Silent Night (8 page)

Shore slammed down the phone. “If Siddons managed to get out of New York this morning, he could be in California right now, maybe even Mexico.”

“It would be pretty tough to get a plane reservation at the last minute on Christmas Eve,” Levy reminded him cautiously.

“Listen, somebody got a gun in to him. That same somebody may have had clothes and cash and an airline ticket waiting for him. Probably managed to get him to an airport in Philadelphia or Boston, where no one's looking for him. My guess is that he's met up with his girlfriend by now and the two of them are heading south of the border, if they're not already eating enchiladas. And I still say one way or the other the go-between had to be Siddons's sister.”

Frowning, Mort Levy watched Jack Shore go to the communications room to await the faxes from Detroit. The next step would be to forward pictures of both Siddons and his girlfriend to the border patrol in Tijuana, with the warning to be on the lookout for them.

But we still have to cover the cathedral tonight on the one-in-a-million chance that Jimmy's offer to surrender was on the level, Mort thought. Somehow neither possibility rang true to him—not Mexico, not the surrender. Would this Paige be smart enough to lie to her friend on the chance that the cops might come looking for her?

The coffee and sandwiches they had ordered were just being delivered. Mort went over to get his ham on rye. Two of the women officers were talking together.

He heard one of them, Lori Martini, say, “Still no sign of that missing kid. For sure some nut must have picked him up.”

“What missing kid?” Levy asked.

Soberly he listened to the details. It was the one kind of case no one in the department could work on without becoming emotionally involved. Mort had a seven-year-old son. He knew what must be going through that mother's mind. And the father so sick he hadn't even been told his son was missing. And all this at Christmastime. God, some people really get it in spades, he thought.

“Call for you, Mort,” a voice shouted from across the room.

Carrying the coffee and sandwich, Mort returned to his desk. “Who is it?” he asked as he took the receiver.

“A woman. She didn't give her name.”

As Mort pressed the phone to his ear, he said, “Detective Levy.”

He heard the sound of frightened breathing. And then a faint click as the line went dead.

*   *   *

WCBS reporter Alan Graham approached the squad car where he'd interviewed Catherine Dornan an hour earlier when he had done an update on the story.

It was eight-thirty, and the intermittent gusts of snow had become a steady flow of large white flakes again.

Through his earphone, Graham heard the anchorman give the latest information about the escaped prisoner. “The condition of Mario Bonardi, the injured prison guard, is still extremely critical. Mayor Giuliani and Police Commissioner Bratton have paid a second visit to the hospital where he is in intensive care after delicate surgery. According to the latest report, the police are following up on a tip that his assailant, alleged murderer Jimmy Siddons, may be meeting a girlfriend in California with the final destination, Mexico. The border patrol at Tijuana has been alerted.”

One of the newsmen had been tipped off that Jimmy's lawyer claimed Siddons was turning himself in after midnight Mass at St. Patrick's. Alan Graham was glad that the decision had been made not to air that story. None of the police brass really believed it, and they didn't want the worshipers distracted by the rumor.

There were few pedestrians now on Fifth Avenue. It occurred to Graham that there was something almost obscene about the breaking stories they were covering this Christmas Eve: an escaped cop killer; a prison guard clinging to life; a seven-year-old missing boy, who was now the suspected victim of foul play.

He tapped on the window of the squad car. Catherine glanced up, then opened it halfway. Looking at her, he wondered how long she would be able to maintain her remarkable composure. She was sitting in the passenger seat of the car next to Officer Ortiz. Her son Michael was in the back with a handsome older woman whose arm was around him.

Catherine answered his unasked question. “I'm still waiting,” she said quietly. “Officer Ortiz has been good enough to stay with me. I don't know why, but I feel as though somehow I'll find Brian right here.” She turned slightly. “Mom, this is Alan Graham from WCBS. He interviewed me right after I spoke with you.”

Barbara Cavanaugh saw the compassion on the face of the young reporter. Knowing that if there were anything to tell, they would have heard it by now, she still could not stop herself from asking, “Any word?”

“No, ma'am. We've had plenty of calls to the station, but they were all to express concern.”

“He's vanished,” Catherine said, her voice lifeless. “While Tom and I have raised the boys to basically trust people, they also know how to deal with emergencies. Brian knew enough to go to a policeman if he was lost. He knew to dial 911. Somebody has taken him. Who would take and hold a seven-year-old child unless . . . ?”

“Catherine, dear, don't torture yourself,” her mother urged. “Everyone who heard you on the radio is praying for Brian. You must have faith.”

Catherine felt frustration and anger rising inside her. Yes, she supposed she should have “faith.” Certainly Brian had faith—he believed in that St. Christopher medal, probably enough to have followed whoever picked up my wallet. He knew it was inside, she reasoned, and felt he had to get it back. She looked back at her mother, and at Michael beside her. She felt her anger ebb. It wasn't her mother's fault that any of this had happened. No, faith—even in something as unlikely as a St. Christopher medal—was a good thing.

“You're right, Mom,” she said.

From the receiver in his ear, Graham heard the anchorman say, “Over to you, Alan.”

Stepping back from the car, he began, “Brian Dornan's mother is still keeping watch at the spot where her son disappeared shortly after 5:00 P.M. Authorities believe Catherine Dornan's theory that Brian may have seen someone steal her wallet and followed that person. The wallet contained a St. Christopher medal, which Brian was desperately anxious to bring to his father's hospital bed.”

Graham handed the microphone to Catherine. “Brian believes the St. Christopher medal will help his father get well. If I had had Brian's faith, I would have guarded my wallet more carefully because the St. Christopher medal was in it. I want my husband to get better. I want my child,” she said, her voice steady despite her emotion. “In the name of God, if anyone knows what happened to Brian, who has him, or where he is, please,
please
call us.”

Graham stepped back from the squad car. “If anyone who knows anything about Brian's whereabouts is listening to that young mother's pain, we beg you to call this number, 212-555-0748.”

H
er eyes filled with tears, her lip quivering, Cally turned off the radio.
If anyone knows what happened to Brian
. . .

I
tried
, she told herself fiercely. I tried. She had dialed Detective Levy's number, but when she heard his voice, the enormity of what she was about to do overwhelmed her. They would arrest her. They would take Gigi away from her again and would put her with a new foster family.
If anyone
knows anything about Brian's whereabouts
. . .

She reached for the phone.

From inside the bedroom she heard a wail and spun around. Gigi was having another nightmare. She rushed inside, sat down on the bed, gathered her child in her
arms, and began rocking her. “Sshh, it's okay, everything's fine.”

Gigi clung to her. “Mommy, Mommy. I dreamed that you were gone again. Please don't go, Mommy. Please don't leave me. I don't want to live with other people ever, ever.”

“That won't happen, sweetheart, I promise.”

She could feel Gigi relax. Gently she laid her back on the pillow and smoothed her hair. “Now go back to sleep, angel.”

Gigi closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Can I watch Santa Claus open his present?” she murmured.

*   *   *

Jimmy Siddons lowered the volume on the radio. “Your mom sure is flipping out about you, kid.”

Brian had to keep himself from reaching out to the dashboard and touching the radio. Mom sounded so worried. He had to get back to her. Now she believed in the St. Christopher medal too. He was sure of it.

There were a lot of cars on the highway, and even though it was really snowing now, they were all going pretty fast. But Jimmy was in the far right lane, so no cars were coming up on that side. Brian began to plan.

If he could open the door real fast and roll out onto the road, he could keep rolling to the side. That way nobody would run over him. He pressed the medal for an instant, and then his hand crept to the handle on the
door. When he put faint pressure on it, it moved slightly. He was right. Jimmy hadn't put the lock on after they stopped for gas.

Brian was about the throw open the door when he remembered his seat belt. He'd have to unfasten that just as the door swung open. Careful not to attract Jimmy's attention, he laid the index finger of his left hand on the seat belt's release button.

Just as Brian was about to pull on the handle and push the release, Jimmy swore. A car, weaving erratically, was coming up behind them on the left. An instant later it was so close it was almost touching the Toyota. Then it cut in front of them. Jimmy slammed on the brakes. The car skidded and fishtailed, as around them came the sound of metal impacting metal. Brian held his breath. Crash, he begged,
crash!
Then someone would help him.

But Jimmy righted the car and drove around the others. Just ahead, Brian could hear the wail of sirens and see the brilliance of flashing lights gathered around another accident, which they quickly drove past as well.

Jimmy grinned in savage satisfaction. “We're pretty lucky, aren't we, kiddo?” he asked Brian, as he glanced down at him.

Brian was still clutching the handle.

“Now you weren't thinking of jumping out if we'd gotten stuck back there, were you?” Jimmy asked. He
clicked the control that locked the doors. “Keep your hand away from there. I see you touch that handle again and I'll break your fingers,” he said quietly.

Brian didn't have the slightest doubt he would do just that.

I
t was five after ten. Mort Levy sat at his desk, deep in thought. He had only one explanation for the disconnected call: Cally Hunter. The tap from the police surveillance van outside Cally's building confirmed that she had dialed him. The men on duty there offered to go up and talk to her if Mort wanted them to. “No. Leave her alone,” he ordered. He knew it would be pointless. She'd only repeat exactly what she'd told them before. But she knows something and she is afraid to tell, he thought. He had tried to phone her twice, but she had not answered. He knew she was there, though. The lookouts in the van would have notified them if she'd
left the apartment. So why wasn't she answering? Should he go over to see her himself? Would it do any good?

“What's with you?” Jack Shore asked impatiently. “You forgot how to hear?”

Mort looked up. The rotund senior detective stood glowering down at him. No wonder Cally's afraid of you, Mort thought, remembering the fear in her eyes at Jack's anger and open hostility.

“I'm thinking,” Mort said curtly, resisting the impulse to suggest that Shore try it sometime.

“Well, think with the rest of us. We've gotta go over the plans to cover the cathedral.” Then Shore's scowl softened. “Mort, why don't you take a break?”

He isn't as bad as he tries to seem, Mort thought. “I don't see you taking a break, Jack,” he replied.

“It's just that I hate Siddons worse than you do.”