered him to stop and cut the motor. Then the fat man jumped out of the van and began to run. The driver was amazed that someone that big could move so fast.

  LaBerge was on the three children before they had a chance to see him.

  46

  “ERIC, STOP!” Rachel cried.

  Instantly Eric’s foot moved toward the brake pedal. It was only years of driving habit that kept him from screeching to a halt in the middle of the Garden State Parkway. Instead, he swung into the right lane, barely missing a truck that was rumbling by.

  “Rachel, don’t do that!”

  They had each been lost in thought for the past two hours, and Rachel’s voice was like a jolting siren.

  “Eric, he’s here,” Rachel said. “I know Steven’s here somewhere, very nearby!”

  Eric didn’t argue with her, although he still didn’t buy the telepathy bit. But he thought it was only right to do things the way Rachel wanted them done, to humor her. It certainly couldn’t put them any further off-base than they might be already.

  “Fine,” he said. “There’s the exit for a town called Westbrook. We’ll take a look.”

  “We’ll find him,” Rachel insisted. “I know we will. He’s here. And, Eric, he’s in trouble.”

  Eric nodded. “Don’t worry. We’ll get to him before anything happens.”

  He wished he was right about that, but even more, he wished Rachel was right about Steven being here. He drove off the highway, then followed a curving road that eventually took him over the railroad tracks. Rachel turned around and gazed out the window.

  “The woods,” she said. “Something about the woods. Eric, Steven might be there . . .”

  Eric didn’t hear her. His eyes were drawn to a place that had been roped off with yellow plastic ribbon. “POLICE AREA” was the message repeated over and over.

  “Look at that,” Eric said, driving by. “What do you suppose happened there?”

  Rachel wailed. “Eric, there’s blood on the street. And I know something’s wrong with Steven. What if—?”

  Eric cut her off. “Don’t even think that. Let’s go to the police and ask—”

  Instantly he knew he’d said the wrong thing. Rachel reacted as vehemently as ever.

  “No!”

  “All right, all right,” Eric said. “I’m sorry I mentioned that. But why don’t we just ask around town? I haven’t seen another black person since we got off the exit. If Steven was here, he was surely noticed.”

  They were right about that, and found out when they parked the car and walked into a local coffee shop. Eric had chosen it as a logical place to start because he figured Steven would have stopped for something to eat. They took seats at the counter and ordered cups of coffee. The waitress spoke to them as she polished glasses. At this hour of the day there were few other customers.

  “Sure I saw him,” the waitress said. “Strange kid.”

  She looked sad. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean that in an unkind way. But his behavior . . .”

  “What do you mean?” Rachel asked. “Steven’s a perfectly normal little boy!”

  “Well, I guess he was just upset ‘cause he ran away from home,” the waitress said, tucking a glass into a plastic tray. “You have a fight or something? Where are you from?”

  “Ohio,” Eric told her.

  The woman’s eyebrows went up.

  “Wow, you’re a long way from home.”

  Eric had no patience for small talk. He pressed on.

  “What do you mean about his behavior?” he asked. “What was he doing, specifically?”

  “Well, when I came over to the table he was sitting there with his eyes closed,” the waitress said. “He and his little friend seemed very upset about some—”

  “Little friend?” Rachel said.

  The waitress held her hand up at about waist level.

  “Cute little girl,” she said. “Black hair and light skin and the most startling eyes—gray, with green in them. I heard him call her Lorraine.”

  Eric frowned. Rachel stared out the window, watching a young man pedal by on a bicycle.

  “I don’t know who that is,” she said.

  “Maybe he just made a friend,” Eric suggested.

  The waitress lifted the tray full of glasses and put it on a back counter. Then she began to check the salt and pepper shakers.

  “I don’t know about that,” she said. “I saw them holding hands one time. And the way they were whispering to each other, you’d think they had a big secret.”

  Maybe they do, Eric thought.

  “Uhm, I was wondering,” he said, “if you could tell me about that police barricade we saw driving into town.”

  The waitress’s eyes lit up. She’d been on her break at the time and had seen the whole thing, albeit from a distance.

  “Oh, that’s the most exciting thing that’s happened in this town!” she cried. “One of our police officers stopped a man for driving crazy. I saw him—he was all over the road. Must of been drunk. Anyhow, they were talking, and suddenly the guy fell. I could see the blood from two blocks away.”

  That was an exaggeration, but she felt it made the story sound good.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I heard he was shot! There were cops all over the place a while ago, but it’s quieted down since then.”

  “Do you know who the man was?” Eric asked.

  The woman shrugged.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I was taken to headquarters to answer some questions because I was an eyewitness, of course. But they didn’t tell me who he was. Not from this town, I know for certain. There aren’t very many people around here, so you get to notice strangers.”

  “What about the little girl?” Rachel said. “Have you ever seen her before?”

  “No,” the waitress replied. “And I know everyone in this town.”

  Rachel pushed her coffee cup away. She’d drained it dry, welcoming the jolt from the caffeine.

  “Eric, I don’t think we should be sitting around,” she said. “I don’t know who that little girl is, but we have to find Steven.”

  The waitress rested her forearms on the counter.

  “You think that dead man has anything to do with those kids?” she asked.

  Rachel got off her stool without answering. Eric sighed.

  “I hope not,” he said. He paid for the coffee. “Thank you for your help. Did you happen to notice which directi
on he went?”

  “Sorry,” the woman said. “Why don’t you try the train station? You might be able to learn something there.”

  “Good idea,” Eric said with a half-smile. He’d had enough of train stations that day, but if he had to, he’d head for another. “Thanks.”

  He took Rachel by the arm and led her out of the diner. They got back into the car and followed the waitress’s suggestion. In a few minutes they learned that Steven had not gotten on a train.

  “I didn’t think he had,” Rachel said as they exited the station house. “I still feel him nearby. Eric, there was something about those woods. I want to look there.”

  “Oh, God, Rachel . . .”

  Rachel swung around, meeting his eyes.

  “I’m not letting myself think anything, Eric,” she said. “Steven is alive. I’m sure of that. But I think he was in the woods. And maybe there’s a clue . . .”

  “Then let’s have a look,” Eric said. “It’s starting to get dark. We’d better hurry.”

  He opened the car door, but stopped before getting in.

  “If we park on the side of the road, we’ll attract too much attention,” he said. “I’m not sure if the man who was shot has anything to do with this, but you can bet the police are on the alert for anything suspicious. As out-of-towners, we’d be subject to major questioning.”

  Rachel nodded. “You’re right. Let’s walk to the woods.”

  They held each other’s hands like high-school kids, crossing over the tracks that Steven had crossed just a short while earlier. They had no way of knowing that Steven was far, far away, locked in a secret room.

  47

  SAMANTHA AND HER friends arrived in Shoaling just as the sun was going down. It was a charming community, established in colonial times as a fishing port.

  “Does anything look familiar?” Wil asked.

  “Not at all,” Samantha said. “I suppose I only came here for a short time when I was very young.”

  Barbara pulled into the beach parking lot. It wasn’t nearly as full as it would get in a few weeks, when summer vacation started. She parked and everyone got out. A cool breeze was blowing off the ocean, scenting the air with salt and seaweed perfume. Samantha tucked her Dutch-boy hair behind her ears, but it still flapped at her eyes.

  “Well, here we are,” she said.

  Wil looked around.

  “We don’t know which way to find Haybrook’s,” he said.

  “Let’s just walk,” Samantha suggested. “I’m tired of sitting after such a long drive.”

  “It’d be a good way for you to see if you remember anything,” Wil agreed.

  He put his arm around her shoulder. A small road led away from the parking lot, following the coast. The beach ran along one side, and tiny summer cottages sat on the other. Samantha looked at each one, but they meant nothing to her.

  “Maybe we’ll find that house Julie kept drawing,” Barbara said.

  “Yellow with green shutters,” Samantha reminded her.

  When they came to a turn in the road, she noticed twinkling lights down the beach. Samantha, Wil, and Barbara plodded across the sand and found Haybrook’s.

  Samantha sighed. “Not a bit of this rings a bell.”

  Wil pointed, his voice full of encouragement. “Samantha, look, there’s the jetty!”

  Samantha gave a half-smile; at least she knew the concession stand and the jetty were real places. But what about the house?

  “You know, I have a great idea,” Barbara said. “Is anybody up for dinner?”

  “I don’t think I can eat until I find Julie,” Samantha said.

  “Of course you can,” Barbara insisted. “What kind of shape will you be in if you collapse from starvation? When I looked up Haybrook’s, I read they have a great menu. In this town, you can bet the clams were dug up this morning.”

  “Barbara’s right,” Wil said, steering Samantha toward the clam bar. “Dinner’s on me.”

  “I won’t argue with you on that one,” Barbara said. Between the mysterious flight out here and the cost of renting a car, she was nearly broke.

  The blue-and-white awning surrounding the building flapped in the ocean breeze, giving the illusion that the dolphins were dancing. They walked up three wooden steps to a pair of glass doors.

  A man in a white captain’s uniform greeted them in the waiting area.

  “Good evening,” he said. “Table for three?”

  “Yes,” Samantha said. She added quickly: “Nonsmoking.”

  They were led to a table dressed with a blue-and-white-striped cloth. A blue-candle had been set in the middle, held in place by an arrangement of seashells.

  Although it was just sundown, the restaurant was already crowded. Wonderful smells filled the air, mixing with the sea air that blew in through the open windows. The awnings at the back of the building were rolled up, affording a view of passing boats. Their tiny lights moved slowly along the water, like little fireflies.

  The maître d’ told them the specials of the night, then started to walk away. Wil stopped him.

  “Mind if I ask you some questions about the town?”

  “Sure,” the maître d’ said. “What would you like to know?”

  Wil looked at Samantha, then back at the host.

  “Well, we visited here when we were very young children,” Wil said. “We thought it might be fun to find the house where we stayed. It’s yellow, with green shutters. I thought it was near the jetty, but we weren’t able to see it.”

  “I suppose because it’s too dark,” Samantha put in.

  The maître d’ gazed out at the water, thinking.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t remember any such house,” he said. “But you know who might? Our cook. Gordon Freeman’s lived in this town for sixty years.”

  “I’d like to talk to him, then,” Wil said.

  “Why don’t you take a look at the menu?” the maître d’ suggested. “I’ll talk to Gordy and send him out when he has a few minutes.”

  He walked away. Barbara opened her menu, and her eyes widened.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “I told you I’m paying for it,” Wil reminded her.

  “It isn’t the prices,” Barbara said. “Look at this menu. I’m in heaven! Steamed lobster, marinated swordfish, striped bass in sorrel sauce . . .”

  “Must have gotten the sorrel from our own desert,” Wil said.

  “Well, I was under the impression it was just a little concession stand,” Barbara said. “Fish and chips, that sort of thing. This is a lovely menu.”

  “Maybe the material you looked up about Haybrook’s was dated,” Wil suggested.

  Samantha’s eyes quickly scanned the menu. She found something right away, and closed it.

  “That was quick,” Barbara said.

  “I guess I’m more hungry than I expected,” she said.

  It didn’t occur to her that she had read the menu ten times faster than either Wil or Barbara, and hadn’t skipped a word.

  Barbara and Wil finally closed their menus. Barbara rested a hand on her chin and stared out at the night.

  “It sure is different here,” she said. “I hadn’t expected the East to be this pretty.”

  Wil laughed. “And everyone here thinks we westerners spend all our time kicking around in cowshit.”

  Samantha couldn’t help laughing at that, and Barbara joined her. For just a moment both women put aside all thoughts of mystery and allowed themselves to enjoy their surroundings.

  A waitress came by and took their orders. Moments later, steaming bowls of seafood chowder were placed before them. Wil bombarded his with oyster crackers and pepper.

  They had finished the soup and were starting on salads when a frail little man in white appeared at the table. He politely took off his chef’s cap, revealing a head covered with white fuzz. He bowed just slightly to the women. They smiled up at him. Wil stood and shook his hand.

  “You must be Mr. Freeman.”
>
  “Call me Gordy,” the old man said. “You don’t mind if I sit down, do you?”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Wil said.

  Gordy settled himself. He winced as a quick pain shot through his back.

  “Can’t be on my feet so much these days,” he groaned. When he spoke to the others, something made his eyes focus directly on Samantha. “Now, what is it you want to know?”

  Samantha shifted uncomfortably. Did Gordy recognize her, even after many years?

  Wil mentioned the summer house.

  “It was nearby,” he said. “Close to the jetty.”

  “Well, I know of a place that once stood down the road a bit,” Gordy said. “It was yellow with green shutters. But I’m afraid you won’t be able to see it.”

  “Why not?” Samantha asked.

  “Because that house burned to the ground ten years ago,” Gordy said. “Sorry.”

  Samantha looked down at her salad, her eyes sad. Another dead end.

  “Just one more question,” Wil said. “By any chance, are there any government buildings in the area?”

  Samantha’s head came up. Barbara’s eyebrows furled.

  “Not here in Shoaling,” Gordy said. “But there’s a factory about a mile outside of town. They make parts there. You know, things for airplanes and ships. It’s all fenced in, with a guard at the front gate. Some of the people here in town go to work there. In fact, if you don’t work for the tourist trade in Shoaling, you work at the factory.”

  The waitress appeared with their dinners. Gordy stood up.

  “Well, is there anything else I can tell you?” he asked.

  “Not right now,” Wil said. “But thanks.”

  Goody gave Samantha one last look, then turned and walked away.

  “That man was staring at you, Samantha,” Barbara said.

  “I noticed,” Samantha said. It made her very uncomfortable.

  Wil began to cut up his order of soft-shell crabs.

  “He might have thought you looked familiar,” he said. “I suppose it’s possible he remembers you from when you visited here.”

  “But I don’t remember him,” Samantha said.

  She was starting to cry. Barbara, who was nearer to her, quickly reached across the table and squeezed her hand for support.