“We don't know that he took him,” she said in an agonized voice, she had told him everything and now she knew he would never forgive her. “We don't know anything.”
“I know that you've been involved with people over the years who may well have cost me my only child…and you, your last one.”
“Malcolm,” she closed her eyes and almost swooned at his words, “how can you say that?”
“Because it's true,” he roared at her, “because Teddy may be dead by now, buried in a shallow grave we'll never find, or if he isn't yet, he may be at any moment. You may never see your child again.” He bore down on her like a nightmare with his booming voice and terrifying accusations. “And what you have to understand, what you have to tell yourself, is that you brought Teddy to him, you provoked this man, you brought Charles Delauney into our life…it's you, Marielle, who did it.” She gasped at the pain he caused, but she couldn't tell him he was wrong. Perhaps she had done all that he said. Perhaps it was all her fault again, and as she listened to him, she sank into a chair, and the migraine came crashing through her brain so hard she could barely keep her balance. She heard all the voices again, felt all the familiar pain, and just as she used to, she heard the sound of the rushing water beneath the ice, and as she heard Malcolm leave the room, she was barely conscious.
It seemed hours later when she heard a sound, and she was startled to look up and see the little maid who had been bound and gagged by the kidnappers the night before. It was Betty, bringing her her laundry. Mr. Patterson had sent everyone back to work in an attempt to get the house back to normal, with the exception of Edith and Patrick, who had been warned not to leave town. The FBI was still very interested in their stories.
“Mrs. Patterson, are you all right?” Betty hurried to her side, she looked as though she had fainted, and she was halfway out of the chair toward the floor, when Betty found her. The sound of her voice roused Marielle to consciousness again, and she looked around, through the blinding pain, remembering all too quickly what had happened and what Malcolm had said… it was all her fault…she had brought Charles into their midst…and he had taken Teddy…but had he? And why? Did he really hate her that much? Did they all?…and were they right?…she suddenly wished she had died years before, when she should have… perhaps even under the ice, with her babies.
“Mrs. Patterson…”
“I'm fine…” Marielle murmured, struggling to her feet, trying to straighten her dress and smooth her hair, as the frightened young girl watched her. Marielle looked as though she had died she was so pale, and she looked sick as she struggled to keep her balance. “… I'm not very well…just a headache… nothing to worry about…” She walked slowly into her bedroom as Betty followed. She had been through her own ordeal the night before, but the police had reassured Betty that it wasn't her fault, that she couldn't have done anything to stop them, and if she had tried they probably would have killed her. So she no longer felt guilty, only lucky. Unlike Marielle, who felt guilty for everything in her life for the past nine years. It was an awesome burden.
“Would you like a cold cloth?”
“No…no…thank you…I'll just lie down for a moment,” but as soon as she did, the room spun around and she thought she might vomit. It was almost like being drunk, but worse, because it was so painful. “Is there any news?” She raised her head for an instant after she lay down, but Betty only shook her head and went to pull the blinds down, and when she left a moment later, Marielle's eyes were closed in pain, but she wasn't sleeping.
Betty ran into John Taylor downstairs who asked her where Mrs. Patterson was. She told him that she had a headache and was resting.
“Let her rest,” he added. All he had wanted was to make sure that she had told Malcolm about Charles before their meeting, but the moment he stepped into the library, he knew. Malcolm Patterson looked grim as he greeted John Taylor.
“My wife has told me about Charles Delauney,” he said immediately. And John assumed she had told him the rest too, but he didn't appear to be softened. “It's a shocking story. Do you think that's our man?” He was clearly frantic about his son, and wanted no stone left unturned, no matter how great the scandal.
“It could be. We have no evidence, no proof. He has an alibi for last night, it's not a great one, but he's sticking to it, and we've checked it out and it holds. He was drinking at a bar on Third Avenue. And before that he was with friends at '2G. But he wouldn't have done it himself anyway, he would have hired people to do it for him, I would imagine.”
Malcolm had given it a great deal of thought ever since she'd told him the story. “If it was done for revenge, there will be no ransom request. And for the moment, there isn't,” he said grimly.
“That's true. But the boy's been gone for less than a day. A lot could happen in the next few hours.”
“I want Delauney arrested,” Malcolm roared.
“Yes, sir, I do,” John Taylor said in a taut voice. “But we need evidence, and there is none. There is absolutely nothing except for the fact that he was drunk and he made some threats which may not have meant a damn thing. And he was once married to your wife.” Malcolm glared at him, not amused by the gist of the conversation.
“Then it would seem to me,
“Are you suggesting I manufacture it?” Taylor was fascinated by him. No matter how powerful, or important, or intelligent, or allegedly charming the man was, John Taylor suspected that beneath it all, Malcolm Patterson was a bastard.
“I'm not suggesting anything of the sort. I'm telling you to find it.”
“If it's there, I will.”
“Good.” He rose to his feet then, indicating that the interview was over, and Taylor would have been amused if he hadn't disliked him. And for an instant, he wondered if his own hostility was because he was jealous. The man had everything. Money, power, and a wife that Taylor would have given his right arm for. And something told him that for Malcolm Patterson, she was the one thing he had that was not precious to him.
“I'm afraid I have to ask you a few more questions.”
“Certainly.” Malcolm sat down again, looking cooperative and official. He wanted to do everything he could to get his son back.
“Is there anyone who could be out to get you? Anyone who's made threats against you, say in the past year, even foolish ones, things that may not have seemed important at the time, but in light of what happened last night jump to mind now?”
“I can't think of anything. I thought about it all night as I drove from Washington, but I can think of no one who would want to harm me.'
“Any sensitive political associations? Any dissatisfied ex-employees?” Malcolm shook his head again. “Any women you may have been involved with? What you tell me will be kept confidential, to the best of my ability.” It was what he had promised Marielle. “But it may be important.”
“I appreciate that,” he said coolly, “but that won't be necessary. I have not been involved with any women.” He looked outraged that it would even be mentioned.
“Ex-wives who may be resentful that you've had a child with someone else after all these years?”
“Hardly, my first wife is married to one of the world's leading concert pianists and fives in Palm Beach, and the other is married to the president of a bank and lives in Chicago.” And then he threw in a blow that John thought was a cheap shot but he showed no reaction. “Unlike my wife apparently, my previous spouses are not dangerous people.”
