Vanished

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.