Where Are the Children? (14 page)

Dorothy relaxed her grip on the handle. The slight flare of annoyance she'd felt vanished as quickly as it had come. What, in the name of heaven, difference did it make if all the brass handles all over the universe were changed? Who cared?

Parrish had to clamp his lips together to keep from ordering that nosy woman and her prospective buyer out. The children were just on the other side of the door. Had he tightened their gags enough? Would they hear the familiar voice and try to make some kind of sound? He had to get rid of these people.

But Dorothy wanted to go too. She was aware of an indefinably familiar scent in the bedroom - one that made her acutely aware of Missy. She turned to John Kragopoulos. 'Perhaps we should start ... if you're ready.'

He nodded. 'I'm quite ready, thank you.' He started to leave, this time obviously avoiding shaking hands. Dorothy followed him. 'Thank you, Mr Parrish,' she said hastily over her shoulder. 'I'll be in touch with you.'

She led the way down the stairs to the main floor in silence. They went through the kitchen, and when she opened the back door she could see why the gale warnings were in effect. The wind had heightened sharply in the brief time they'd been in the house. Oh, God, the children would die of exposure if they were outside all this time. 'We'd better make a dash for the garage,' she said. John Kragopoulos, looking preoccupied, nodded and took her arm. Together they ran, not bothering to stay under the overhang. With the increased wind velocity there was simply no protection from the sleet, which was now finely blended with snow.

In the garage, Dorothy walked between the station wagon and her car and opened the door on the driver's side. As she began to slide into her car, she glanced down. A bright red scrap of material on the garage floor caught her eye. Getting out of the car again, she bent down, picked it up, then slumped back into the car seat, holding the object against her cheek. John Kragopoulos, sounding alarmed, asked, 'My dear Mrs Prentiss, what is wrong?'

'It's the mitten!' Dorothy cried. 'It's Missy's mitten. She was wearing it yesterday when I took her out for icecream. She must have left it in the car. I guess I kicked it out when I got out of the car before. She was always losing her mittens. She never had two on that matched. We always joked about that. And this morning, they found the mate of this one on the swing.' Dorothy began to sob - a dry, hacking sound that she tried to stifle by holding the mitten against her lips.

John Kragopoulos said quietly. 'There is little that I can say except to remind you that a merciful and loving God is aware of your pain and the agony of the parents. He will not fail your need. Somehow I am confident of that. Now, please, wouldn't you like me to drive?'

'Please,' Dorothy said in a muffled voice. She pushed the mitten deep into her pocket as she slid over. She wouldn't want Nancy or Ray to see it; it would be too heartbreaking. Oh Missy, Missy! She'd taken it off when she started to eat the cone yesterday. She could see her dropping it on the seat. Oh, the poor little kids.

John Kragopoulos was glad to be driving. A great restlessness had come over him in the room with that hideous man. There was something too slimy and sour-smelling about him. And that scent of baby powder in the bedroom and that incredible toy in the tub. How could a grown man need such trappings?

Upstairs, Parrish stood to one side and watched from the window until the car had disappeared around the bend in the lane. Then, with trembling fingers, he drew out the key from his pocket and unlocked the closet door.

The boy was conscious. His sandy hair fell on his forehead, and his large blue eyes were filled with terror as he stared mutely up. His mouth was still securely taped and his hands and legs still firmly tied.

Roughly he pushed the child aside and reached past him for the little girl. He lifted out her limp body and laid her on the bed - then shrieked in outrage and despair as he stared down at her closed eyes and pinched blue face . . .

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Nancy's hands were clenching and unclenching, pulling at the coverlet. Gently, Lendon covered her fingers with his own strong, well-shaped hands. Anxiety and agitation were causing her to breathe in harsh, laboured breaths.

'Nancy, don't worry. Everyone here knows that you couldn't hurt your children. That's what you meant, isn't it?'

'Yes . . . yes . . . people think I could hurt them. How could I kill them? They are me. I died with them . . .'

'We all die a little death when we lose the people we love, Nancy. Think back with me before all the trouble started. Tell me what it was like when you were growing up in Ohio.'

'Growing up?' Nancy's voiced trailed off into a whisper. The rigidity of her body began to relax.

'Yes, tell me about your father. I never knew him.'

Jed Coffin moved restlessly, and the chair he was sitting on made a creaking sound against the wooden floor. Lendon shot him a warning glance. 'I have reason for this,' he said quietly. 'Please bear with me.'

'Daddy?' A lilt came into Nancy's voice. She laughed softly. 'He was such fun. Mother and I used to drive to the airport to pick him up when he came in from a flight. In all those years he never came back from a trip without something for Mother and me. We used to go all over the world on his vacations. They always took me with them. I remember one trip . . .'

Ray could not take his eyes off Nancy. He had never heard her speak in that tone of voice - animated, amused, a ripple of laughter running through her words. Was this what he had been blindly trying to find in her? Was it more than being tired of living with the fear of discovery? He hoped so.

Jonathan Knowles listened intently to Nancy, approving of the technique Lendon Miles was using to gain her confidence and relax her before asking about the details of the day the Harmon children had vanished. It was agonizing to hear the soft ticking of the grandfather clock ... a reminder that time was passing. He realized that he was finding it impossible not to look at Dorothy. He knew he had been harsh when he spoke to her as she was getting into her car. It was his disappointment that had reacted to her deliberate falsehood - the fact that she had made a point of telling him personally about knowing Nancy as a child.

Why had she done that? Was it perhaps that he had indicated somehow that Nancy looked familiar? Had it been simply an attempt to keep him from the truth because she couldn't trust him with the truth? Had he perhaps been displaying what Emily used to call his 'Your witness, Counsel' manner?

In any event, he felt that he owed Dorothy an apology. She didn't look well. The strain was telling on her. She still was wearing her heavy coat, and her hands were jammed in her pockets. He decided that he wanted to talk to her at the first opportunity. She needed calming down. She certainly thought the world of those children.

The lights in the room flickered, then went off. 'That figures.' Jed Coffin propped the microphone on the table and searched for matches. Quickly Ray lighted the antique gas lamps on either side of the mantel. They threw a yellow glow that melted and blended with the vivid red flames of the fireplace, bathing the couch where Nancy was lying in a rosy glow and throwing deep shadows on the corners of the dark room. It seemed to Ray that the steady tattooing of the sleet against the house and the moaning of the wind through the pines had intensified. Suppose the children were out somewhere in this weather. . .? Last night he'd awakened hearing Missy cough. But when he went into her room, she'd been settled again in deep sleep, her cheek cupped in her palm. As he bent over to pull up her covers, she'd murmured 'Daddy' and stirred, but at the touch of his hand on her back she'd settled down again.

And Michael. He and Mike had gone for milk to Wiggins' Market - was it just yesterday morning? They'd arrived just as that tenant at The Lookout, Mr Parrish was leaving. The man had nodded pleasantly, but when he got into the old Ford wagon of his, Michael's face had wrinkled with distaste. 'I don't like him,' he'd said.

Ray almost smiled at the memory. Mike was a rugged little guy, but he had something of Nancy's distaste for ugliness, and no matter how you sliced it, Courtney Parrish was a clumsy, slow-moving, unattractive man.

Even the Wiggjnses had commented on him. After he left, Jack Wiggins said drily, 'That fellow's about the slowest-moving human being I ever bumped into. He meanders around shopping like he's got all the time in the world.'

Michael had looked reflective. 'I never have enough time,' he'd said. 'I'm helping my dad refinish a desk for my room, and every time I want to keep working on it, I have to get ready for school.'

'You've got quite an assistant there, Ray,' Jack Wiggins had remarked. 'I'll give him a job any time; he sounds like a worker.'

Mike had picked up the package. 'I'm strong, too,' he'd said. 'I can carry things. I can carry my sister for a long time.'

Ray ground his hands into fists. This was unreal, impossible. The children missing. Nancy sedated. What was she saying?

Her voice still had that eager lilt. 'Daddy used to call Mother and me his girls . . .' Her voice faltered.

'What is it, Nancy?' Dr Miles asked. 'Your father called you his little girl? Did that upset you?'

'No ... no ... no ... he called us his girls. It was different ... it was different . . . not like that at all . . .' Her voice rose sharply in protest.

Lendon's voice was soothing. 'All right, Nancy. Don't worry about that. Let's talk about college. Did you want to go away to school?'

'Yes ... I really did . . . except ... I was worried about Mother . . .'

'Why did you worry about her?'

'I was afraid she'd be lonely - because of Daddy . . . and we'd sold the house; she was moving into an apartment. So much had changed for her. And she'd started a new job. But she liked working . . . She said she wanted me to go ... She liked to say that today . . . today . . '

'Today is the first day of the rest of your life,' Lendon finished quietly. Yes, Priscilla had said that to him too. The day she came into the office after she'd put Nancy on the plane for school. She told him about still waving goodbye after the plane had taxied away towards the runway. Then her eyes had filled, and she'd smiled apologetically. 'Look how ridiculous I am,' she'd said, trying to laugh; 'the proverbial mother hen.'

'I think you're doing fine,' Lendon had told her.

'It's just that when you think how your life can change ... so incredibly. AH of a sudden, a whole part, the most important part ... is ended. But on the other hand, I think when you've had something quite wonderful ... so very much happiness . . , you can't look back and regret. That's what I told Nancy today ... I don't want her worrying about me. I want her to have a wonderful time in school. I said that we should both remember that motto: "Today is the first day of the rest of our lives." '

Lendon remembered that a patient had come into the office. At the time, he'd considered it a blessing; he'd been dangerously close to putting his arms around Priscilla.

'. . . but it was all right,' Nancy was saying, her voice still hesitant and groping. 'Mother's letters were cheerful. She loved her job. She wrote a lot about Dr Miles ... I was glad ..."

'Did you enjoy school, Nancy?' Lendon asked. 'Did you have many friends?' 'At first. I liked the girls, and I dated a lot.' 'How about your schoolwork? Did you like your subjects?'

'Oh, yes. They all came pretty easily . . . except bio . . .'

Her tone changed - subtly became troubled. 'That was harder. I never liked science . . . but the college required it ... so I took it . . .' 'And you met Carl Harmon.'

'Yes. He . . . wanted to help me with bio. He had me come to his office and he'd go over the work with me. He said I was dating too much and that I must stop or I'd be sick. He was so concerned ... he even started giving me vitamins. He must have been right . . . because I was so tired ... so much . . . and started to feel so depressed ... I missed Mother . . .'

'But you knew you would be home over Christmas.' 'Yes . . . and it didn't make sense . . . All of a sudden ... it got so bad ... I didn't want to upset her ... so I didn't write about it ... but I think she knew . . . She came out for a week-end . . . because she was worried about me ... I know it ... And then she was killed . . . because she came out to see me ... It was my fault . . . my fault . . .' Her voice rose in a shriek of pain, then broke into a sob.