Stranger in the House (4 page)

“Ever since we heard about Paul, I’ve been thinking,” she began. “Worrying actually.”

“About what?”

Anna hesitated. “Well, I was thinking it might be a good idea if we had some protection…for him.”

She kept her eyes on the road, but she could feel his eyes scrutinizing her.

“What for? I don’t follow you.”

“Well, I just can’t help worrying about him.”

“Paul?”

“That man.” She shuddered.

There was a silence. “Rambo,” Thomas said.

“He’s running around loose somewhere. We know the man is mentally unbalanced. We have no idea what he is capable of. He might decide to come after Paul. He might have some crazy idea that Paul is really his and come looking for him or something.”

“I don’t think we should borrow trouble, Anna. We have no reason to think he’ll do anything of the kind.”

Anna turned and stared at him. “How can you be so sure of that? He took our son once, didn’t he?”

“Watch the road, Anna,” Thomas cried.

The car swerved slightly as Anna came around a curve and then evened out.

“Look,” said Thomas, “the police have told you…even your friend Buddy told you…the man is probably going to run as far and as fast as he can. He has a kidnapping charge to face if the police get him. The last thing he’s going to do is come around here. Even Rambo is not that crazy. I think you should just forget about him.”

“I understand all that about the kidnapping charge. But I also think that we’re not dealing with a rational, predictable person. I mean, was it rational for him to take our son? How can you predict what a person like that will do? We know that he had a history of mental illness—”

“All right,” Thomas interrupted her, “but if he knew enough to run away when he found out that his wife was planning to spill the beans, I think we can be reasonably certain that he is not going to walk directly into the arms of the police.”

Anna gripped the wheel tightly. “Maybe you’re right. But I have a bad feeling about it.”

“For God’s sake, Anna,” Thomas said quietly as the railroad station came into view, “I thought now that you had the boy back, you would finally stop all this. I mean, do you get pleasure out of this constant worrying? Why can’t you leave well enough alone?”

Anna pulled the car up beside the platform and shifted into neutral with the motor still running. “No, I do not enjoy the worrying, and you know it. But I won’t just forget about this. Not after all we’ve been through. And your criticizing me about it doesn’t help.”

“All right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said Thomas. He opened the car door and got out. A rush of uniformly dressed commuters passed on each side of the Volvo. Thomas came around to the driver’s side, glanced at his watch, and then bent down beside the open window. He kissed Anna’s hair.

“Try to come home early,” she said. “It’s going to be a very happy night.”

“I know.” Thomas gave her a strained smile and turned away from the window. Anna watched her husband disappear into the ranks of commuters who milled around restlessly on the platform, their eyes searching the tracks for the train to the city.

The mingled smells of toasting bread, greasy bacon, and potatoes frying oozed through the grimy wall fan in back of the luncheonette and into the parking lot behind the little row of stores. The man who stood in the early-morning shadows was tantalized by the smells. He plucked at the skin on his face with rapidly moving fingers, leaving red blotches across the surface of his pasty skin. Inside the diner, the waitresses and the short-order cook ribbed each other above the clatter of dishes. Although he heard their words, the man could not understand their joking. He never understood what was funny about the things people said to one another or why they laughed.

None of the other stores on the street were open yet, but behind the grocery store sat a squat green metal garbage Dumpster—the reason he was here.

He moved deliberately across the backs of the stores to where the Dumpster stood. For two days he had had nothing to eat besides candy bars purchased in gas station machines. He had hardly any money and had been sleeping in his car in cul-de-sacs he found off the main highway. Finally he had had to stop. The voices had been so distracting that he had almost driven into a divider on the highway. He decided to put up for a few nights in that dumpy motel, but if he did that, he didn’t have enough money for food, too.

Grocery stores threw out food, though. There was bound to be something in the Dumpster. Looking all around him, he lifted the heavy metal lid and held it up with one hand. The smell of rotting and decaying food wafted up from inside. He stuck his head under the lid and examined the loose garbage. Below a rumpled newspaper he saw an open egg box with three cracked eggs and two whole ones in it and, beside that, an open box of crackers with paper stuffed inside it. He reached in past a ripped and soggy milk container and fished for the egg box. He pulled out the newspaper first and threw it on the ground. As it fell, he saw the picture on the front page of his son, staring up at him.

Albert Rambo heaved a disgusted sigh and bent down to pick up the paper. He read the latest news article about Paul Lange’s happy reunion with his family which was about to take place. His lip curled as he scanned the story. On the inside page was a picture of the Langes’ house, a monstrous palace in the town of Stanwich, Connecticut.

A fit place for that scheming heathen to do the devil’s own business, Rambo thought. Among the rich and godless up there in Connecticut. If the truth were known, he belonged in hell with the other devils, he thought. After all those years of giving up things for him, raising him as his own. He could still hear his wife’s voice in his head. “The boy needs shoes. He needs a coat. Billy needs…Billy needs…”

Rambo gazed down at the house in the picture in the paper where the blaspheming little infidel, that acolyte to Beelzebub, would now be living.

Paul Lange. He snorted. Sounds like a young prince. Dorothy Lee’s voice faded away as other voices began to grip him, whirling up through the hole in his stomach, haranguing him in insistent tones. The voices spoke of God’s wrath against the wicked, His desire that they should be plundered, trodden upon like the mire of the streets. Urging him, urging him, arming him with conviction.

A squeal near his elbow made Rambo jump and the voices disappear. A bloated rat scuttled down the wall of the Dumpster and into the garbage. Rambo threw the newspaper back into the trash and with a furtive look around reached into the bin and pulled up the crackers and the eggs.

Stanwich was only about thirty miles from there, he thought, as he sucked the cracked egg greedily from its shell. He knew the exact spot. Billy’s new home. He remembered it well. Stuffing the cracker box under his arm, he crossed over to his car.

T
he gray towers of Manhattan were enveloped in a barley-colored haze of heat and soot. Thomas stared out his office window dreading the prospect of going into the streets again. The air had been thick and nauseating at lunch, and the asphalt in the streets threatened to turn viscous from the heat. He knew what it would be like tonight, walking to Grand Central Station. Pedestrians, like human bumper cars, dodging and colliding with one another, knees slamming into swinging briefcases.

Even from the twentieth floor, where he sat, Thomas could hear the whiny bray of the snarled traffic below on Madison Avenue. It was the start of the rush hour. With a sigh Thomas turned away from the window and looked again at the clock on his desk. His office, by contrast, was cool and air-conditioned, the temperate air shut in tight by large, clean, hermetically sealed windows. Even the decor was cool: beige carpet, beige walls, a muted blue print on the sofa and drapes. The only ornament which interrupted the sterility of the room was the framed picture of Anna and Tracy on his desk. Glancing at the laughing faces of his wife and daughter in the photograph, he realized that he would now have to put a picture of Paul there, too. At that thought Thomas felt an unpleasant tightening in his stomach.

He picked up the report on his desk without enthusiasm. He knew that he really should finish it before he went home. It concerned the new computer system that was being installed and how it could benefit his department. It was nearly five o’clock now. He counted the pages that he had left to read and calculated the time it would take him. Then he flipped the top page over and read the first paragraph.

There was a soft rap on his office door. He looked up, and his troubled expression dissolved into one of boyish pleasure at the sight of the smartly dressed young woman with wavy black hair who was leaning into his office.

“What did you think of my report?” she asked briskly.

Thomas indicated that the report was still in his hands. “I’m almost finished,” Thomas said apologetically.

The young woman came into the room and eased herself onto the sofa across from Thomas’s desk, then threw one arm across the back and crossed her legs. “So much for my brilliant analysis,” she said, pouting.

“I think you’re right about it,” Thomas said earnestly. “I think we should have done it two years ago. You’ve done a very thorough job on this report, Gail.”

“If you like, I’ll give you a private summary over a martini. Save you all that boring reading,” she said, running one hand lazily up and down her shin.

“Oh, I want to read it,” he assured her.

“I’m only teasing you,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, embarrassed and flattered at once. He could feel her eyes on him and his scalp prickled at the sensation. He tried not to look at her legs. “Were you teasing about the drink?” he asked.

Gail Kelleher laughed aloud at the ingenuous sound of the question. “Nope. That was a solid offer.”

For a minute Thomas could envision himself sitting in a cool dark bar with her, talking and laughing, a piano playing languidly in the background. Even as he thought of it, he remembered what awaited him at home, and he shook his head. “That sounds nice,” he said absently. “I wish I could.” He frowned and looked down at the report on his desk.

Gail caught the wistful note in his voice. Like everyone else in the office, she knew about Paul’s imminent homecoming, even though Thomas hadn’t referred to it voluntarily. Although their relationship was still only light and flirtatious, she had tried to let him know that she would welcome his confiding in her. A couple of times he had. Twice, when Anna had gone off on one of her missions in search of the boy, they had shared a drink after work, and dawdling over a second Scotch and water, he had vented a little of his frustration at Anna’s relentless pursuit of the missing child. As soon as Gail expressed any sympathy for his point of view, Thomas had immediately withdrawn. But Gail had spotted an opening there. This man, whom she had found terribly attractive from the first time she met him, was not entirely happy with his lot. And today she saw the same glum, distracted look on his face that she recognized from those nights when he had gone so far as to linger for a drink. She found his reaction to the boy’s homecoming interesting.

“You seem a little…down,” she observed. “Are you worried about tonight?”

“What?” Thomas asked. “Oh, worried, no. Not really. Well, it’s been a long day. Everyone’s been either congratulating me or tiptoeing around me.”

“It’s hard to know what to say.”

“I guess so.” He sighed.

She bit her lip. “I’m just concerned about you,” she said.

“I’m okay,” he insisted, swiveling his chair and looking out the window. “I feel great. Happy.”

Gail reached up and toyed with one of her earrings. “I guess Anna must be in quite a state over all this,” she ventured.

Thomas grimaced. “Well, it’s been hectic, kind of. Anna—she’s just…it’s so important to her.”

“I imagine she’s been awfully busy trying to get things ready for Paul.”

“Yes,” said Tom. “She doesn’t think of anything else.”

“Well, I guess she’s never been quite normal since that happened.”

“Anna!” Tom exclaimed, looking at her incredulously. “She’s normal. She’s perfectly normal. She’s just…”

“Obsessed,” Gail offered.

Thomas seemed to balk at the word, and Gail could sense that she had gone a little too far. He began to retreat from the conversation. She moved quickly to smooth it over.

“It’s a great strain on everyone, of course. You just have to give yourself a little time to adjust.”

Thomas ran his hand over his eyes and then nodded. “I’m a little bit tired, I guess.”

With slow and deliberate movements, Gail uncrossed her legs and rose from the sofa. She walked over to where he was sitting and slid around behind his chair. “What you need,” she said with mock sternness, “is a good relaxing massage.” She placed her hands lightly on the back of his neck and then pressed down in a circular motion. She could feel his muscles tense up at her approach and then begin to relax at the pressure of her touch.

Thomas laughed nervously. “That feels good,” he said, and then released a soft, involuntary groan.

Gail smiled to herself and kneaded his neck. “I took a course in massage one summer,” she said.

“You must have gotten an A,” he said. He wanted to speak in a carefree, flirtatious tone; but the pressure of Gail’s hands on his back and neck seemed to be loosening something that was tight inside him, and he had to stifle a sob which rose unexpectedly to his throat. He closed his eyes in guilty enjoyment of the soothing manipulation, and as he did, he felt the sudden impulse to turn and embrace her, to bury his face in her stomach. His eyes shot open, and he pulled away.

“That helped a lot,” he said as Gail released him. “Really.” He made a point of looking at his watch.

“God, I’d better run if I’m going to make the five forty.” He looked down at his desk. “I guess I’ll take this home with me.”

Gail shook out her fingers and headed for the doorway of his office. “Well,” she said casually, “if you should want to talk about it over the weekend, just give me a call. Or drop by. I’m in the book. I hope everything goes okay with Paul.”

“Thanks,” said Thomas. “It will.”

Thomas watched her walk out of his office, admiring the sensual way she moved in her very correct business clothes. He realized that he did not feel his customary eagerness to get home. Instead, he wished he were going to a dark bar with her and having a few drinks and forgetting everything. Everything but the feeling of her fingers on the back of his neck.

Anna unwrapped the silver foil and cocked her head to one side with a crooked smile. Then, holding the bottle by the neck, she reached over and embraced her friend. “Champagne. Iris, that’s so thoughtful.”

Iris looked at the label uncertainly. “Edward selected the vintage. He says it should be an excellent bottle. Are you all set?”

Anna glanced around the unnaturally tidy kitchen. “I guess so. I think I’ve done everything twice.”

Iris nodded approvingly. “It should be just wonderful.” The two women walked through the quiet house toward the front door and stood out on the porch steps. “It’s going to be a lovely evening,” Iris observed.

Anna nodded, scanning the sky for clouds.

“Don’t worry, Anna.”

“I’m getting nervous now,” Anna admitted. “Maybe I should go in and wash the floor again.”

At that moment a black Cadillac appeared around the corner, rolled down, and pulled into the Langes’ driveway. The car’s finish was lustrous, and above the grille, in place of the characteristic Cadillac trademark, the hood ornament was a gleaming golden eagle, its wings outstretched to full span. “Look who’s here,” said Iris. “They must have caught the same train.”

Thomas emerged from the passenger side of the Cadillac and shut the door carefully. He came around the front of the car as Edward turned off the engine and slid out from behind the wheel. Both men were smiling, and that took Anna by surprise. As a rule they were polite but not friendly. Now, however, it made Anna feel good to see them walking, shoulder to shoulder, up the lawn.

She raised the bottle which she was cradling in her arm. “Look what Iris and Edward brought us,” she called out to Thomas.

“Thanks, Iris, Edward,” Thomas said. “We appreciate the thought.”

“Well,” said Iris, awkwardly grasping his hand and squeezing it, “we are very happy for you, and we will be thinking of you all tonight.”

“Indeed,” Edward agreed. Anna looked fondly at them both, remembering that they had been present and ready to help on another night, the night that Paul had disappeared.

“Would you like to come in for a drink?” Anna asked.

Edward waved his hand. “We have to be getting home. I have a lot to do tonight.”

As Edward spoke, an aqua-colored van with a network logo printed on the side pulled up in front of the house.

“What’s this now?” said Thomas as a man in a sport shirt slid out of the front seat and they heard the door slam. A blonde woman in a tailored suit came around the truck and skirted around the man in the sport shirt, who was opening the rear doors to the van. She hailed the Langes and started up the incline toward them.

Anna groaned softly, recognizing the reporter, Camille Mandeville, who had interviewed her many times in the years since Paul’s disappearance. Anna hurried down the lawn to intercept her as another man emerged from the back of the truck and began to help the driver unload his videocam and sound equipment.

“Camille, you promised me,” Anna said. “Not today. We want a private homecoming for our boy.”

“Hello, Mrs. Lange,” said the reporter, flashing her a dazzling, practiced smile. “Oh, we’ve been crazy all day. I was hoping to get here earlier.”

“Everyone else has been very cooperative,” said Anna. “I should tell you that the police have promised to intervene if we’re harassed.”

“Calm down, calm down,” Camille said soothingly. “We’re not staying.” Thomas, Edward, and Iris had made their way down the lawn and were now surrounding Anna like reinforcements. “Hello, Mr. Lange. Are these relatives?” Camille asked pleasantly.

“These are our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart,” said Anna.

Camille gave Iris and Edward a brilliant, if distracted, smile as she shook their hands while sizing up the conditions for shooting on the lawn. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Camille, you must realize that we have so much on our minds right now,” Anna protested.

Camille, who was signaling to her cameraman to join her on the lawn, turned to Anna and wagged a finger at her. “Mrs. Lange,” she chided, “how many times have I, and this network, updated your story, given you airtime to try to locate your son? Now the people in this area have been very concerned about you and your family for a number of years. Don’t you think that you owe it to them to share your feelings with them on this occasion? I mean, a lot of people have hoped and prayed for this day, just as you have.”

Anna sighed. People had been kind to them. Sometimes their curiosity had upset her, but there were other times when their support was all she had had to cling to. Letters from other mothers, strangers, urging her to have faith, trying to offer a clue. She glanced at Thomas, who was wearing an impatient expression.

“All right,” said Anna. “If you hurry.”

“Why don’t you all gather around Mrs. Lange?” Camille suggested, directing them with her melon-painted fingernails. “This won’t take long. Come on.”

“I’m sorry about this,” said Tom to his unprepared neighbors.

“That’s right,” said Camille. “Gather ’round her. It looks good. People will like this. Friends, sharing your joy and so on. Everybody look cheerful.”

“Can you keep it short, Camille?” Anna pleaded. “Our friends here—”

“Don’t worry, Anna.” Iris reassured her. “I think it’s kind of fun!”

Camille raised both arms to indicate that speed was no problem and then accepted a microphone from a cameraman who was moving in on them. “Now,” she said, “I’m going to introduce you all. I may ask each of you a question. Mr. Stewart, I may ask you how long you’ve known the Langes, if you remember Paul, that kind of stuff, okay?” Camille hesitated, peering at Edward, whose gray eyes widened with alarm.

Poor Edward, Anna thought as she glanced over at him. Television really isn’t his medium. A discreet portrait photograph in
The New York Times
business section, perhaps, but not the ten o’clock news, sandwiched in with murders, fires, and city hall politics.

Edward licked his lips and nodded at the reporter.

“Now,” Camille went on, “more of the same for you, Mrs. Stewart. And then we’ll ask Mr. and Mrs. Lange to comment on their feelings tonight. All right, are we ready?” She smiled expectantly at them.

Anna nodded and tried to concentrate on all those people who had sent their prayers to her over the years.

“Folks, there’s nothing to be nervous about. Just smile,” advised Camille. “Mr. Lange, why don’t you put your arm around your wife?” She turned to face the cameraman. “Once in a while a story has a happy ending,” Camille began, “and here at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Lange one of those rare happy endings is about to come true.”