Silent Night (13 page)

“I know the head usher. Ray Hickey,” Ortiz said. “I'll take care of it.”

She looked at Detective Rhodes. “I will be notified immediately if you have any word at all . . . ?”

“Absolutely.” He could not resist adding, “You're very brave, Mrs. Dornan. And I can tell you this for sure: every law enforcement officer in the northeast is dedicated to getting Brian back safely.”

“I believe that, and the only way I can help is to pray.”

*   *   *

“The leak didn't come from our guys,” Mort Levy reported tersely to Chief of Detectives Folney. Apparently some hotshot kid from WYME was watching Cally's apartment and saw us go in, knew something was up, and followed Aika Banks home. He told her he was a cop and pumped her. His name is Pete Cruise.”

“Damn good thing it wasn't one of ours. When all this is over, we'll hang Cruise out to dry for impersonating an officer,” Folney said. “In the meantime we've got plenty to do here.”

He was standing in front of an enlarged map of the northeast that had been attached to the wall of his office. It was crisscrossed with routes outlined in different colors. Folney picked up a pointer. “Here's where we're at, Mort. We've got to assume that Siddons had a car waiting when he left his sister's place. According to her, he left shortly after six. If we're right, and he got in a car immediately, he's been on the road about five and a half hours.”

The pointer moved. “The light snow band extends from the city to about Herkimer, exit 30 on the Thruway. It's heavier throughout New England. But even so, Siddons probably isn't more than four to six hours from the border.”

Folney gave a decisive thump to the map. “Amounts to looking for a needle in a haystack.”

Mort waited. He knew the boss didn't want comments.

“We've got a special alert along the border,” Folney continued. “But with the heavy traffic, he could still be missed, and we all know that someone like Siddons probably knows how to get into Canada without going through a checkpoint.” Now he waited for comments.

“How about staging an accident on the major roads to force a one-laner about twenty miles before the border?” Mort suggested.

“I wouldn't rule that out. But on the same principle as erecting a barrier, traffic would build up in two minutes, and Siddons might just try to get off at the nearest exit. If we go ahead with that plan we'll have to put barriers at all the exits, as well.”

“And if Siddons feels trapped . . . ?” Mort Levy hesitated. “Siddons has a screw loose, sir. Cally Hunter believes her brother is capable of killing both Brian and himself rather than get captured. I think she knows what she's talking about.”

“And if she had had the guts to call us the minute Jimmy left her house with that boy, he wouldn't have gotten out of Manhattan.”

Both men turned. Jack Shore was in the doorway. He looked past Mort Levy to Bud Folney. “A new development, sir. A state trooper, Chris McNally, got a hamburger about twenty minutes ago at the travel plaza
between Syracuse, exit 39, and Weedsport, exit 40, on the Thruway. He didn't pay much attention at the time, but the woman at the pickup station, a Miss Deidre Lenihan, was talking about a St. Christopher medal that some kid was wearing.”

Bud Folney snapped, “Where is the Lenihan woman now?”

“Her shift ended at eleven. Her mother said her boyfriend was picking her up. They're trying to track them down now. But if Cally Hunter had called us earlier none of this would have happened, we could have been at every travel plaza between here and . . .”

Bud Folney almost never raised his voice. But his increasing frustration over the agonizing twists in the manhunt for Jimmy Siddons made him suddenly shout, “Shut up, Jack! ‘If only's' don't help now. Do something useful. Get the radio stations in that area to broadcast a plea to Deidre Lenihan to call her mother. Say she's needed at home or something. And for God's sake, don't let anyone connect her to Siddons or that child. Got it?”

F
rom his perch just off the road, Chris McNally kept a watchful eye on the cars passing before him. The snow had finally ended, but the roadway remained icy. At least the drivers were being careful, he thought, although they were all probably frustrated at having to crawl along at thirty-five miles an hour. Since he'd picked up his hamburger, he had only ticketed one driver, a hotshot in a sports car.

Although he was focused on the flow of traffic on the highway, he still could not get his mind off the report of the missing child. The minute the alert had come in about the little boy who was being held hostage by an escaped cop killer, a little boy wearing a St. Christopher medal,
Chris had phoned the McDonald's he had just visited and had asked to speak to Deidre Lenihan, the woman who had waited on him. Even though he hadn't really been paying any attention, he remembered that she had been going on about just such a medal and a little boy. Now he was sorry he hadn't been more in the mood to gab with her, especially since they told him she had just left for the evening with her boyfriend.

Despite the tenuous nature of the tip, he nonetheless had reported the possible lead to his supervisor, who had passed it along to One Police Plaza. They had decided it was worth acting on and had asked the local radio station to broadcast an appeal that Deidre call in to police headquarters. From Deidre's mother they had even gotten a description of the boyfriend's car, then they had gotten his license number and put out an all-points call to try and find them.

Deidre's mother had also told them, however, that she thought tonight was going to be special for her daughter, that the boyfriend had let her know his Christmas present was going to be an engagement ring. Chances were they wouldn't be out on the road now, but someplace a little more romantic.

But even if Deidre did hear the radio appeal and did call in, what could she tell them? That she had seen a kid wearing a St. Christopher medal? They knew that already.
Did she know the make and model of the car? Had she seen the license plate? From what Chris knew of Deidre, good-hearted as she was, she was not too alert and was observant only when something struck her fancy. No, it was unlikely that she could provide any more significant information.

All of which made Chris even more frustrated. I might have been around that kid myself, he thought. I might have been in line behind them at McDonald's—why didn't I notice anything more?

The thought of having possibly been close to the kidnapped child practically drove him wild. My kids are home in bed right now, he thought. That little boy should be with his family, too. The problem was, he realized, thinking back over his conversation with Deidre, the car with the little boy could have come through there anywhere between a few minutes and an hour before she told him about it. Still, it was the only lead they had, so they had to treat it seriously.

His radio went on. It was headquarters. “Chris,” the dispatcher said, “the boss wants to talk to you.”

“Sure.”

When the captain got on, his voice was urgent. “Chris, the New York City police think your tip is the closest thing they have to a chance of saving that kid's life. We're going to keep on beating the bushes looking for
the Lenihan woman, but in the meantime, rack your brain. Try to remember if there was anything else she might have said, anything that might be of some help . . .”

“I'm trying, sir. I'm on the Thruway now. If it's all right with you, I'd like to start driving west. If the guy was on the McDonald's line about the same time as I was, he's got about a ten to fifteen minute lead on me at this point. If I can pick up a little time on him, I'd sure like to be in the vicinity when word does come through from Deidre. I'd like to be there when we get him.”

“Okay, go ahead. And, Chris, for God's sake,
think
. Are you sure that she didn't say anything more specific about either the kid with the St. Christopher medal or maybe about the car he was in?”

Just
.

The word jumped into Chris's mind. Was it his imagination, or had Deidre said, “
I just saw a kid
wearing a St. Christopher medal
”?

He shook his head. He couldn't remember for sure. He did know that the car ahead of him in the line at McDonald's had been a brown Toyota with New York plates.

But there hadn't been a kid in the car, or at least not that he could see. That much he
was
sure of.

Even so . . . if Deidre had said “
just
,” maybe she did mean the Toyota. What had been the license number on that car? He couldn't remember. But he had noticed something about it. What was it?

“Chris?” The supervisor's voice was sharp, effectively breaking his reverie.

“I'm sorry, sir, I was trying to remember. I think Deidre said she had ‘
just
' seen the kid wearing the medal. If she meant that literally, then it could have been the car directly in front of me on line. That was a brown Toyota with New York plates.”

“Do you remember any part of the number?”

“No, I'm just getting a blank. My mind was probably a million miles away.”

“And the car, was there definitely a little boy in it?”

“I didn't see one.”

“That's not much help. Every third car on the road is probably a Toyota, and tonight they're all so dirty you can't tell one color from another. They probably all look brown.”

“No, this one was definitely brown. That much
is
for sure. I just wish I could remember Deidre's exact words.”

“Well, don't drive yourself crazy. Let's hope we hear from the Lenihan woman, and in the meantime I'll send one of the other cars to cover your station. Head west. We'll check in later.”

At least it feels as if I'm doing something, Chris thought as he signed off, turned the key and pressed his foot on the gas.

The squad car leaped forward. One thing I do know is how to drive, he thought grimly as he steered the vehicle
onto the breakdown lane and began passing the cautious motorists along the way.

And as he drove, he continued to try to remember what exactly he had seen in front of him. It was there, imprinted in his mind, he was sure of that. If only he could call it up. As he strained, he felt as though his subconscious were trying to shout out the information. If only he could hear it.

In the meantime, every inch of his six-foot-four inch being was warning him that time was running out for the missing boy.

*   *   *

Jimmy was seething. What with all the cars going like old ladies were driving them, it had taken him half an hour to get to the nearest exit. Jimmy knew he had to get off the Thruway
now
so he could get rid of the kid. A sign told him he was within a half mile of exit 41 and a town named Waterloo. Waterloo for the kid, he thought with grim satisfaction.

The snow had stopped, but he wasn't sure that was good for him. The slush was turning to ice, and that slowed him up more. Plus, without the snow, it was easier for any cops who might be driving by to get a look at him.

He switched to the right lane. In a minute he'd be able to get off the Thruway. Suddenly the brake lights flashed on the car ahead of him, and Jimmy watched with
increasing anger and frustration as the rear of that car fishtailed. “Jerk!” Jimmy screamed. “Jerk! Jerk! Jerk!”

Brian sat up straight, eyes wide open, fully alert. Jimmy began to curse, a steady stream of invective flowing as he realized what had happened. A snowplow four or five cars in front had just switched into the exit lane. Instinctively, he steered the Toyota into the middle lane and barely managed to avoid the fishtailing car. As he pulled abreast of the snowplow, they were just passing the exit.

He slammed the wheel with his fist. Now he'd have to wait till exit 42 to get off the Thruway. How far was that? he wondered.

But as he glanced back at the exit he'd just missed, he realized he actually had been lucky. There was a pileup on the ramp. It must have just happened. That was why the plow had switched lanes. If he had tried to get off there, he could have been stuck for hours.

Finally he saw a sign that informed him the next exit was in six miles. Even at this pace, it shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes. The wheels were gripping the road better. This stretch must have been sanded. Jimmy felt for the gun under his jacket. Should he take it out and hide it under the seat?

No, he decided. If a cop tried to stop him, he needed it just where it was. He glanced at the odometer on the dashboard. He'd set it when he and the kid started driving.
It showed that they had gone just over three hundred miles.

There was still a long way to go, but just knowing that he was this close to the Canadian border and Paige was so exciting a sensation he could almost taste it. This time he'd make it work, and whatever he did, this time he wouldn't be dumb enough to be caught by the cops.