Silent Night

“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.

Jimmy felt the kid stirring beside him, trying to settle back into sleep. What a mistake! he thought. I should have dumped him five minutes after I took him. I had the car and the money. Why did I think I needed him?

He ached for the moment when he could be rid of the kid and be safe.

20

Officer Ortiz escorted Catherine, her mother, and Michael to the Fiftieth Street entrance to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. A security guard stationed outside was waiting for them. “We have seats for you in the reserved section, ma’am,” he told Catherine as he pushed the heavy door open.

The magnificent sound of the orchestra led by the organ and accompanied by the choir filled the great cathedral, which was already packed with worshipers.

“Joyful, joyful,” the choir was singing.

Joyful, joyful, Catherine thought. Please God, yes, let this night end like that.

They passed the creche where the life-sized figures of the Virgin, Joseph, and the shepherds were gathered around the empty pile of hay that was the crib. She knew that the statue of the infant Christ child would be placed there during the Mass.

The security guard showed them to their seats in the second row on the middle aisle. Catherine indicated that her mother should go in first. Then she whispered, “You go between us, Michael.” She wanted to be on the outside, at the end of the row, so she could be aware the minute the door opened.

Officer Ortiz leaned over. “Mrs. Dornan, if we hear anything, I’ll come in for you. Otherwise when Mass is over, the guard will lead you out first, and I’ll be waiting outside in the car.”

“Thank you,” Catherine said, then immediately sank to her knees. The music changed to a swirling paean of triumph as the procession began-the choir, the acolytes, deacon, priests, and bishops, preceding the cardinal, who was carrying the crook of the shepherd in his hand. Lamb of God, Catherine prayed, please, please save my lamb.

Chief of Detectives Folney, his gaze still riveted to the map of the Thruway on the wall of his office, knew that with each passing minute, the chances of finding Brian Dornan alive grew slimmer. Mort Levy and Jack Shore were across the desk from him.

“ Canada,” he said emphatically. “He’s on his way to Canada, and he’s getting close to the border.”

They had just received further word from Michigan. Paige Laronde had closed all her bank accounts the day she left Detroit. And in a burst of confidence, she had told another dancer that she had been in touch with a guy who was a genius at creating fake IDs.

It was reported that she had said, “Let me tell you, with the kind of papers I got for my boyfriend and me, we can both just disappear.”

“If Siddons makes it over the border…” Bud Folney muttered more to himself than to the others.

“Nothing from the Thruway guys?” he asked for the third time in fifteen minutes.

“Nothing, sir,” Mort said quietly.

“Call them again. I want to talk to them myself.”

When he got through to Chris McNally’s supervisor and heard for himself that absolutely nothing was new, he decided he wanted to speak to Trooper McNally himself.

“A lot of good that’ll do,” Jack Shore muttered to Mort Levy.

But before Folney could be connected with McNally, another call came in. “Hot lead,” an assistant said, rushing into Folney’s office. “Siddons and the kid were seen by a trooper about an hour ago at a rest area on Route 91 in Vermont near White River Junction. He said the man matches Siddons’s description to a T, and the boy was wearing some kind of medal.”

“Forget McNally,” Folney said crisply. “I want to talk to the trooper who saw them. And right now, call the Vermont police and have them put up barriers at all the exits north of the sighting. For all we know, the girlfriend