Silent Night

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.

12

It 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.”

Mort got up slowly. His mind was still focused on the elusive memory of some important clue that had been overlooked, something he knew was there, right in front of him, but that he just couldn’t make himself see. They’d seen Cally Hunter at seven-fifteen this morning. She’d already been dressed for work. They had seen her again nearly twelve hours later. She looked exhausted and desperately worried. She was probably in bed asleep now. But every nerve in his body was telling him that he should talk to her. Despite her denial, he believed she held the key.

As he turned away from his desk, the phone rang. When he picked it up, he again heard the terrified breathing. This time he took the initiative. “Cally,” Mort said urgently. “Cally, talk to me. Don’t be afraid. Whatever it is, I’ll try to help you.”

Cally could not even think of going to bed. She had listened to the all-news station, hoping but at the same time fearing that the cops had found Jimmy, praying that little Brian was safe.

At ten o’clock she had turned on the television to watch the Fox local news, then her heart sank. Brian’s mother was seated next to the anchorman, Tony Potts. Her hair seemed looser now, as though she’d been standing outside in the wind and snow. Her face was very pale, and her eyes were filled with pain. There was a boy sitting next to her who seemed to be about ten or eleven years old.

The anchorman was saying, “You may have heard Catherine Dornan’s appeals for help in finding her son Brian. We’ve asked her and Brian’s brother, Michael, to be with us now. There were crowds of people on Fifth Avenue and Forty-ninth Street shortly after five o’clock this evening. Maybe you were one of them. Maybe you noticed Catherine with her two sons, Michael and Brian. They were in a group listening to a violinist playing Christmas carols, and singing along. Seven-year-old Brian disappeared from his mother’s side. His mother and brother need your help in finding him.”

The anchorman turned to Catherine. “You’re holding a picture of Brian.”

Cally watched as the picture was held up, listened as Brian’s mother said, “It’s not very clear, so let me tell you a little more about him. He’s seven but looks younger because he’s small. He has dark reddish brown hair and blue eyes and freckles on his nose…” Her voice faltered.

Cally shut her eyes. She couldn’t bear to look at the stark agony on Catherine Dornan’s face.

Michael put his hand over his mother’s. “My brother’s wearing a dark blue ski jacket just like mine, ’cept mine is green, and a red cap. And one of his front teeth is missing.” Then he burst out, “We gotta get him back. We can’t tell my Dad that Brian is missing. Dad’s too sick to be worried.” Michael’s voice became even more urgent. “I know my dad. He’d try to do something. He’d get out of bed and start looking for Brian, and we can’t let him do that. He’s sick, real sick.”

Cally snapped off the set. She tiptoed into the bedroom where Gigi was at last sleeping peacefully and went over to the window that led to the fire escape. She could still see Brian’s eyes as he glanced over his shoulder, begging her to help him, his one hand in Jimmy’s grasp, his other holding the St. Christopher medal as though it would somehow save him. She shook her head. That medal, she thought. He hadn’t cared about the money. He followed her because he believed that medal would make his father get well.

Cally ran the few steps back into the living room and grabbed Mort Levy’s card.

When he answered, her resolve almost crumbled again, but then his voice was so kind when he said, “Cally, talk to me. Don’t be afraid.”

“Mr. Levy,” she blurted out, “can you come here, quick? I’ve got to talk to you about Jimmy- and that little boy who’s missing.”