Hear the Children Calling (11 page)

Y
OUR BOY IN DANGER
. M
ORE TO COME
.

Natalie shook her head vigorously, driving away the fears and hopes that were starting to surface. Someone was sending her a message about Peter. Someone thought he was alive . . .

The emphatic “No!” that came from her blended perfectly with the muffled sound of her daughter’s screams. Natalie jumped from her chair, racing down one, then two flights of stairs until she reached the kitchen. Beth was at the back door, banging on the frame and screaming.

“Beth! My God,” Natalie cried, rushing to her.

“It’s Peter,” Beth screamed. “He’s leaving. Oh, Mommy, he’s leaving. Make him stop!”

“Beth, it can’t be—”

Beth pointed a shaking hand.

Natalie looked up to see a figure retreating toward the gate behind their house. She reached to open the door. Now she’d apprehend the culprit.

“It doesn’t open,” Beth said.

Natalie twisted the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. She checked the lock, all the while glancing up at the slow-moving figure. The door wasn’t locked, but somehow she couldn’t get it open. She couldn’t let him get away.

“Beth, the window,” she cried. She hurried over to the sink, climbing onto a stepladder to unlatch the window lock. It, too, was jammed shut. It was as if someone had glued them.

Natalie went back to her daughter, crying out herself. “Please, stop. Why are you doing this? Please!”

The boy had been walking so slowly that it had taken him nearly two minutes to reach the back fence. Now he turned, even more slowly. When Natalie saw his face, she sank straight down to her knees, so shocked that no sound came from her mouth.

It was Peter. Peter, who had died in a plane crash six years ago.

The boy opened his arms wide, waving both hands toward himself in a beckoning motion. Then he opened the gate and left the yard.

At that precise moment, the back door swung wide open. Natalie, still on her knees, stumbled forward. Beth clambered over her, racing toward the fence. Natalie pulled herself up, running.

But by the time they reached the alleyway, the boy had vanished.

“Did you see, Mommy?” Beth cried, tears streaming down her face. “Did you see?”

Natalie nodded her head, unable to speak. She hugged her daughter close.

“It—it certainly looked like Peter,” she mumbled.

“It was,” Beth cried. “He needs us, Mom. He’s in danger.”

The words scribbled on the back of the picture came to Natalie’s mind. More and more, the hope that Peter might be alive somewhere was turning into reality.

“Mommy, what’re we going to do?”

Natalie did not answer. She didn’t know what she could do.

15

K
ATE STOOD IN THE DISPLAY WINDOW OF THE
B
ABY
Bear Boutique, arranging pumpkins, paper leaves, and corn-husk dolls to welcome the arrival of fall. She thought of the previous day, when Mrs. Ginmoor saw all those pictures of Laura. The sitter had been kind, not asking any nosy questions. But the look in her eyes
told Kate she felt great pity for a mother who was so obsessed with a lost child.

“I hope she doesn’t tell Danny,” Kate said, lifting up a huge pumpkin. She noticed a little girl standing across the street, perfectly still, facing the window of the boutique. The pumpkin Kate held smashed to the floor.

The child was Laura.

“Kate?” Dorothy Williams came running through the store, weaving around the merchandise tables. The proprietress of the boutique still held the tape from a box she’d been unpacking. “Kate, what happened?” she asked. “Oh, look!” She frowned at the mess of smashed pumpkin.

Kate blinked, and the child across the street disappeared into the crowd of passersby. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what happened.” She got on her knees and began to pick up the biggest pieces, fumbling with the slippery mess.

“Well, let me get the mop,” Dorothy said.

Kate carried the pumpkin pieces to a trash can. When she came back to the window, she gazed across the street for a few moments, as if she could bring the child back again. Of course it wasn’t Laura. It only looked like her.

“Here,” Dorothy said, thrusting the mop at her. “If you ask me, Kaitlyn Emerson, you are a woman in need of a vacation. You’ve been so edgy these past few days.”

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Kate admitted. “I’m having nightmares.”

Dorothy’s brown eyes rounded with concern. “You poor thing,” she said. “Are you eating right? If you eat the wrong thing, it can have a negative effect on your brain.”

“Oh, Dorothy,” Kate sighed, stepping down from the display to carry the mop back to the supply room. “Who would believe we’re the same age? You sound like my superstitious old grandmother.”

“But you do look tired, Kate,” Dorothy insisted.
“Why don’t you take the afternoon off? Things are a little slow today, anyway.”

“Dorothy, I don’t know if—”

But her boss was cutting her off with a quick wave of her hands. “Oh, I know,” Dorothy said. “Borgman’s Craft Emporium has received the most adorable collection of costume patterns. Have you made the boys their Halloween outfits yet?”

“No, I haven’t,” Kate said.

“Then go on over there and take a look at their selection,” Dorothy said. “Maybe concentrating on getting the boys ready for Halloween will put whatever other problems you have out of your mind.”

Kate stared at her. God, how she wished it were that easy. But Dorothy was right. She’d been a nervous wreck all day, and she wasn’t much help to Dorothy at all.

And if I make them something special, it will help them forget the scare I gave them the other night.

Kate went into the back room and pulled her coat off an antique wooden rack. Slipping her arms into it as she walked to the front, she said, “Thanks, Dorothy.”

“You’re welcome,” Dorothy said, opening the door for her. Soft notes blew into the store from seashell chimes. “Just stop over at Stephen’s Vegetable Mart and get me a new pumpkin.”

Kate laughed. She strolled along State Street, looking everywhere for a sign of the little girl. She again thought of the possibility she had only looked like Laura, but only for a moment. She knew her own child, and that little girl across the street had been Laura. Maybe not Laura in the flesh, but an image sent to her as a cry for help. If only she could communicate with her . . . Somehow, something was preventing Laura from sending her complete messages.

When she reached Borgman’s, she forced herself to stop thinking of Laura for a moment. She had two other children at home whom she loved dearly, and she couldn’t let her dedication to finding her daughter
get in the way of her obligation to Chris and Joey. She paused to admire the craft shop’s window, where child mannequins had been dressed as witches, scarecrows, and mice. Inside, Kate went to a chest-high table laden with pattern books. Choosing one, she flipped open the huge tome to the costume section and tried to find one that would work for both her boys.

Laura wanted to be a bunny on her last Halloween.

Kate shook her head abruptly and realized she had been staring at a picture of a little girl with dark hair and eyes, wearing a bunny costume and looking very much like Laura. She quickly turned the page.

She was shaking now, but she was determined to find a pattern and get started on Joey’s and Chris’ costumes. She finally chose a pair of dinosaurs, knowing how much her children loved the prehistoric creatures.

Kate found the pattern in the files, then carried it to a row of brightly colored knits to pick out her fabric. Down the aisle, she could see a woman cutting yardage at a low table, chatting with another customer. There was no one else in the store.

She found a perfect shade of green and with a moan managed to pull out the heavy bolt of fabric. It left a space on the rack about ten inches thick. Something made Kate glance at the opening, and with a cry of dismay she dropped everything to the floor.

There was a little girl standing there, her round, dark eyes overflowing with tears. She spoke in a soft voice, “I’m scared.”

“L-Laura?” Kate choked out her daughter’s name.

The little girl reached toward her, over the double width of tables. Shaking, Kate tried to take her hand.

Laura dissolved into thin air when Kate’s hand touched her. There was nothing left of her but a sense of icy cold that shot up Kate’s arm and grabbed at her heart, pulling her into blackness as she collapsed to the floor.

16

U
NABLE TO GET ANY MORE INFORMATION FROM
C
RAIG
Dylan, Jill Sheldon had despondently moved up the date of her departure. She was certain the detective was hiding something. What had those people done to him, to make him such a whimpering, terrified shadow of the man she remembered?

Dozens of questions whirled in her mind as she sat on the flight home the next morning, staring out the window at the marshmallow puffs of clouds below. She would call Ronald Preminger and demand that he tell her what really had happened six years ago. On the logical side of her brain she knew he wouldn’t reveal a thing, but her heart told her she had to try everything she could in her search for Ryan. Craig had hinted at one hell of a coverup, and Jill wondered just how many people in Wheaton were in on it.

When at last the plane bumped down at Long Island’s MacArthur Airport. Jill stood up and pulled her overnight bag from the compartment above her seat. Other people were standing, too, retrieving their own belongings. But from the corner of her eye Jill noticed one man sitting perfectly still in his seat. That in itself wasn’t unusual—many people waited patiently for the plane to stop completely. But there was something about him that bothered her. He seemed young, his hair light brown and neatly combed, his face clean-shaven. If Jill had been asked to describe him, though, she would have faltered at his eyes. He was wearing dark glasses.

Even so, Jill had the strange feeling he was staring at her.

Ridiculous! Keep thinking like that and they’ll have you hallucinating just like poor Detective Dylan.

She tucked herself into the line of departing passengers, exiting the plane as quickly as possible. She did not see the man take out a pen and jot a few lines down in a small notebook.

In fact, he was completely forgotten once she drove onto Veteran’s Highway. Though it was night, Jill was too full of adrenaline to go home. Instead, she decided to head into Port Lincoln, to the museum. She decided she would call Ronald Preminger from there. If he had anything to tell her, she wanted to know it now.

Jill often stayed after hours, able to think better when surrounded by the exhibits she had helped to design herself. She loved this place, set up in an old house just south of the town’s park. Putting all her energy and resources into it had been therapeutic, helping to fade out the horror of Ryan’s death, even if nothing could erase it completely. Jill always felt more at home here than in her small apartment.

But tonight, an unfamiliar nervousness crept over her as she closed the museum’s front door behind herself. Something seemed wrong, out of place. She stopped and looked across the floor, her eyes scanning neat rows of exhibits softly illuminated by night-lights. Jill reached for a switch near the door and flicked it on. With the room brightly illuminated, she could see that nothing was out of place. Shaking her head at herself, she walked toward the small flight of stairs that led to her office.

Jill could have teased herself all she wanted, but nothing would take away the odd feeling of dread that enveloped her. As she hurried by them, tubular bells jangled from their invisible strings, making her gasp. A hologram of a cat followed her movements, three dimensions trapped within two, and Jill wondered if someone else might be watching her. She went up the stairs, passing the closed door of the supplies closet and finally reaching her office.

Jill sat for a moment and collected herself. Virginia
had left a note on her desk saying the day had been very busy and telling Jill there were eleven tours booked for the next week. Jill put these aside, then reached to open the largest door in the old desk. She pulled out a false bottom and removed a locked file. It contained all her important papers, including the accident report, newspaper clippings, and Ryan’s death certificate. Armed with the new facts she’d obtained in Florida, Jill had wondered if there might be some clue here she had missed when she had read these as a grieving mother. Turning the combination lock, she opened it and spilled out the contents. She found the lease to her apartment; the deed for the museum; a copy of her own will; however, there were no papers on the accident.

Jill reached quickly for the drawer, pulling it out far enough to see to the back. She had misplaced them, of course. But the desk was empty.

“You didn’t misplace anything,” she told herself firmly. “You always put things in their proper place.”

So, logically, this meant someone had gotten into her desk. But who? Jeffrey was the only other person who knew of its secret compartment. He had been the one who gave the antique desk to her, long ago when their marriage had been a happy one. But now she was the only person who knew the combination.

The strange feeling of being watched overwhelmed her, and it took all her strength to beat it back down again. She took a few deep breaths and forced herself to think clearly. If anyone was in here right now, she would have been jumped already. There had been plenty of opportunity. Still, she was unwilling to stay here alone. Deciding she could phone Preminger just as easily from home, she stood up and slipped her jacket back on, entering the hall.

The supplies-closet door was open.

Jill stopped short, trying to remember whether it had been open just a moment ago.

You’re tired, Jill. Of course it was open! You just can’t remember.

She was almost to the stairs when she heard a sweet, childish voice.

“Mommy, help me!”

Jill froze. It seemed her insides had vanished in an instant, leaving an icy, dark void within her frame. She grabbed the banister, holding tightly.