During that long, terrible night, images of Jack’s face stayed firmly in front of her, whether or not her eyes were closed. His expression when he’d seen Jerry, those poor little fingers tapping furiously against his palm that told her he was worried. He’s never been away from me. Please, let it be that Jerry changed his mind and left Jack with Agnes. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t been here yet—maybe she can’t come because she’s at home taking care of him.
Mary had been hoping, praying, pleading all night long that this would all turn out to be a huge mistake. That Agnes would get in touch with a sympathetic lawyer who might have a better outlook than the court-appointed attorney who had paid her a visit right after she’d been booked. Young, inexperienced, and more than a little pessimistic, she quickly realized. The conversation had gone so badly she hated to even think about it, but in the small confines of the cell, her mind kept going there anyway.
She could still hear his flat, no-nonsense voice: “Bail’s been denied because you’re considered a flight risk—there are interstate laws in place, and you took your son from Minnesota to Illinois without his father’s knowledge or consent—Illinois officials have discretionary authority to assist in the case because this is where they found the child and arrested you . . . Trial will be here in Chicago . . . Father has physical custody—he can legally take your son back to Minnesota during your incarceration if you’re found guilty . . . What the heck happened to your hands?” And it didn’t get better from there.
After pacing what seemed like miles and miles, Mary still remained on her feet but finally could not lift them anymore. Leaning her aching forehead against the cold steel bars of her cell, she closed her eyes and prayed once more that when she opened them, she would be lying in her own bed with Jack breathing evenly in his sleep right beside her. Her mind needed the fantasy that everything was all right—if only for a few seconds. She took some deep breaths, willing her heart to beat normally instead of at the terrified gallop that had been pounding in her chest all night long.
“Mary—you’ve got visitors.” A man’s voice interrupted her reverie, and she opened her eyes. Jack! Her arms reached out to him through the bars. She couldn’t believe her son was right in front of her—and at the same time she hated that he was seeing her in a cell. Maybe I am asleep—maybe he’s not really here, and I’m dreaming. That’s when she saw Jerry right behind him. No! It’s a nightmare. . . .
“You got ten minutes,” the police officer said. “That’s it.” He turned and left.
“Jack!” she cried. She saw on his face when it registered who he was seeing—but in a place he didn’t, couldn’t understand. He moved toward her, and she tried to keep her tears in check. She reached out again, then remembered her hands were bare. The fingers of his right hand were tapping against his left palm. Tapping, tapping, tapping.
Jerry took a menacing step closer to the bars. “Where’s my money? The money you stole from me—the money I worked my tail off for!”
“Someone stole it,” she said, her voice shaking, “right after we got to the city. Is he eating—is Jack okay?”
“Stolen? Stolen! You’re lyin’ to me.”
She shook her head. “I swear before God. Someone took the envelope from my purse.”
“So it’s gone? All of it?”
She nodded, and a strand of hair fell across her face. Without thinking she reached up to tuck it behind her ear. She saw Jerry’s eyes move to the scars—and his grimace.
He swore at her. “You better figure out how to get me my money back, or I’m gonna make sure you rot in jail.”
“I’m sorry, Jerry. I’ll get you the money. Just, please, talk to someone! Tell them it wasn’t kidnapping,” she pleaded. “You know you don’t want to take care of Jack!”
“Let’s talk about the money you and Jack have been making while you’ve been living with the old lady,” he said. “We’re still married, so I figure it’s all mine.”
“You can have it,” she said quickly. “I don’t care. Just tell the judge this is all a huge mistake.”
He pursed his lips and drew his brows together. “I might be able to talk your way out of this mess,” he said. “But first I need to know how you’re working the scam.”
“Scam? What do you mean?”
His smile was mocking. “I mean the—what is it?—this ‘chapter and verse’ scam you and Jack are pulling.”
“But it’s not a scam,” she argued. “The Scripture references Jack writes are real—they’re true. They are accurate—”
“Okay, fine.” Jerry was rolling his eyes. “Then tell me the scheme— how does the deal work? Is there a crystal ball or flickering candles or maybe you look at tea leaves—?”
“No, nothing like that. I told you it’s real,” she insisted. “Jack touches the person’s hand, and then with my help he writes out three numbers. The number of the book of the Bible, the number of the chapter, and the number of the verse.”
“That’s it?” He smiled. “There’s gotta be more suckers in this world than lollipops.”
Mary looked into Jack’s face. Those brown eyes were asking so many questions, and it tore her apart inside that she couldn’t make him understand what was happening. I don’t understand what’s happening myself. . . . “How did you find us?” she asked Jerry. “Did you read about Jack in the paper?”
“Better luck than that. Charles Westerly. He came knockin’ on my door.”
Charles Westerly? “Why? Did he say?” Mary could hear the new tremble in her voice.
“Not really. He’s a strange bird,” Jerry answered nonchalantly. “You musta really ticked him off somehow. You’re good at that—an’ nobody knows it better’n me.”
“I’m so sorry, Jerry. I’d take it all back if I could, but right now I’m telling you the truth. If you want, I can prove it,” she rushed on. “Just let me place your hand in Jack’s, and we can find out where all of this will lead.” Mary cautiously reached out to take Jerry’s hand, but he instantly put his out of reach.
“Let’s just say I believe you. Okay, talk to me about the money you’ve made with the kid. How much?”
The money is all he cares about—it’s all he’s ever cared about. . . .
“I think there could be . . . quite a lot,” she said slowly.
“You think?”
“Agnes handles all the money,” she said. “Her name’s on the account with mine.”
Jerry’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”
She heard the change in tone, saw the flash of irritation and anger in his eyes. No, no, no—don’t get mad. . . .
“What kind of an idiot lets somebody she hardly knows have access to all her money? You might as well’ve let Jack control the finances! Of all the stupid—”
“This will make it easier for you to get the money!” Mary said quickly. “She can take you to the bank and withdraw it, using her signature!”
Jerry stared hard at her for a while. “You better hope it works like that,” he finally said. “ ’Cause if it doesn’t, I will be more’n happy to stand in front of the judge and tell him all about my broken heart and how badly my son has been damaged by his mother’s cruel and criminal actions.”
“Agnes will give you the money,” Mary assured him, “and you can tell the judge it was all a mistake. He’ll let me out, and . . . and then you can see for yourself how Jack’s gift works.”
“That’s how it’d go if we lived in a perfect world,” Jerry said with a thin-lipped smile. “But let’s face it—this world is far from perfect.”
“Time’s up,” the police officer said as he stepped into view.
Jerry grabbed Jack and pulled him back from the cell bars. Mary had to bite her lip to keep from crying out at the look of confusion and fear on Jack’s face. “Go see Agnes,” she said as convincingly as she could manage. “She’ll give you the money. Tell her I said to give all of it to you!”
“Let’s just hope she’s home,” Jerry said. “I
’m not too good at waiting.”
As Jerry led Jack away, Mary had to remind herself to breathe.
Chapter Twenty-seven
IT WAS TEN FORTY-FIVE in the morning by the time Agnes returned home and pulled her car up in front of her house. An early riser— it wasn’t unusual for her to have had two cups of coffee before six o’clock—it irritated her that the rest of her world, especially the bank, insisted on midmorning openings.
Hurrying now to make up for lost time, Agnes took quick measure of the house and yard, specifically the not marked snow in the front, as she drove slowly along the side of her house to the garage. The light snow that had fallen the night before was pristine, untouched by footprints on the sidewalk, steps, or front porch.
Inside the back door that led into the kitchen, Agnes dropped her handbag on the counter so she could peel off her coat, pausing only long enough to wonder what she could have forgotten. She ran through a mental checklist as she walked quickly into her bedroom. Let’s see, Mother’s recipe box from the pantry and the silver spoon I got at Niagara Falls . . .
Agnes heard her knees creak as she bent to grab the two suitcases, all ready to go. One more quick glance around the room. She turned to lug the cases through the living room and kitchen, out the back door—she’d soon be on her way.
She rounded the corner of the hallway, and one of the cases banged into her leg. “Ouch!”
But the pain was quickly forgotten when she moved into the living room. Jack was standing by the window, looking straight at her. Her free hand flew to her chest. “Jack?”
“And Jack’s daddy” came Jerry’s voice from the right. She whirled to see him standing on the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, his hands behind his back. He looked pointedly at the suitcases, and Agnes felt a clutch of fear. She willed herself to keep a calm look on her face.
“Going somewhere, Agnes?”
“I didn’t hear you knock,” she said evenly as she put the cases on the floor.
“No? Maybe age is creepin’ up on you,” he said. “They say hearing is one of the first things to go.”
Agnes moved toward Jack, working at a smile on her face. “How are you, dear? Are you well?” She put a hand on his shoulder.
“He’s fine. And I asked you a question,” Jerry said. “Where are you off to with the suitcases?”
Agnes turned to face him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m taking some things over to Mary at the jail.”
His brows shot up. “Really? They’ll let her have personal things in her cell? Two suitcases full?”
Agnes tilted her head slightly to the side. “I wouldn’t know for sure, having never been to a jail before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really need to get going.” Agnes turned back toward the suitcases, but Jerry swung his hand out from behind his back to reveal Agnes’s handbag.
She started toward him. “Where did you get that? Give that to me!”
“Sure thing,” he said with a grin as he tossed it toward her. But Jerry swung his other arm out from behind his back, where his hand grasped a thick cotton zippered bag. “I think this is what you’re really looking for—isn’t it?” He unzipped the bag. “I guess when you’re as good a customer as my wife, the First National Bank even supplies one of their own teller bags when you make a hefty withdrawal.”
Agnes clutched her purse against her pounding heart. “That money belongs to me—it’s not yours. You have no claim on it.”
“Wrong. We both know this is Jack’s money. And since I’m Jack’s dad and have custody of him, the money goes with me.” Jerry cut his glance back and forth between Agnes and the bag as he quickly thumbed through the bills. He issued a low whistle. “Man, oh, man. Must be some scam you two’ve been running. There’s gotta be a few thousand in here.”
“I’m telling you, that money is mine—from my late husband’s estate,” Agnes insisted.
“You got this much money from your dead husband, and you live in a place like this?” Jerry gestured around the humble living room. “I don’t think so, you conniving—”
“I don’t care what you think,” Agnes snapped. “Now put that money down and get out of my house before I call the police.”
“Go ahead,” Jerry said. “We can both point fingers at each other, but at the end of the day, Mary’s gonna be the tie breaker, Agnes. She’ll tell the cops she wanted you to give all the money in her account to me—just like she already said to me.”
“Mary will regret that impulsive decision,” Agnes said. “I was just trying to protect her.”
Jerry smiled. “That’s most caring of you, Agnes, but Mary’s a big girl and she knows her own mind.”
Agnes felt imminent defeat in every bone of her body. She could barely stand on her shaky legs and leaned against the brick of the fireplace for support when she saw the look of pure victory on Jerry’s face.
He shrugged. “So I’m guessing you’ll want to unpack your things, Agnes. You’re not going anywhere—but I’ll be happy to tell Mary how you were trying to protect her,” he said, crossing toward Jack. “C’mon, kid. We’re leaving.”
But he never made it all the way to his son. His legs crumpled underneath him as a fireplace poker slammed into the back of his head. Jerry never saw what hit him, never saw Agnes standing over him with the poker, didn’t feel it when she deftly plucked the bag of money from his hand. She quickly felt for his pulse on the side of his neck—not dead. Just out cold. She turned and looked into Jack’s eyes.
“Your mommy should have done it years ago,” she said. “But even harder.”
As always, it was impossible to tell what the boy was thinking. But one thing for sure—he could never tell anyone about what had just transpired. Agnes took Jack’s arm and led him to the couch. A half-finished puzzle was scattered over the coffee table.
“Here, Jack. Work on the puzzle like a good boy, and when Daddy wakes up, he’ll probably take you right back to your mother.” Agnes leaned down and looked into his eyes.
“My, my, my, Jack. This isn’t the way I thought this day would end,” she said. “And I’m sorry, dear heart, I really am, but you have to stay here. I can’t bring you with me. You understand, don’t you? I’m old, and you have your whole life ahead of you. I’m sure your mamma is going to be back with you real soon.”
Jack didn’t move—didn’t so much as blink—and, she noted with a quick look at the man out cold on the floor, neither did Jerry. Agnes stuffed the teller’s bag into her purse, picked up the suitcases, and without another look back, walked out.
Jerry slowly became aware of a dull, low sound. His head was throbbing, and he realized his own moaning was what he was hearing— well, at least he wasn’t dead. He winced as he gradually sat up, his fingers automatically probing the lump the size of an egg on the back of his head. His mouth was desert dry, he felt very cold, and the room swam in front of him.
After a few moments, he carefully moved his eyes without moving his head and looked around the room. He was alone. No Agnes, no Jack—no suitcases and certainly no bag of money. The ticking of the clock above the mantel drew his attention. It’s four o’clock. It had been barely after ten-thirty when he’d slipped into the house with Jack right after the old woman.
“Jack?” He realized immediately that was pointless. When he saw the iron fireplace poker on the floor, he went back over the last few things he remembered—Jack near the window, the bag of money in his hand, the argument, and then nothing.
He used the couch to leverage himself up, pleased that he could stand at all. The pain in the back of his head was still bad, but he could feel some strength returning. He shivered—the room felt as if there was a window open. After a few tentative steps, he chased the draft, following the cold air through the living room into the kitchen. The back door stood wide open.
The snow from the previous night had iced over into tiny diamond crystals sparkling in the late afternoon sun. Jerry looked down and saw two sets of foot
prints—both small, but one set definitely smaller than the other. They led away from the house toward the garage. It wasn’t a very big leap for Jerry to assume Agnes took Jack. After all, she knew how the scam worked. In fact, Jerry was sure that Agnes had come up with the whole concept in the first place.
He followed the footprints for a few feet, but suddenly the tracks split. The larger footprints kept on to the garage. The smaller set turned abruptly and went out toward the street. Jerry followed the smaller footprints clearly visible in the otherwise unmarked snow. They led across the yard, and he then lost them at the street’s edge—but he found something else. A green mitten, Jack’s green mitten lying in the gutter.
He stuffed the mitten into his pants pocket, fuming that he’d been bested by an old lady and his own kid. So maybe Jack wasn’t with Agnes after all. But no matter. That’s not what the police would hear. Jerry started to work out the details he’d tell the police. He’d keep it simple—that was the secret of a good lie.
But then it dawned on Jerry that the police shouldn’t be his first call. I’ ll call Charles Westerly, the man who came looking for me in the first place—the one who started this whole thing. . . .
Chapter Twenty-eight
Madison, Wisconsin
THE BLOOMER CHOCOLATE DELIVERY TRUCK moved down Madison’s quiet, nearly deserted State Street. The driver yawned, shifting behind the wheel to stretch sore muscles as he motored past businesses, still dark and locked up tight. Pete Albert knew from his run just two weeks ago, though, that someone would be at the Kopper Kettle Sweet Shoppe to take his delivery. The owner was a spitfire of a woman— stubborn, trying desperately to hang on to the shop she’d started just before the Depression sucked the air right out of the country.
Pete made Bloomer deliveries twice a month to Helen Gaines. “My customers might come in to buy a Bloomer candy bar, but by the time they leave I’ve sold them some of my homemade cookies,” Helen had told him proudly. “So you just keep those deliveries coming.”
Pete parked in front of the Kopper Kettle, pulling on heavy gloves and wool hat before stepping out of the warm cab. At the back of the truck he nearly lost his footing on the ice on the pavement and had to grab the bumper to keep his balance. The temperature hovered around ten degrees—too cold for man or beast, he grumbled silently. This was his fourth and last stop since leaving Chicago. He was hungry and thirsty and hoping Helen would wrap up some of her fluffy divinity and chocolate cookies for the return trip.
The Silent Gift Page 18