by Baby Grand
Jamie was stunned. She felt betrayed and a bit humiliated. But she was still alive.
Bailino placed Charlotte on the ground, and the little girl squealed with delight as the cold water covered her toes. She bent down and touched the water with the tips of her fingers. Jamie looked around. What was stopping her from just running? She could make a break for it. Was there really no one around for miles, as Bailino had said? Bailino had his back toward her and was pointing out a fish jumping out of the water to Charlotte, who wasn't looking for Jamie anymore.
But something wasn't right. Was this a trap? Or a test? With his back turned, was he pulling a Charlotte on her—standing there with outstretched hands, testing her loyalties?
Then something dawned on Jamie. Could it be possible that Charlotte had not abandoned her at all, had not switched loyalties at random, but had a sense, the same sense that Jamie had, that Bailino was her ticket out of there and that it was better to keep him happy? She watched Bailino splash Charlotte with water. In the little girl's eyes, if Jamie trusted the big scary man, or so it seemed, and Charlotte trusted Jamie, then wouldn't it make sense that Charlotte should trust him too?
Charlotte was pressing both hands onto a pair of moss-covered rocks, watching the waves ripple around them, as Jamie walked beside her.
"Waa, waa, waa," Charlotte said, smiling.
"Yes, water," Jamie said.
"The kid loves the water," Bailino said, sitting on a tall rock. Charlotte picked up a small stone and threw it into the stream and giggled. She lifted up another one and was startled by a small frog and fell backward. She started to cry and crawled toward Jamie on all fours.
"It's all right." Jamie wiped the mud from Charlotte's knees. "Just a frog." They watched the tiny creature hop away into the weeds. "You see? He's going home to his mommy and..."
Jamie caught herself. She'd said mommy. She didn't mean to. It was a habit, something she used to say to Peter and Sara when they'd have run-ins with mice and frogs in the backyard. Charlotte seemed to look at her for a moment, as if the word conjured up a distant memory, but then she kicked her feet to get back down on the ground. This time, Charlotte held onto Jamie's pant leg for steadiness while she picked up nearby rocks to toss into the water.
"Are you happy?" Bailino asked her. She could feel he had been studying her as he sat leisurely on the rock, as if he hadn't a care in the world.
"Happy?" Jamie asked.
"Yeah, you know, in your life." He paused. "Your real life."
It was odd to hear Bailino categorize what exactly was going on here, intimating that her being at the cabin with Charlotte and him was some sort of fantastical extension of life, rather than the real thing, and it dawned on her for the first time that perhaps he was not only speaking about her, but himself as well.
"Yes," she said. "I am." She paused and then felt the urge to keep going. "I wasn't happy for a long time, though."
"You mean, in your marriage?"
Jamie didn't answer. A canoe had come into her line of sight. There were two rowers, and both of them picked their oars out of the water to wave. Bailino waved back, and although she couldn't see his face, she heard him say, "Wave." She obeyed and waved, and, following Jamie's lead, Charlotte did too. The rowers put their oars back in the water and continued on their way.
"So," Bailino asked, readjusting himself on the rock. "Why weren't you happy for a long time?"
"I was married to a guy I didn't love—didn't even like—for eight years."
"Why would you marry someone you didn't love?"
Jamie picked up a rock and threw it far into the water. Charlotte giggled.
"Nice arm," Bailino said, impressed.
"My brother taught me how not to throw like a girl."
"So why would you marry someone you didn't love? You told me this morning you got caught up in something. What?"
Jamie picked up another rock.
"I know," Bailino smirked. "I'm very persistent."
"It's a long story, why I married Bob."
"I'm not going anywhere."
Jamie hesitated. She thought about her mother lying in bed, frail, her eyes sunken, long strands of hair laying on her pillow and sheets, her lips so chapped that they went through a tube of Chap Stick every day.
Sensing her struggle, Bailino stood up. "All right," he said. "Let's head back."
Relieved, Jamie picked up Charlotte, who was filthy and reluctant to go and was doing the body-as-a-board thing again, but Jamie held her firmly until the little girl settled down in her arms. As they followed Bailino back up the hill toward the log cabin, Jamie was aware of how comfortable she felt having him in front of her this time, where she could see him, rather than having him follow behind, as he had on the way to the river. It was always easier to know what was in front of you, what's ahead, wasn't it? she thought. If only her mother had thought the same way, had given her and Edward and everyone enough time to prepare.
Jamie watched Bailino stride past the trees and the rocky terrain with ease, like he owned the place, which he did. She knew he was going to ask her questions again and again until he got the answers he wanted—that satisfied him—of that she was sure, but that was the least of her concerns. In a few hours, it would be dark, and she would have to spend another night with him. Her stomach tightened as she remembered Bailino on top of her, grunting, sweating, unrelenting. She was going to have to brace herself for the inevitable and face the fact that Edward was not going to rescue her, that no one was. She was on her own.
But not alone. Jamie ran her hand over Charlotte Grand's head, which rested on her shoulder. She would have to be strong, and smart, for the both of them, but what that meant Jamie wasn't sure. She thought of Bailino's hot, piercing eyes in the dark of the bedroom. She was going to have to look the wolf right in the eyes and challenge him—not with threats or violence, Lord knows that didn't work, but in a way that would gain his respect and confidence, and maybe, just maybe, she'd get her chance.
"You all right?" Bailino asked, turning around, but without slowing down.
"Yes," Jamie nodded.
And the time to start was now.
Jamie juggled Charlotte higher in her arms and picked up her pace until she was walking side by side with Bailino. She looked straight ahead at the log cabin, which had just come into view, but from the corner of her eye, she could see Bailino was looking at her. And smiling.
Chapter 33
Pandemonium erupted at the Executive Mansion as news of Charlotte's disappearance hit the major news outlets, all of which had reps camped just outside the black iron gates, rendering the narrow sidewalk, as well as Eagle Street, unnavigable.
Detective Nurberg watched the commotion from the mansion entrance. This was exactly what he was trying to avoid. In the last hour alone, the department had gotten fifteen calls from individuals claiming to have spotted ten-month-old Charlotte Grand from places as far away as Tucson and San Francisco. His small staff, already taxed, was spending its time mired in paperwork and chasing down dead-end leads. And to top things off, Nurberg left his folder and notepad in his car, which he had to park in the museum lot around the block. He had no desire to trudge through that mayhem again to get them.
"Detective Nurberg?"
Nurberg was greeted by the governor's press secretary, Leonard Maddox, who had been sent to escort him into the mansion. He was told that the governor and his wife were trying their best to remain out of public sight.
Not so much this morning, huh, governor, Nurberg thought about Phillip Grand's midmorning jaunt to Taryn's Diner. He followed the press secretary inside.
Maddox, a small, stout man with a pointy nose, looked exhausted. He had been with the Grands since the governor was first inaugurated six years ago and served as Katherine Grand's right-hand man. Nurberg spotted him on the news about an hour ago making a brief statement about Charlotte's disappearance, after which he avoided all of the press' inquiries, but promised regular updates, prett
y much defying Nurberg's instructions about keeping things quiet.
"I saw you on TV," Nurberg said as they walked.
"Detective, no offense, but I don't answer to you. I answer to the First Lady."
He stopped just before the Drawing Room and prompted Nurberg to enter. The Drawing Room, historically, was a place for after-dinner socializing at the mansion, although the mood this evening was somber, in spite of the ruckus outside. The room was also where the governor was officially inaugurated every four years—the day before the public swearing-in. Phillip and Katherine Grand were sitting on a pair of facing velvet red sofas that flanked a large fireplace, over which hung a portrait of Nelson Rockefeller.
"Detective Nurberg." Governor Grand pushed himself up, using the sofa's armrest. He too looked quite tired. "Please, come and sit down."
Nurberg shook the governor's hand, and as he sat down he caught the eye of Mrs. Grand, who was glowering at him.
"Mrs. Grand." Nurberg said, with a nod of his head.
"How did this happen?" Katherine Grand looked as if she had eaten something horribly bitter and was looking for a plate—or a face—to spit it into.
"Ma'am?"
"This, this... media circus," she said, pointing outside. "What kind of operation are you running here, Nurberg? The Titanic had fewer fucking leaks."
"Katherine..." Phillip Grand shook his head apologetically.
Nurberg was defensive. "The leak didn't come from my end, Ma'am."
"Detective, you have scores of people working at the station. Any one of them could have called that freak Harvey Levin."
"Mrs. Grand, I could say the very same thing about your staff, but pointing fingers isn't going to help matters and isn't going to help find your daughter."
Mrs. Grand folded her arms across her chest and let out an irritated sigh.
"What's the status on the investigation, Detective?" the governor asked.
"I wish I had better news," Nurberg said. "But, at this point, I'm afraid we haven't come up with anything concrete."
"Jesus!" Katherine threw her hands up in the air.
"Mrs. Grand," Nurberg said, trying to remain calm and reminding himself that it was Mrs. Grand's daughter who was missing and that she had every right to be perturbed. "I have interviewed every mansion staff member, chased down every lead personally. I assure you that we have done everything we can."
"Well, it looks like it's not enough." Katherine stood up. Nurberg could tell she was gearing up for another tongue-lashing. "You mean to tell me that with every news station and Web site now broadcasting the disappearance of my daughter, there's nothing new for you to report?"
"Tons of calls are coming in, Mrs. Grand, but none so far have panned out."
"Tons of calls?" Phillip asked. "From where?"
"From everywhere," Nurberg said. "California. Arizona. Louisiana. South Carolina. It's keeping my office quite busy." He glared at Mrs. Grand. "This"—Nurberg pointed toward the front window, where even through the heavy red drapes, the bright lights of the news cameras were visible—"was not part of the plan. At least, not yet." Nurberg was standing now. "I wasn't the one on the news today making a statement."
"You're right. Somebody had to do something, Detective," Katherine said. She smoothed the velvet down on the top of the sofa with her hand. "What should I have expected? After all, your track record isn't all that remarkable."
"Excuse me?" Nurberg could feel the skin on his cheeks reddening.
"I mean, this case was a huge step up for you, wasn't it, Detective Nurberg?" Katherine stepped out from behind the sofa. "Kidnapping is a far cry from public disturbance."
Nurberg was furious. "Ma'am, I have an exemplary record and several commendations, not that I need to defend myself."
"Apparently, you do."
"All right... all right..." Phillip stood in between Katherine and the detective. "This isn't getting us anywhere. Katherine, please, would you leave the detective and me alone for a moment?"
Katherine fluffed the back of her hair and pulled at the string of beads wound tightly around her neck. Against the backdrop of the historical room, she resembled—although Nurberg hated to admit it—a slender Eleanor Roosevelt. A small sprinkler head, installed in 1961 after an electrical fire tore through the entire first floor of the mansion, hung above her and was the only clue that this was a modern-day scene. Nurberg wished something would set it off right now.
"All right," Katherine said. She gazed at Detective Nurberg as if to say something—or perhaps waiting for him to—and then marched off for the second time in two days.
As Mrs. Grand left, so did the hostility, and Nurberg felt somewhat embarrassed. "Governor, I'm..."
Phillip shook his head. "No need to apologize. This is a difficult time for everyone. We all seem to be losing our heads."
"But please know, sir, that we are doing everything we can to find your daughter."
But Phillip Grand wasn't listening. He picked up a photo, which was displayed on a circular wooden table, of him and Mrs. Grand with President and Mrs. Obama from the presidential inauguration three years ago. There were several sterling-silver photo frames there featuring a variety of dignitaries, all facing toward the main hall so that the tourists, who were roped off from entering the Drawing Room, could see them.
"You know, he called this afternoon," Phillip said. "The president."
"Oh?"
"Yes, he'd seen the story on the news and took a moment to call. Nice fellow."
"Governor, there is something I'd like to talk with you about."
Phillip returned to his spot on the sofa. "Yes, Detective. What is it?"
"This morning, you visited Taryn's Diner downtown."
The governor pushed himself back on the sofa and rolled up the sleeve on his right arm, then his left. "Yes."
"Why?"
"He needed air," Katherine said, returning to the room and bending down on the far side of the sofa closest to her to pick up her pocketbook, which had been placed on the floor. "Sorry, forgot my bag." She put it over her shoulder.
As she left the room, Phillip said, "I had to get out of the house."
"Away from me, supposedly," Katherine yelled as she stepped up the nearby staircase that led to the mansion's private quarters.
Phillip sighed and put his head back, resting it on the sofa back. "That woman..."
"Sir? Taryn's?"
"Detective, I just... needed to go."
"Were you hungry?"
"Yes," Phillip said. "I was hungry."
Detective Nurberg sat on the facing sofa, where Katherine Grand had been seated when he first arrived. "But witnesses say that you had nothing to eat while you were there, sir."
"Witnesses?" The governor sat up straight. "Detective, am I under police surveillance?"
"No, sir." Nurberg hesitated. He was about to piss off his only ally. "I just thought it strange that you would go out for a bite in the middle of an investigation, particularly when I had asked you to stick around."
"Strange enough to start asking questions about me, I see. Didn't you think soliciting residents would arouse suspicion? Or get people talking?"
"Governor Grand," Nurberg leaned forward. "We are on the same side here, aren't we?"
"Why wouldn't we be?" Phillip said.
"What I mean is..." Nurberg cleared his throat. "We are on the same side. You do know that, right?"
"Yes, Detective, yes." Phillip rubbed his temple. "I'm sorry. I think this is all getting to me."
"I understand, sir, and, again, I'm sorry I don't have better news."
"You are doing all you can, I know."
"It's just that I really thought we would have heard something by now," Nurberg said. "In most kidnapping cases, where there is a ransom or any other kind of demand, the abductors make contact within the first twenty-four hours."
"Is that right?" Phillip shifted in his seat. "Well, what does that mean then?"
"I wish I knew," Nurberg
said. "As much as my gut tells me I'm wrong, I keep going back to your nanny, Rosalia. She was the last one to see Charlotte."
"No, no... Rosalia. She can't be involved," Phillip said. "Can't be."
"How confident are you?" Nurberg asked.
"I'm sure of it."
Nurberg shook his head. "Well, please call me if you think of anything. And don't—DON'T—talk to them." Nurberg pointed toward the front mansion window.
"Good. I thought you were going to tell me to make a statement or something—or some kind of plea."
"A plea? To whom?"
"Oh," Phillip shrugged. "I don't know."
"No, I'll just keep going over what we do know, look again at the security tapes. Maybe we missed something."
"Thank you for all your hard work, Detective Nurberg."
The two men rose from the sofas and walked out of the Drawing Room. Phillip escorted Nurberg as far as the main corridor and then stopped.
"I'll be in touch," Nurberg said.
As Nurberg left the mansion, Phillip could hear the immediate rush of entreaties calling "Detective! Detective!" Peeking through a front window, he watched Nurberg bully his way through the crowd of media as if he were digging a tunnel, which kept collapsing behind him. When the detective was out of sight, the governor stepped into the adjoining room, a gold-hued sitting room that housed several of Franklin Roosevelt's personal items, including a wheelchair and an ashtray. He opened the door that led to the first-floor bathroom, the one used by mansion visitors, and immediately threw up in the forty-year-old porcelain pedestal sink installed by Governor Nelson Rockefeller.
Chapter 34
Gino's last meal arrived at 4:30 p.m. with less pomp and circumstance than even he could imagine. The gate to his cell opened, Hank placed the food tray in Gino's hands, relocked the gate, and was on his way all within a matter of seconds.