Vanished

“When this is all over, you and I are going to have a serious talk, Mrs. Patterson. I don't know what's going to happen. But I do know I'm not going to let you off the hook so easily then.” He had never felt like this about anyone, not even his wife, and he wasn't willing to give that up now. The moment he had met Marielle, he had known his life was about to change forever. But he also knew that what he owed her now was to find her son, and if he couldn't do that, to at least help her through the trial and see Charles Delauney convicted.

“Would you like something to eat before you go?” she offered, but he shook his head.

“I have to get back to the office,” he said reluctantly, hating to leave her. He seldom went home before ten o'clock. Because he really didn't want to. He had told Marielle he loved his wife and he did … he had … he used to …But the truth was, he loved his kids more, and that and their religion kept them together. “Ill call you tomorrow,” he whispered to Marielle, wondering if she'd regret what they'd done, what they'd said, and if she'd be embarrassed, but there was a look of contentment in her eyes when she stood up, and she looked at him strangely.

“I know I should feel guilty, but I don't. I just feel peaceful.” As though something very special had happened. And he felt it too. Something right. Something good. Something they both needed and wanted. But would they ever be allowed to have it? It was still too soon to know the answer to that question.

“Good night, Mrs. Patterson,” he said softly, brushing her lips with his own before they left the room and were under the scrutiny of the policemen still assigned to her home night and day. “Good night, Marielle …” he whispered. She smiled as she walked him to the front door, and a few minutes later, she walked quietly upstairs to her own room. It was the first time in a month she had smiled, it was so wonderful to feel loved and wanted again, even if only for a moment.

Bill Palmer, the U.S. Attorney, became a frequent visitor to their home, while he was preparing his case, and for long periods of time he would stay closeted with Malcolm. He spoke to various members of the staff, and he had had several conversations with the no longer employed Edith and Patrick. And finally, in early March, he spoke to Marielle again, this time alone, with neither John Taylor, nor her husband.

“I want you to be sure, Mrs. Patterson, before you take the stand, that you're perfectly clear on what you believe happened. Do you understand me?” She was sure she did, and he was one of those people who spoke in a deliberate voice, and there was absolutely nothing endearing about him. His hair was slicked down, and his face was pale. He was probably John Taylor's age, a man in his very early forties. He was given to pin-striped suits and dark ties, he wore horn-rimmed glasses, and it was obvious that he was extremely impressed with Malcolm.

“I understand,” she said quietly. But there was still very little to tell. She had heard a noise late that night, and at midnight she had gone upstairs to check on Teddy, just to kiss him, she explained for the hundredth time, but the attorney looked untouched by her recital. He was only interested in convicting Delauney. He hated men like him, a socialist lurking in the robes of a rich man, as he viewed it. A spoiled playboy who thought he could do anything he wanted. “I found Betty, and Miss Griffin, bound and gagged. Miss Griffin had a pillowcase over her head as well, and she'd been chloroformed. And Teddy was gone …that's all there was really … he had vanished.” And there had been nothing since then, except the false alarm over the ransom left in Grand Central Station. It had never been picked up and they'd never called again, which convinced the police and the FBI that the call had been made by cranks in the first place.

“And the pajama suit found at Delauney's home, was that your son's?” She felt as though she were already on the stand as he paced the room and watched her.

“I believe so,” she said softly.

“You're not sure.” He stopped pacing and stared, as though in fury.

“I'm sure, but …”

“But what, Mrs. Patterson?” Malcolm had warned him that she was never sure, never certain, never brave enough to stand up for herself or have her own convictions.

“I don't know how it got there.” Malcolm had said, unfairly, that you couldn't really trust her emotions.

“Delauney left it there of course. How else would it get to his house, along with the boy's teddy bear? Do you not believe Charles Delauney kidnapped your son?” There was a long pause as she pondered it again. She had asked herself the same question a thousand times in the past two and a half months, and she thought he had, the evidence was there, yet sometimes she was unsure, when she let herself think of Charles as a person. And everyone said he still maintained that he hadn't. But the evidence …the evidence …the pajamas …the bear …