Someone Must Die (11 page)

C
HAPTER
18

The wooden floorboard outside her bedroom door groaned.

“Mama?” Aubrey called. “Is that you?”

Her mother opened the door and poked her head in. She was ghostly white.

“What’s wrong?” Aubrey started to rise. “Is Ethan—?”

Her mother held up her hand. “No news.” She came into the room, then sat on the bed.

“Something happened. You’re upset.” Aubrey’s mind jumped to the ultimatum in the note. Her mother couldn’t have . . . “Where’s Jonathan?”

Mama looked at her, as though confused, then her expression cleared. “Jonathan wanted to come back here with me, but I told him not to.” Her eyes were reassuring. “He’s fine, sweetheart. We’re both fine.”

Aubrey released a breath. “Okay. Good.”

“What about you?” Her mother pointed at the laptop. “What have you been doing?”

“Research.”

“On what?”

Aubrey watched her mother for a reaction as she answered her. “The revolutionary movement when you and Dad were students at Columbia.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Why do you care about that?”

“Because Smolleck seems to care. And because Dad acts like you know about something important that happened back then.”

“Your father?”

“I went to see him tonight. I wanted to ask him some questions about the past, but he turned everything back around at you.”

Mama gripped the bedspread. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about, sweetheart,” she said, in an unnaturally calm voice. “Turn what back on me?”

What was she hiding? “Mama. Were you involved with the brownstone explosion in 1970?”

Her mother looked away.

Oh no,
Aubrey thought.
Please, no.

“I was outside the brownstone when it exploded,” her mother said, meeting her eye. “That’s how I got injured. The blast ruptured my eardrum, and I was hit by flying debris.”

“But were you involved?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you have something to do with the explosion?”

“It was an accident,” her mother said. “A bomb went off by accident.”

“I know. I read that.”

“I wasn’t responsible for that explosion.” Her mother’s voice was loud, but maybe she was upset that Aubrey would consider such a thing.

“Do you think the explosion could be connected to Ethan’s kidnapping?”

“I don’t see how.”

Aubrey looked up at the snow globes on the shelf above her desk. She had finally shaken up the flakes, but they had settled, and everything was just as before, with Aubrey no closer to finding the truth.

“Come here, sweetheart.” Mama patted the bed.

It was the comforting voice her mother had used when Aubrey had been upset or frustrated as a child. And like a child, Aubrey went to sit beside her. She let her mother hug her, even though she felt as if she had compromised herself. She had acquiesced too easily by not pressing her mother further, but she had spent most of her life placating Mama—a pattern that was difficult to break.

“It’s almost ten,” Aubrey said, gently pulling away. “They’re probably replaying Kevin and Kim’s press conference from earlier. We should watch it.” She turned on the TV in the armoire opposite her bed. A commercial was on. Two women jogging around a lake, laughing.

“Remember when we used to watch
The Gilmore Girls
together?” Mama asked. “We would lie here on your bed. I miss those days.”

“Me, too.” Aubrey had been thinking about the show herself. The special bond between the mother and daughter. She and Mama. They were both under tremendous stress. For now, it was important to trust and support her mother, not confront her.

The female newscaster’s voice came on, explaining how six-year-old Ethan Lynd had disappeared from a neighborhood carnival on Sunday, at around three p.m.

Crawling across the bottom of the screen was a number to call with tips or sightings. One of the photos Mama had taken at the carnival appeared on the screen—Ethan with his big grin and dimples, golden curls flying around him.

Her mother’s breath snagged. “Oh, God. Just like Jimmy Ryce.”

“No.
Not
like Jimmy Ryce,” Aubrey said. “We’re going to get Ethan back safe and sound.”

The newscaster’s voice continued. “Ethan’s parents held a news conference earlier today, begging for help in finding their son.”

The camera cut to footage of Kevin and Kim.

Aubrey’s chest felt as though it would cave in as she watched her brother and his wife. Kevin seemed to be holding Kim up as she stared ahead blankly. A large poster of Ethan was on one side of them, Prudence and Ernest Simmer on the other.

And then, anger overtook sadness.

She and her mother should have been there for Kevin. How dare the Simmers try to widen the chasm between them at a time like this?

Kevin spoke, struggling with each word as though he were cutting teeth. His brown hair was uncombed and his cheeks unshaven, but what got Aubrey were his eyes—dark, solemn eyes that held so much pain.

And she hadn’t been there to support him.

Kevin and Kim stepped back from the microphones, and Prudence and Ernest came forward, first hugging their daughter and son-in-law, then turning toward the cameras. Everything about Prudence was colorless, even her lips. Her blonde bob touched the shoulders of her beige silk blouse. Prudence Baer Simmer looked nothing like a haughty heiress, but rather a desperate grandmother. Her pale eyes searched the cameras, a disoriented expression on her face. Ernest loomed over her, bald head shining in the glare of camera lights, shoulders hunched, one arm supporting his wife. These people weren’t faking it.

Aubrey had considered the possibility of the Simmers being behind Ethan’s kidnapping and the threatening note, but how could they be so grief stricken if they were responsible?

Prudence leaned into the microphone. “We are offering a reward of one million dollars for information leading to the safe return of our grandson, Ethan Lynd.”

“A million dollars,” her mother whispered.

“If you have seen Ethan or know any of the people who took our little boy, please call this number.” Prudence held up a poster with the number and recited it. It was also the number that crawled across the bottom of the screen.

Prudence and Ernest spoke for another minute about Ethan, and then, to Aubrey and apparently the Simmers’ surprise, Kim pushed in front of them. Her blonde hair was in disarray, her eyes red and puffy. “He’s my baby,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, if you have my little boy . . .” She struggled to get the words out.

Kevin stepped up beside her and held her as he stared at the camera. “Ethan, are you watching? We love you, little guy. We’re going to get you home.” And then his face crumpled.

Mama shook her head. “He’ll never forgive me.”

Aubrey didn’t know how to comfort her. Her mother was probably right. There’d be no forgiveness from Kevin now, no matter the outcome.

The newscaster was speaking, and “Exclusive interview” flashed on the screen. “We have an exclusive interview with a family that can shed some light on this horrible tragedy. Are you there, Roberto?”

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you, Lourdes. I’m talking to Rhonda and Chris Cole, the parents of Ryan Cole, a little boy who died three years ago under the care of Dr. Diana Lynd, Ethan’s paternal grandmother.”

“For God’s sake,” Aubrey said. “I can’t believe this.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Cole,” the reporter continued, “can you tell us about your experience with Ethan’s grandmother, Dr. Diana Lynd?”

The Coles glanced at each other. They were dressed formally—the husband in a suit, the wife in a high-necked black dress.

Rhonda spoke. Her listless brown hair hung loose to her shoulders, and she looked at her hands, not at the camera. “When we heard what happened, we felt we had to come forth and tell the world what we knew.”

“What is that, Mrs. Cole?” the reporter prompted.

“That woman—the little boy’s grandmother—well, she’s a doctor. She was supposed to take care of our child, but she said there wasn’t nothing wrong with him. And then our Ryan, he died.”

“Do you think that has something to do with Ethan’s disappearance?” the reporter asked.

“What kind of doctor says a child is fine and sends him home to die?” Rhonda Cole wiped her eyes, but there was a telltale leak of contempt as one lip curled up.

The Coles could have left the note, Aubrey realized. Maybe the red tricycle on the greeting card was a reference to their child.

“Dr. Lynd was cleared of any liability in the malpractice lawsuit you brought against her, isn’t that right?” the reporter asked.

“Yes, but she shouldn’t have been,” Chris Cole said.

“She’s irresponsible,” Rhonda Cole said. “She killed our son and showed no remorse, and now her grandson is missing. Why wasn’t she at the press conference if she has nothing to hide? Why haven’t the police taken her into custody?”

“The woman is a child killer,” Chris Cole said, so loudly that he startled the reporter.

“I can’t believe this,” Aubrey said.

Mama grabbed Aubrey’s hand and squeezed it hard.

The reporter looked upset. He touched his ear, as though listening to instructions. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Cole,” he said. “Back to you, Lourdes.”

“Next up, a visit with some adorable puppies who need homes,” Lourdes said, as a commercial came on.

“They’re crackpots, Mama.” Aubrey was fuming inside. She turned off the TV with the remote, then got up and slammed the doors of the armoire shut.

“The Coles are very angry.” Mama pulled the sweater tighter around her. “They’re parents who lost their child.”

Aubrey leaned against the armoire, rubbing her arms.
Child killer.
The words chilled her, even though she knew they weren’t true.

But Ethan was still missing, and Aubrey had no idea where to look or what to do, to keep her precious nephew from becoming someone else’s victim.

C
HAPTER
19

Child killer,
they had called her.

Maybe they were right. Diana shivered in her too-cold bedroom. Maybe she was the real villain in all this. It wouldn’t be the first time she believed she was on the side of good and turned out to be wrong.

She changed into a flannel nightgown, then slipped under the old, worn patchwork quilt, hoping the warmth would stop her chills. The attack by the Coles was upsetting, but she had become somewhat immune to their crazed outbursts during the trial. She was more concerned about what all this was doing to her family.

Kevin had looked close to a breaking point as he pled on TV for his son’s return. But Aubrey was also caught in the maelstrom, experiencing the kind of outrage Diana had back when her eyes had first been opened to the injustices of the world.

The irony was that Diana’s parents had tried so very hard to shelter their daughter, just as Diana had hoped she could do with her own children.

Her poor parents.

She never understood until recently how hard that year must have been for them.

Di could see the shock on her parents’ faces as they took in her outfit—ratty jeans and a peasant blouse she had picked up at a flea market in the Village. They were in New York for a few days, and this was the first time they’d seen her in six weeks, since freshman year began. She hated the feeling that she had disappointed them, but knew she had to stay strong. This was her life now.

They took the subway to the Stage Deli for pastrami sandwiches, but Di didn’t have much of an appetite. She was missing a meeting about an important antiwar demonstration. Or maybe it was Lawrence she hadn’t wanted to miss.

“Why aren’t you eating?” her mother asked.

Di played with the pickle on her plate. “Not hungry.”

Her father put on his concerned physician face. “You’re not taking drugs, are you?”

“Of course not, Daddy,” she lied.

“Lysergide is a very dangerous drug,” he said. “It can cause panic attacks, violence, even psychosis.”

“I’m not taking LSD.”

Her father continued, as though he hadn’t heard her. “And there’s data that years after use, there can be long-term perceptual changes.”

“What I’m experiencing right now are short-term perceptual changes,” Di said. “And not from drugs. It’s as though I’ve been asleep my entire life. I’m finally waking up and seeing the terrible things that are taking place in the world. And more important, I’m trying to stop them.”

“Vat’s happened to you?” her mother asked, her Yiddish accent becoming more pronounced with her agitation. “You dress like a hippie, you talk like a revolutionary. We sent you to college to get an education.”

“And I’m getting one,” Di said. “A better education than I ever dreamed of.”

Her father and mother exchanged a worried look. “This isn’t good,” her father said. “Come back to Miami with us. It’s dangerous for you to stay here.”

Di laughed. “What’s dangerous? Standing up to our government? Not letting them herd us into ovens the way the Nazis did their citizens?”

Her mother’s face went white.

“Oh, Mommy.” Di reached for her hand. “Don’t you understand it’s important that we speak out? If the Jews had fought back, maybe more would have survived. Maybe your parents and brothers would still be alive.”

Her mother pulled her hand away. “You know nothing about these things.”

“And I’m not only talking about Jews,” Di said. “The German people, too. They should have stood up to Hitler. Just like we have an obligation to tell our government they’re doing the wrong thing.”

Her mother pushed back her chair. “Let’s go, Louie,” she said. “I can’t listen to any more of this. Our daughter has gone crazy.”

Diana pulled the old quilt higher. Her mother had been right. She
had
gone crazy. But at the time, she saw only the heady excitement of doing something to make the world a better place. She’d been critical of her parents’ fear of challenging authority and calling attention to themselves. She was ashamed to think of her brash naïveté and how she must have hurt them. But back then, she’d been intoxicated by a sense of righteousness.

And by
him
.

She closed her eyes and saw a flash of white against the darkness. And she remembered how it had felt, watching him.

He seemed to be flying as he led their group through the park, his blond hair loose on his shoulders beneath his white bandanna, his white shirt billowing around him.

Di was breathless as she hurried to keep up with the thirty-or-so other students who had followed Lawrence down from the university to Central Park. He had started referring to himself as Lawrence of Columbia, and it was hard not to make comparisons to
Lawrence of Arabia
, or at least to Peter O’Toole, who had played the man in the movie.

As they reached Central Park’s Great Lawn, the crowd morphed into thousands, moving as one, like a giant, spreading amoeba. It seemed that everyone was here for what they were calling the Moratorium to End the War in Vietnam, and Di felt as though she was at its very center. Even the trees seemed to have dressed for the occasion in brilliant shades of red and orange. Above them, Belvedere Castle loomed from its perch on a hill.

The protestors held signs. “Make Love Not War,” “Bring Our Boys Home,” “War is not healthy for children and other living things.” And chanted, “Hell no, we won’t go!”

Di shouted with the others. She was finally doing something significant in her life. Helping to stop a terrible war that only benefited the government and corporate America.

She inhaled the sweet scent of pot and smoke from the small bonfires all around her and watched Lawrence climb up on the shoulders of Steve, by far the biggest guy in their group. Lawrence waved a small white card in the air. “Hell no, I won’t go!” he shouted. He lit a match and held it to the edge of the card. “Burn it!”

The others in their group cheered and shouted, “Burn it! Burn it!”

His draft card went up in flames, but Lawrence didn’t drop it, even as the fire touched his fingers. Di felt herself swoon. She didn’t know whether it was from the pain she imagined he was experiencing or from his sexy bravado, and she didn’t care. She only wished she had something to burn, to show him that he had reached her. That she would follow him wherever he led.

Gertrude had climbed up on Jeffrey’s skinny shoulders. His wiry body was stronger than it looked, as it supported her weight. Gertrude waved her arms, eyes flashing violet behind her pink glasses, nipples visible beneath her sheer white blouse. “Come on, comrades,” Di’s roommate shouted. “Burn your fucking draft cards. Don’t let them send you to kill innocent people, innocent children.”

Jeffrey’s scowling face, mostly hidden behind mutton-chop sideburns, came to life. “Burn them, comrades. Let it all burn!”

Several of the guys took out their cards and lit them on fire.

Linda was standing beside Di, flaxen hair pasted to her flushed cheeks, blue eyes bright as though she had a fever. She reached her arms behind her back, then triumphantly pulled her bra out of the sleeve of her T-shirt. “I don’t have a draft card,” Linda shouted, “but at least I can burn this.”

Lawrence grinned and tossed her a book of matches.

Linda struck several matches at once and held them to her bra as the others cheered her on. The fire caught and flames shot out.

“Let’s hear it, comrades,” Gertrude cried. “Hell no, we won’t go!”

“Hell no, we won’t go!” they all chanted in response. Louder and louder. Faster and faster. “Hell no, we won’t go!” Di felt the mounting frenzy around her, the blurry euphoria. “Hell no, we won’t go!”

“To the castle!” Lawrence shouted, pointing up to Belvedere. “Let’s storm the castle.”

On Steve’s broad shoulders, he charged up the hill. Gertrude was just behind, clinging to Jeffrey, her black braid bouncing against her back, as the rest of their group followed.

They made it up to the castle veranda that overlooked the Great Lawn and Belvedere Lake. Lawrence jumped down from Steve’s back and climbed up on the retaining wall so they could all see him.

“Comrades,” he shouted, “we need to make some decisions about who we are and what we want to accomplish.”

“Hear, hear,” someone called out.

“SDS has failed us,” Lawrence said. “The organization is ridden with dissension and power struggles. How can we fight for peace when we’re busy fighting each other?”

Everyone applauded.

Di looked around for Gertrude. She was standing off to the side, puffing on a cigarette as she leaned against Jeffrey. Leaning in a comfortable way, as if she would soon be taking her clothes off for him.

Undoubtedly in the name of peace.

“We need cooperation,” Lawrence shouted, “Not condemnation.”

The group cheered.

“Why don’t we join the Weathermen?” Linda called out.

Lawrence turned toward her, a patient expression on his face. Linda looked almost like a child with her large eyes and narrow dancer’s body. Then he shook his fist and shouted, “Because we can do it better.”

Everyone cheered.

“The Weathermen want a revolution on American soil,” Lawrence said. “Well, we want peace on American soil.” He stretched out his arms as he stood on the wall, a crowd of thousands behind him on the Great Lawn, in front of him, his own small but passionate group. “And peace throughout the world!”

They exploded in another round of shouts and clapping.

Peace,
Di thought. They were going to fight for peace. They were taking a stand, like the German people should have done. Like the Jews should have done.

“The fat cats are brewing up a storm of destruction,” Lawrence said. “It’s up to us to drain away their filthy poison and leave behind a cleaner, better world.” He made a fist. “We are Stormdrain, and we want peace on American soil and peace throughout the world.”

“Stormdrain!” Steve shouted, and everyone cheered.

“Lawrence of Columbia!” Another cheer went out. “Lawrence of Columbia is our leader!”

“We are all leaders,” Lawrence called back. “We are in this together.” He pulled off his white headscarf and waved it in the air. “And if we need to use revolutionary tactics to achieve our goals, so be it!” he bellowed.

Di shuddered. Revolutionary tactics?

Someone began to sing John Lennon’s song about giving peace a chance, and everyone joined in.

She linked arms with Steve and Albert, who were on either side of her. Everyone had entwined arms with his or her neighbors’ and swayed back and forth as they sang.

Lawrence surveyed his minions, searching the crowd with his blue eyes.
Look at me,
Di prayed silently.
Look at me.

But his eyes fell on Gertrude. She had her arms around Jeffrey’s neck and was rubbing up against him.

Poor Lawrence,
Di thought, just as his eyes pulled away from Gertrude and connected with hers.

And when he smiled at her, all she could think of was smiling back.