Vanished

“He doesn't know. He swears.” Her eyes never left Marieile's face. “If Charles knew, he'd tell us.”

“You don't even know him.” But she knew him better than Marielle thought. She had spent hours with him, in the jail, after bribing two policemen. At first it was just a story, an interview, but for some odd reason, she believed him. She was sure he was telling the truth, and she had promised herself that she would do everything she could to help him. In fact, she had gone to Tom Armour, at his request, and begged him to represent Charles. The two were acquaintances from years past, but until that point, Armour had refused all of Charles's letters and phone calls. It was Bea who turned the tide, who begged on his behalf, who convinced the young criminal attorney that Charles was in fact innocent, in spite of how grim things looked against him. And she had reminded Tom that if he didn't take the case, and Charles lost, he would be put to death … an innocent man. She insisted that Tom could make all the difference. Thanks to Bea Ritter, Tom Armour had finally agreed to represent him.

“Will you help me?” Her eyes begged and Marielle didn't want to hear her, just as Tom Armour hadn't wanted to, but he had. Bea Ritter was uncomfortably convincing.

“Find my son and I'll believe you,” Marielle said coldly.

“I'll try.” Bea Ritter finally stood up. “May I call you if anything comes up?” Marielle hesitated, and then in spite of herself, she nodded. “Thank you.” Bea stood for a moment, looking at Marielle, as though wondering about all she'd heard, and then she thanked her again and left, as Marielle watched her.

Marielle was still sitting at her desk, thinking about her unhappily, when John Taylor arrived with the U.S. Attorney. He was a tall, thin, spare, somewhat frightening-looking man, who seemed absolutely certain that Charles Delauney had kidnapped her child, and what's more, he was certain he had killed him. Marielle flinched as she heard the words, and John Taylor ached as he watched her. It was a far cry from Bea Ritter's plea to help him.

The U.S. Attorney told her they had scheduled the case for March, and he explained to her that they expected a guilty verdict, and hoped for every possible cooperation from her and her husband.

“What does that mean, Mr. Palmer?”

“It means that I expect you to be at the trial, to sit there and make the jury care. We want them to know what losing your boy has meant to you, so they convict Mr. Delauney. And if we're lucky, and can prove or even imply that he crossed state lines with the boy, we'll get the death penalty, Mrs. Patterson, and nothing less!” The way he said it made her shiver. He also made her feel that he was going to try to convict Charles on the emotions of the case, more than the evidence. And it worried her to be put “on display” during the trial. Taylor didn't like it either, but he understood it. William Palmer was a highly respected prosecutor, but not much of a human being. “Of course, if we find your son by then, we'd like to see him in court too, but only briefly.” Marielle sat there thinking that she would have loved that. If only they would find him and he could be there.

“Anything else?” She was being flip with him because what he was saying was so awful, but he didn't seem to get the point as he stood up and prepared to leave her.

“We'll let you know.” He readjusted his glasses, stared at her as though evaluating how good a witness she'd make, and picked up his briefcase. “I'd like to see your husband when he gets back from Washington, if you'd let him know.”

“I'll tell him.” He left and Taylor stayed on, and she sighed as they sat down on the couch. It had been an endless month, a hideous time, and they still had no idea what had happened to Teddy. There had been no calls, no tips, only a few bum leads, and a handful of crackpot sightings from New Hampshire to New Jersey.

“He's sweet.” She was referring to the U.S. Attorney, and Taylor laughed as he lit a cigarette and watched her. She was a good sport, among other things, when life wasn't crushing her to extinction.

“He's better in court than in the drawing room.”

“Lucky for him.” And then she looked inquiringly at John. In an odd way, they had become friends. Sometimes she felt as though he was her only ally. “I imagine the trial will be really awful.”

“It'll be rough. And they'll bring out things you won't like … at least the defense will, maybe your time in the hospital, or something like that. They have to do what they can to discredit you.”

“Why? I'm not accusing Charles.” Although most of the time she now believed he did it. It was only now and then that she had doubts about Charles's guilt. She told him then about Bea Ritter.