Only Son (11 page)

“We can't just sit here. We ought to distribute Eddie's pictures all over town, Xerox it or something. Maybe even buy some airtime on TV and radio stations—”

 

“We can't!” Paul hissed. He hit the tabletop with his fist. “We can't afford it, goddamn it! We don't have the money. Understand?”

Amy turned to her mother. “Mom?”

She shrugged. “I have a little left over from when I sold the house—”

“No!” Paul broke in. “We're not borrowing from your mother again. Thank you, Lauraine, but no.”

“What about your parents?” Amy said hotly.

“Look, they're barely getting by on my dad's measly pension. We've taken enough money from them, Amy. We can't borrow from the bank either. I don't even know how we're gonna make the damn mortgage payment next month.”

“You're worried about money? Paul, our son is missing.”

He pulled away from the table and stood up. “Don't you think I feel bad? Think I'm not frustrated?”

“So you're just going to sit back and let the police handle it?” she asked. “That's the man I married. Let everyone else do the work—”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“It's all Amy's responsibility!” she snapped. “I always had to look after the baby. I never got any help from you. It was all left up to me!”

“Well, it looks like I left it up to the wrong person.”

Amy let out a wounded cry, as if he'd slapped her.

Paul quickly shook his head. “Forget it,” he mumbled. “I didn't mean that. Forget the whole thing.” He stomped outside, slamming the back door behind him.

He was raking leaves in the side yard when Mrs. Sheehan came out twenty minutes later. “I thought you might need this,” she said, handing him his jacket.

“Thanks,” he said, putting it on.

She folded her arms. “Amy's asleep on the living room sofa. Whatever the doctor gave her yesterday must still be in her system. Paul, about the money. With my savings and what I have from selling the house, there's about thirty thousand dollars. It's yours if you think it'll help get Eddie back.”

“Thanks anyway, Lauraine.”

“Well, it's there.” Mrs. Sheehan's voice dropped to a whisper. “Be patient with her, okay?”

He nodded, then started raking leaves again. “Maybe you ought to go inside in case the phone rings. She's not making any sense this morning. She shouldn't be talking to anyone.”

But Mrs. Sheehan didn't move. “Don't blame her, Paul.”

He kept working and didn't look at her. He didn't see the tears in her eyes.

“That girl in there is
my
baby. And she's suffering, Paul. I know you are, too. So am I. But she's got it the worst. She feels this whole thing is her fault.”

He went on raking.

“Paul, this could have happened to anyone. It could have happened to you. Imagine how you'd feel if it had. You can't expect Amy to let herself off the hook when she feels you blame her for what happened to Ed. There's nothing I can do to help her anymore. It's up to you.”

Paul continued his work on the leaves. “You know, I think the cops are really going to come up with something from this eyewitness,” he said, not looking up. “Maybe you should go inside and call them. Thanks for bringing the jacket.”

Sighing, Mrs. Sheehan wiped her eyes and wandered back to the kitchen door. As she entered the house, she heard her daughter crying again.

 

His lungs burned. Carl's usual six-mile run became a frantic, four-block, uphill sprint to the convenience store. He was giving himself ten minutes to get back home. Even that seemed too long to leave the baby alone in the apartment.

Sam had woken up—screaming—at 6:10 a.m. With only three hours sleep, Carl was suddenly busy changing, feeding, and entertaining him—so busy that he didn't get to take his morning pee until after ten. He hadn't eaten, shaved, or even made his bed. He fed Sam a disgusting dish called Strained Vegetables, for lunch, then put him down for his afternoon nap. Sam finally fell asleep around one-thirty. And that was when Carl put on his winter sweats, double-locked the front door, and left his son alone for the first time.

Carl never ran so fast. He must have been a mere faceless blur to everyone he passed; and that was just how he wanted it—no one recognizing him. He needed a teething ring. But more important, he needed to see a newspaper. A lot could have happened between last night's newscast and this afternoon's edition. For all he knew, the newspaper's front page could be carrying a police composite sketch—maybe even a photo—of him. “
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?
” the caption would say. He needed to know what the police had so far.

Staggering into the 7-Eleven, he felt everyone's eyes on him. He hurried down the aisle to the Pampers and baby things. He was in luck, they had teething rings. Grabbing one, he headed toward the front of the store.

Swell, a line
. Just three people, but he couldn't afford to wait. After his sprint through the cold, it seemed like a hundred degrees in the store. He felt woozy. Wiping the cold sweat off his forehead, he saw the newspapers by the front window. Carl grabbed a
Seattle Times
and went to the end of the line.

The teenage boy in front of him glanced over his shoulder. Carl looked away. Maybe the kid recognized him. The five-dollar bill grew damp in Carl's sweaty hand. He peeked at the front page of the newspaper. At least his picture wasn't splashed beneath the headline. But he could be on page two or three. He folded up the newspaper and began tapping it against his leg.

What if the baby woke up? He crawled around pretty well, maybe he could crawl out of the crib. Carl imagined running home to find an ambulance in front of the building—a rescue squad, fire trucks.
Good God, what if there's a fire?

One customer left. Then an old woman unloaded an armful of groceries on the counter. The tall bonehead of a clerk rang up the merchandise like it was his first day at the register—turning over each item to find the price, then punching it in with one finger.

Carl just wanted to get the hell out of there and run home. He glanced up at the clock behind the counter: 2:10. He'd left Sam alone fifteen minutes ago.

The old woman just stood there while the spastic clerk rang up her goods. She hadn't even reached inside her purse yet. “
For Christ's sakes, lady
,” he wanted to yell; “
get your goddamn money ready!
”

“Do you have those tiny little packets of Kleenex?” she asked. A checkout line shopper. He was ready to strangle her. The cashier moseyed away from his register and wandered up the aisle. Carl glanced up at the clock and tapped the newspaper against his leg again. Finally, the clerk found the tissues and ambled back to the register.

“Do you have them in any other colors besides white?”

Carl hurried to the front of the line, tossed the damp five-dollar bill on the counter, and called: “A teething ring and a newspaper. Keep the change!” Then he ran out of the store.

Carl's hands were covered with newspaper ink and he smeared it on the white-painted woodwork as he unlocked the door to his apartment. He staggered inside.

Silence.

He hurried into his bedroom and checked the crib. The baby was still there, still asleep, breathing. He even stirred a little. Carl backed out to the hallway and sagged against the wall. He held the crumpled newspaper to his chest.

With a shaky hand, he opened the
Seattle Times
. Sam's teething ring and the newspaper's back sections all fell to the floor as Carl moved toward the living room. He rifled through the front section until he saw the baby's picture on the bottom of page eleven. The McMurray girl held him in her lap; they were both smiling. “
BEFORE THE NIGHTMARE: Paul McMurray took this photo of his wife, Amy, and their son, Edward, two weeks ago
,” said the caption.

Carl stopped at the window and read the headline: “
INFANT BOY ABDUCTED IN PORTLAND
.” Then he saw the subhead. “Oh, no,” he murmured.

“
Police Question Eyewitness to Kidnapping; Encouraged by Leads
.”

How could anyone have seen him? He'd been so careful. Carl read the article, searching for something to explain this new development, and he found it in the bottom two paragraphs:

Carl read the next line, and he flopped down on the sofa. “Oh, God…” He let out a weak laugh.

Earl Armstrong was thirty-three years old. He'd been at a pharmacy across the street from the First Interstate Bank twenty minutes before Amy had been there. He'd parked his red Datsun in the bank's pay lot. With him had been his daughter, eleven-month-old Shauna, who indeed was fair-skinned and blond, like her mother. The “eyewitness,” Mrs. Royce, confirmed that Armstrong was the man she'd seen.

Amy felt Paul was betraying her when he told her this. The next morning,
The Oregonian
carried the story—on page seventeen of the front section, just a couple of paragraphs and a statement from the justifiably outraged Mr. Armstrong. The local TV news didn't even bother to report it.

A week after Halloween, the police told them they were taking the tap off their telephone.

Paul reluctantly borrowed five thousand dollars from Mrs. Sheehan and hired a private detective. The detective spoke to everyone who had been in and around the bank at the time of Ed's disappearance. The police had gotten to most of them first. After six days—at one hundred dollars a day—the detective told Paul and Amy he couldn't take any more of their money.

It seemed as if their lives were supposed to return to normal again. But that was the last thing Amy wanted. Maybe the police and that detective had given up, but she wasn't about to quit. She wanted to stir things up again, keep it alive.

“City Desk, Art Garcia speaking.”

He was with
The Oregonian
. He'd interviewed them on Halloween night, and left behind his business card. Amy barely remembered talking to him—or what he'd looked like. But she tried for a tone of familiarity now. “Mr. Garcia? Hi, this is Amy McMurray. How are you?”

“Fine, just fine, thanks…” There were a few seconds of silence from the other end of the line.

“You interviewed me two weeks ago,” she said. “My baby boy was kidnapped…”

“Yes, of course. I'm sorry. How are you, Mrs. McMurray?”

“Well, not so hot,” she said, tugging at the phone cord. “See, we haven't had any—tangible leads yet. The police have just about thrown in the towel. I'm beginning to think everyone's forgotten about my little boy, and I know he's out there.”

“Yes…”

She was trying to keep some control in her voice. “Anyway, I'd really like to talk with you again, Mr. Garcia. Maybe you could run another story on—what happened.”

“What happened two weeks ago?” he asked.

“Yes. I thought you could do—what do you call it?—a follow-up story?”

“What exactly did you want to discuss? I mean, if there haven't been any new developments…”

“Maybe we could get people
interested
again.” Amy felt so stupid and pushy. She'd figured this guy would have jumped at the chance to interview her again; and here she was, groping to recapture the interest he'd shown in her two weeks before, trying to sell her tragedy to him. “I miss my son,” she said, her voice cracking. “Can't you see how important it is that people know he's still out there? We've got to keep looking for him.”

“I wish I could help, Mrs. McMurray, really—”

“My husband and I, we're not going back to work until our son is found. Anytime you want to set up an interview…”

“Mrs. McMurray? I'm sorry. I have another call coming in. I hate to cut you off. Um, if there are any new developments, please, give me a call, and I'll do what I can for you. Okay?”

She was silent.

“Mrs. McMurray?”

Amy hung up.

 

She'd hardly stepped outside the house in the last two weeks. Paul didn't want people recognizing her from the TV and newspaper stories, then upsetting her with stares or tactless questions. Amy's mother had been taking care of all the shopping.

But Amy stood in the checkout line at the Safeway now, unloading a cart full of groceries. Her coworkers wanted to know how she was holding up, and when she'd return to work. She was vague in her replies. At one time, these women had been her closest friends in Portland. But once Eddie had come along, she hadn't had much time for girlfriends. They were like strangers now.

Amy paused at the exit door and glanced at the bulletin board, where Paul had posted a Xeroxed photo of Eddie: “
MISSING
,” the caption read. “
EDWARD ANTHONY McMURRAY. Abducted: 10/31/77; 5 months old; curly blond hair, blue eyes; 20 inches high, 19 lbs. If you have seen this child, please contact the management of this store. Thank you
.” Paul had posted copies all over town.