Where Are the Children? (17 page)

There hadn't been any roar of approval when the conviction was overturned. It happened because two women jurors had been heard discussing the case in a bar midway through the trial and saying she was guilty as sin. But by the time a new trial was ordered Rob had graduated, been drafted, given Vietnam orders and bolted. Without him, the DA had no case and had to let Nancy go - but swore he'd re-try her the day he could get hold of Rob again.

Over the years in Canada, Rob had thought of that trial often. There was something that bothered him about the whole set-up. Taking himself out of it, he didn't buy Nancy Harmon as a murderess. She'd been like a clay pigeon in court. Harmon certainly hadn't helped her, breaking down on the stand when he was supposed to be in the midst of saying what a great mother she was.

In Canada, Rob was something of a celebrity among the draft evaders he hung out with whom he'd told about the case. They'd asked about Nancy, and Rob told them what a dish she was . . . hinting that he'd had a little action. He showed them the press cuttings of the trial and Nancy's pictures.

He told them that she had to have some dough - that it came out at the trial that her folks left her over a hundred and fifty grand; that if he could find her he'd put the arm on her for money to split to Argentina.

Then he got his break. One of his buddies, Jim Ellis, who knew about his connection with the Harmon case, slipped home to visit his mother, who had terminal cancer. The mother lived in Boston, but because the FBI was watching the house hoping to pick up Jim, she met him in Cape Cod in a cottage she had hired on Maushop Lane. When Jim got back to Canada, he was bursting with news. He asked Rob what it would be worth to him to know where he could find Nancy Harmon.

Rob was sceptical until he saw the picture Jimmy had managed to snap of Nancy on the beach. There was no mistaking her. Jim had done some digging, too. The background checked. He'd found out that her husband was pretty prosperous. Quickly they worked out a deal. Rob would get to see Nancy. Tell her that if she'd stake him to fifty thousand bucks, he'd split to Argentina and she'd never have to worry about him testifying against her. Rob reasoned that she'd go for it, especially now that she was remarried and had more kids. It was a cheap price for her to know that some day she wouldn't be haul-assed back to California to stand trial.

Jim wanted a flat twenty per cent for his share. While Rob was seeing Nancy, Jim would arrange for phony Canadian passports, identification and reservations to Argentina. They were available for a price.

They laid their plans carefully. Rob managed to rent a car from an American kid who was in school in Canada. He shaved his beard and cut his hair for the trip. Jim warned him that the minute you looked like a hippie, every damn cop in those crabby New England towns was ready to clock you with radar.

Rob decided to drive straight through from Halifax. The less time he spent in the States, the less chance of getting picked up. He timed his arrival at the Cape for early in the morning. Jim had found out that Nancy's husband always opened his office about nine-thirty. He'd get to her house around ten. Jim had made a map of her street for him, including the driveway through the woods. He could hide the car there.

He was running low on gas when he hit the Cape. That was why he got off at Hyannis to refuel. Jim had told him that even out of season there were a lot of tourists there. He'd be less likely to be noticed. All the way down he'd been nervous, trying to decide if he should offer his deal to Nancy and her husband together. Likely he'd have to know about her getting a bundle of cash. But suppose this guy called the cops? Rob would be convicted of desertion and blackmail. No, it was better to talk directly to Nancy. She must still remember sitting at that defendant's table.

The attendant at the gas station was helpful. Checked everything over, cleaned the windows, put air in the tyres without being asked. That was why Rob was off guard. When he was settling the bill, the attendant asked if he was down for some fishing. That was when he babbled that he was actually doing some hunting - going to Adams Port to see an old girl-friend who might not be glad to see him. Then, cursing his talkiness, he bolted, stopping at a nearby diner for some breakfast.

He drove into Adams Port at quarter to ten. Slowly cruising around, studying the map Jim had drawn for Him, he got a feel of the layout. Even so he almost missed the dirt road leading to the woods behind her property. He realized that after he slowed up for that old Ford wagon pulling out from it. Backing up, he turned into the dirt road, parked the car and started walking to the rear door of Nancy's house. That was when she'd come running out like a madwoman shrieking those names. Peter, Lisa, those were the dead kids. He followed her through the woods to the lake and watched when she threw herself into the water. He was just about to go after her when she dragged herself out and fell on the beach. He knew she looked in his direction. He wasn't sure if she saw him, but he did know that he had to get out of there. He didn't know what was happening, but he didn't want to get involved.

Back in the car, he'd cooled off. Maybe she'd turned into a drunk. If she was still screaming for the dead kids, chances were that she'd jump at the chance to know she didn't have to worry about a new trial. He decided to check into some motel in Adams Port and try to see her again the next day.

In the motel, Rob promptly went to bed and fell asleep. He awakened late in the afternoon and switched on the television set to catch the news. The screen focused in time for him to see a picture of himself and a voice describing him as the missing witness in the Harmon murder case. Numbly, Rob listened as the announcer recapped the disappearance of the Eldredge children. For the first time in his life he felt trapped. Now that he'd shaved off his beard and shortened his hair, he looked exactly the way he had in the picture.

If Nancy Eldredge had actually killed her new family, who would believe that he hadn't had something to do with it? It must have happened just before he got there. Rob thought of the old Ford wagon that had backed out from the dirt road just before he turned in. Massachusetts licence, first two numbers 8-6 . . . heavy-set guy behind the wheel.

But he couldn't talk about that even if he got caught. Couldn't admit being at the Eldredge house this morning. Who would believe him if he told the truth? Rob Legler's instinct for self-preservation told him to get off Cape Cod, and it was a cinch he couldn't go in a bright red Dodge that every cop was looking for.

He packed his bag and slipped out the back door of the motel. A Volks Beetle was parked in the stall next to the

Dodge. Through the window he'd noticed the couple who had left it. They'd checked in just before he turned on the news. Chances were, if he was any judge, they were good for a couple of hours. No one else was outside braving the sleet and wind.

Rob opened the engine lid of the Volks, connected a few wires and drove away. He'd use Route 6A heading for the bridge. With any luck, in half an hour he'd be off the Cape.

Six minutes later, he ran a red light. Thirty seconds after that, he glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw a flashing red light reflected there. He was being chased by a police car. For an instant he considered surrendering himself; then the overwhelming need to bolt from trouble overcame him. As he rounded a corner, Rob slipped open the door, wedged the accelerator down with his suitcase and jumped out. He was disappearing into the wooded area behind stately Colonial homes when the police car, its siren now screaming, chased the wildly careening Volkswagen down the sloping road.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

When Michael began to run down the stairs, he was sure that Mr Parrish would catch him. But then he heard the terrible thumping that meant Mr Parrish had fallen down the stairs. Michael knew that if he wanted to get away from Mr Parrish he mustn't make any noise. He remembered the time Mommy had had the carpet on the stairs at home taken off. 'Now, until the new treads go down, you kids have to play a new game,' she'd said. 'It's called civilized walking.' Michael and Missy had made a game of walking down the side of the stairs near the banister on tiptoe. They got so good at it they used to sneak down and scare each other. Now, walking lightly that same way,

Michael slipped noiselessly down to the first floor. He heard Mr Parrish calling his name, saying he would find him.

He knew he had to get out of this house. He had to run down the winding road to the long road that led to Wiggins' Market. Michael hadn't decided whether he'd go into Wiggins' Market or run past it across Route A6 up the road that led to his house. He had to get Daddy and bring him back here for Missy.

Yesterday in Wiggins' Market he had told Daddy he didn't like Mr Parrish. Now he was afraid of him. Michael felt the choking fear as he ran through the dark house. Mr Parrish was a bad man. That was why he had tied them up and hidden them in the closet. That was why Missy was so scared she couldn't wake up. Michael had tried to touch Missy in the closet. He knew she was scared. But he couldn't get his hands free. From inside the closet, he could hear Aunt Dorothy's voice. But she hadn't asked for them. She was right there and didn't guess that they were there. He was very angry that Aunt Dorothy didn't know they needed her. She should have guessed.

It was getting so dark. It was hard to see. At the bottom of the stairs, Michael looked around, confused, then darted towards the back of the house. He was in the kitchen. The outside door was over there. He rushed to it and reached for the knob. He was just about to turn the lock when he heard the footsteps approaching. Mr Parrish. His knees trembled. If the door stuck, Mr Parrish would grab him. Quickly, noiselessly, Michael raced out the other kitchen door, across the small foyer and into the little back parlour. He heard Mr Parrish bolt the kitchen door. He heard him drag the chair over to it. The light in the kitchen was snapped on, and Michael shrank behind the heavy overstuffed couch. Crouching quietly, he barely fitted into the space between the couch and the wall. Dust from the couch tickled his nose. He wanted to sneeze. The light in the kitchen and hallway went out suddenly, and the house was black dark. He heard Mr Parrish walking around, striking a match.

A moment later there was a reddish glow in the kitchen, and he heard Mr Parrish call, 'It's all right, Michael. I'm not angry any more. Come out, Michael. I'll take you home to your mother.'

CHAPTER TWENTY

John Kragopoulos had intended to drive directly to New York after leaving Dorothy, but the vague sense of depression coupled with a headache over the bridge of his nose made the five-hour trip seem suddenly insurmountable. It was the frightful weather, of course, and the intense distress Dorothy was suffering couldn't help transmitting itself. She had shown him the picture she carried in her wallet, and the thought of those beautiful children's having met with foul play left a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

But what an incredible thought, he mused. There was still the possibility the children had simply wandered away. How could anyone hurt a child? John thought of his two twenty-eight-year-old twin sons - one an Air Force pilot, the other an architect. Fine young men, both of them. A source of pride for a father. Long after he and their mother were gone, they would live. They were part of his immortality. Suppose when they were babies, he had lost them . . .

He was driving down Route 6A towards the mainland. Ahead on the right an attractive restaurant was set back from the road. The lighted sign, THE STAGEWAY, was a welcoming beacon in the afternoon gloom. Instinctively, John swung off the road and into the parking lot. He realized that it was nearly three o'clock and he had had exactly one cup of coffee and one piece of toast all day.

The bad weather had made the driving up from New York so slow he had been forced to skip lunch.

He rationalized that it was common sense to have a decent meal before he attempted the trip. And it was good business sense to try to strike up a conversation with the personnel of a large restaurant in a vicinity he was considering. He might be able to garner some useful information on the probable trade in the area.

Subconsciously approving of the rustic interior of the restaurant, he went directly to the bar. There were no customers at it, but that wasn't unusual before five o'clock in a town like this. He ordered a Chivas Regal on the rocks; then, when the bartender brought it, he asked if it would be possible to get something to eat.

'No problem.' The bartender was about forty, dark-haired, with exaggerated muttonchops. John liked both his obliging answer and the way he kept the bar immaculately neat. A menu was produced. 'If you feel like steak, the special sirloin is great,' he volunteered. 'Technically, the kitchen is closed between two-thirty and five, but if you don't mind eating right here