Where Are the Children? (10 page)

Dorothy was behind her. 'She wanted to come in.' Dorothy's voice was apologetic.

Now she felt the accusation in Ray's eyes as he hurried over to them. 'Ray, I'm sorry. I couldn't make Her stay inside.'

Ray pulled Nancy against him. 'It's all right, Dorothy,' he said briefly. His voice changed and became tender. 'Honey, just relax. Nobody's going to hurt you.'

Dorothy felt the dismissal in his tone. He had counted on her to keep Nancy away while he spoke to the Chief, and she couldn't even do that much. She was useless here - useless. 'Ray,' she said stiffly. 'It's ridiculous to bother you about this, but the office just phoned to remind me that Mr Kragopoulos, who wrote about the Hunt property, wants to see it at two o'clock. Shall I get someone else to take him up there?'

Ray looked over Nancy's head as he held her firmly against him. 'I don't give a damn,' he snapped. Then quickly he said, 'I'm sorry, Dorothy. I would appreciate it if you showed the place; you know The Lookout and can sell it if there's real interest. Poor old Mr Hunt needs the money.'

'I haven't told Mr Parrish that we might be bringing people in today.'

'His lease clearly states that we have the right to show the house at any time with simply a half hour's telephone notice. That's why he has it so cheap. Give him a call from the office and tell him you're coming.'

'All right.' Uncertainly, Dorothy waited, not wanting to go. 'Ray . . .'

He looked at her, understanding her unspoken wish but dismissing her. 'There's nothing you can do here now, Dorothy. Come back when you've finished at The Lookout.'

She nodded and turned to go. She didn't want to leave them; she wanted to stay with them, sharing their anxiety. Ever since that first day when she'd walked into Ray's office, he'd been a lifeline for her. After nearly twenty-five years of planning her every activity with Kenneth or around Kenneth's schedule, she'd been so rootless and. for the first time in her life, frightened. But working with Ray, helping him to build the business, using her knowledge of interior decorating to spark people to buy the houses, then invest in renovating them, had filled so much of the void. Ray was such a fair, fine person. He'd given her such a generous profit-sharing arrangement. She couldn't have thought more of him if he'd been her own son. When Nancy had come she'd been so proud that Nancy trusted her. But there was a reserve in Nancy that didn't permit any real intimacy, and now she felt like an unnecessary bystander. Wordlessly she left them, got her coat and scarf and went to the back door.

She braced herself against the wind and sleet as she opened it. Her car was parked half-way around the semi-circular back driveway. She was glad she didn't have to go through the front drive. One of the networks had a television van parked in front of the house.

As she hurried towards her car, she saw the swing on the tree at the edge of the property. That was where the children had been playing and where Nancy had found the mitten. How many times had she herself pushed the children on that swing? Michael and Missy . . . The awful possibility that something might have happened to them -that they might be dead - gave her a terrible choking sensation. Oh, please, not that. . . almighty and merciful God, please not that. She'd joked once about being their surrogate grandmother, and then the look of pain had been so unmistakable on Nancy's face that she had wanted to bite her tongue off. It had been a presumptuous thing to say.

She stared at the swing lost in thought, unmindful of the wet sleet stinging her face. Whenever Nancy stopped in the office, the children made a beeline for her desk. She tried to always have a surprise for them. Just yesterday when Nancy had come in with Missy, she'd had tollhouse cookies she'd baked the night before as the special treat. Nancy had been on her way to look at drapery material, and Dorothy had offered to mind Missy and pick up Michael from kindergarten. 'It's hard to select material unless you can really concentrate,' she'd said, 'and I have to pick up some title-search papers at the courthouse. It will be fun to have company, and on the way back we'll get some ice-cream, if that's all right.' Only twenty-four hours ago . . .

'Dorothy.'

Startled, she looked up. Jonathan must have cut through the woods from his house. His face was deeply creased today. She knew he must be nearly sixty years old, and today he looked every bit of it. 'I just heard about the Eldredge children,' he said. 'I've got to talk to Ray. Possibly I can help.'

'That's nice of you,' Dorothy said unsteadily. The concern in his voice was oddly comforting. 'They're inside.'

'No trace of the children yet?'

'No.'

'I saw the article in the paper.'

Belatedly, Dorothy realized that sympathy was not being offered to her. There was a coolness in Jonathan's tone, a reproof that clearly reminded her that she had lied to him about having known Nancy in Virginia. Wearily, she opened the door of her car. 'I have an appointment,' she said abruptly. Without giving him time to answer, she got in and started up the engine. It was only when her vision blurred that she realized that tears were swimming in her eyes.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The clatter of the helicopters pleased him. It reminded him of the last time, when everyone for miles around the University had fanned out looking for the children. He stared out of the front window overlooking the bay. The grey water was caked with ice near the jetty. Earlier the radio had spoken of gale warnings and sleet or rain mixed with snow. For once, the weatherman had been right. The wind was whipping the bay into angry whitecaps. He watched as a flock of gulls flew unsteadily in a futile effort to make headway against the wind.

He carefully consulted the indoor-outdoor thermometer. Twenty-eight degrees out there now — a drop of twenty degrees since the morning. The helicopters and search planes wouldn't be up much longer in this. There wouldn't be many searchers out on land either.

High tide was seven o'clock tonight. At that time he'd take the children up through the attic to the outer balcony they called the widow's walk. The water at high tide covered the beach below, broke furiously against the retaining wall and then, sucked by the violent undertow, rolled back to sea. That would be the time to drop the children . . . over . . . down . . . They might not be washed up for weeks . . . But even if they were found in a few days, he'd prepared for that. He'd given them only milk and cookies. He wouldn't be fool enough to feed them anything that would suggest that a person other than Nancy had fed them a real meal after breakfast. Of course, hopefully they'd be beyond analysis when they were found.

He chuckled. In the meantime, he had five hours: five long hours to look at the floodlights that were being set up near Nancy's house and the lake; five hours to be with the children. Even the boy, come to think of it, was a beautiful child . . . such soft skin, and that perfectly formed body.

But it was the little girl. She looked so much like Nancy . . . that silky, beautiful hair and small, well-formed ears. He turned from the window abruptly. The children were lying together on the couch. The sedative he'd put in the milk had both of them sleeping. The boy's arm was protectively over his sister. But he didn't even stir when he picked up the little girl. He'd just take her inside and put her on the bed and undress her. She made no sound as he carefully carried her into the bedroom and laid her down. He went into the bathroom and turned on the faucets in the tub, testing the gushing water until it reached the temperature he wanted. When the tub had filled, he tested the water again with his elbow. A little hotter than it should be, but that was all right. It would cool in a few minutes.

He sucked in his breath. He was wasting time. Swiftly he opened the door of the medicine cabinet
 
nd pulled out

the can of baby powder he'd slipped into his coat pocket at Wiggins' Market this morning. As he was about to close the door, he noticed a little rubber duck poked back behind the shaving cream. He'd forgotten about that . . . why, it had been used the last time . . . how appropriate. Laughing softly, he reached for the duck; ran it under cold water, feeling the lack of elasticity and the cracking of the rubber; then tossed it into the tub. It was a good idea to distract children sometimes.

Grabbing the can of powder, he hurried back into the bedroom. Swiftly his fingers unbuttoned Missy's jacket and pulled it off. Easily, he slipped the turtleneck polo shirt over her head, bringing her undershirt with it. He sighed - a lingering, groaning sound - and picked up the little girl, hugging her limp body to him. Three years old. Just a beautiful age. She stirred and started to open her eyes. 'Mommy, mommy . . .' It was a weak, lazy cry - so dear, so precious.

The phone rang.

Angrily he tightened his grip on the child, and she began to wail - a hopeless, lethargic cry.

He'd let the phone ring. He never, never got calls. Why now? His eyes narrowed. It might be a call from the town, asking him to volunteer in the search. He'd better answer. It might be suspicious not to answer. He tossed Missy back on to the bed and closed the bedroom door securely before he picked up the phone in the sitting-room. 'Yes.' He made his voice sound formal and cold.

'Mr Parrish, I hope I haven't disturbed you. This is Dorothy Prentiss of Eldredge Realty. I'm sorry to give you such short notice, but I'll be bringing a prospective buyer for the house over in twenty minutes. Will you be there or shall I use my pass-key to show your apartment?'

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lendon Miles turned right off Route 6A on to Paddock Path. All the way down on the trip from Boston he'd kept his radio at a news station, and most of the news was about Nancy Eldredge and the missing Eldredge children.

According to the bulletins, Maushop Lake had been divided into sections, but it would take divers at least three days to search it properly. Maushop Lake was filled with underwater ledges. Police Chief Coffin of Adams Port was quoted as explaining that at one point it was possible to walk half-way across the lake and still be in water only to the waist; a few yards away, only five feet from the shore, the water became forty feet deep. The underwater ledges caught and held objects and made the search hazardous and inconclusive . . .

The bulletins announced that helicopters, small seaplanes and ground search parties had been out, but gale warnings for the Cape were in effect and the air search was being called off.

At the news that Nancy Eldredge was expected to be taken to Police Headquarters for questioning, Lendon unconsciously accelerated the car. He felt a desperate urgency about getting to Nancy. But he quickly found that he had to reduce his speed. Sleet was glazing the windshield so rapidly that the defroster was having trouble melting the crusting ice.

When at last he turned into Paddock Path, he had no trouble finding the Eldredge home. There was no mistaking the centre of activity on the street. Half-way up the road, a television van was parked across the street from a house that had two police cars stationed in front of it. Private cars lined the road near the television van. Many bore special press identifications.

The entrance to the semi-circular driveway was blocked by one of the police cars. Lendon stopped and waited for a policeman to come over to him. When one did, his tone was brusque. 'State your business, please.'

Lendon had anticipated that question and was ready. He handed out his card with a note scrawled on it. 'Please take this to Mrs Eldredge.'

The policeman looked uncertain. 'If you'll wait here, Doctor . . . I'll have to check.' He returned promptly, his attitude subtly less hostile. 'I'll move the squad car out of the way. Park in the driveway and go into the house, sir.' From across the street, reporters had been watching the byplay, and then hurried over. One of them thrust a microphone in front of Lendon's face as he got out of the car.

'Dr Miles, may we ask you a few questions?' Without waiting for an answer, he went on quickly, 'Sir, you are a prominent psychiatrist on the staff of Harvard Medical School. Has the Eldredge family sent for you?' 'No one has sent for me,' Lendon replied sharply. 'I am a friend - was a friend - of Mrs Eldredge's mother. I have come here because of personal friendship and that alone.' He
 
tried
 
to
 
pass,
 
but
 
was
 
blocked
 
by
 
the
 
microphone-holding reporter. 'You say you were a friend of Mrs Eldredge's mother. Will you tell us this: Was Nancy Harmon Eldredge ever a patient of yours?'