Vanished

He looked at her scornfully. She was going crazy again. He could see it. And it never dawned on him that he had driven her to it.

“They're not going to find him, Marielle. Ever. Don't you understand that?”

“I'll stay at a hotel.” She ignored his question, and looked away, as Malcolm watched her. He had already told his lawyer how much money he was going to give her. He was going to buy her off, and she was probably going to wind up in an institution. Once he was gone, and Charles was executed, and she understood that she would never see the child again, it would probably kill her.

“I'm leaving on a trip anyway. You can get organized then.”

“Where are you going?” Her voice was very faint, as though she had to concentrate, and her hands were shaking.

“That's none of your concern.”

Suddenly, as she listened to him, she felt rising panic. Who would take care of her when he was gone?…who would help her take care of Teddy? But suddenly she knew she didn't need anyone. All she needed was time to recover from what had happened. She realized what was happening to her, and wrestled with all her strength to fight the demons. She made a superhuman effort to stand up quietly, and went downstairs to her own room. He could do anything he wanted. But he couldn't take away the memories of the child she had loved, or how much she had loved him. And knowing that, she suddenly knew she could survive it.

John Taylor called her that night. He was worried about her. He knew the toll the trial was taking. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. It was rough today.” And Malcolm had been even rougher. She was exhausted as she spoke to him, but she was also happy to hear him.

“It's going to be worse for the next few days. The closing arguments and the verdict are going to be killers. You just have to stay calm, Marielle.” And he would be there with her.

“I know…I'm all right…John, there's no news of him, is there?… I mean, of Teddy?”

“No,” he said softly, “there isn't.” He knew she was coming to terms with it now. After four months, there was really no hope, and he knew it. “I'll tell you if anything happens.”

“I knew you would.”

“Marielle…” He knew the phones were tapped but he wished he could tell her how much he loved her.

“I know…it's okay.” Her voice was so small and sad and he ached for her as he longed to hold her. But she sat alone in her bedroom with two lonely tears rolling down her cheeks. They were tears of exhaustion, as much as sorrow.

“Just be strong for a few more days. Maybe we can spend some time together when this is over.” He knew how badly she'd need to get away. He was afraid she'd break again, and she had come close to it that night, but she hadn't. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he said softly.

“Good night,” she whispered, and then she hung up the phone. And as she drifted off to sleep that night, Bea Ritter was thinking about calling Tom Armour.

14

Tom Armour had been polishing up his closing arguments since late that afternoon when he got home, and he was finally satisfied that they were exactly what he wanted. He stretched, yawned, read through it all again, one more time, and finally decided to make himself a sandwich. His apartment looked as though rats had been nesting everywhere, and when he opened the refrigerator, he remembered that it was empty. He was contemplating it hungrily when the telephone rang and he debated whether or not to answer. It was probably the damn reporters again, but then again it could have been something important.

“Yeah?” He picked it up absentmindedly. He was trying to decide if it was worth going out to get something to eat, or if he was better off just going to bed and getting some sleep so he'd be rested in the morning. Rested, but definitely hungry. He had skipped lunch that day too, and he could hear his stomach growl as he held the phone to his ear, wondering who would call him at that hour. The only interesting woman in his life had announced that she was marrying someone else shortly before Christmas. She claimed that he was married to his work, and she was tired of hearing about his cases. But at thirty-six years of age, he had managed to establish himself as one of the city's most prominent criminal attorneys.

“Is Mr. Armour there?” It was a female voice he didn't recognize, but she sounded very pleasant.

“Who do you think this is at this hour? The butler?” And then suddenly he wondered if it was a crank call related to Charles Delauney. Representing him had been interesting, but early in the case it had also won him his share of crank calls and threatening letters…how can you represent a monster like that, etc. etc. etc. “Who is this?” he asked with a puzzled frown. Nobody had called him at home in weeks, months, let alone an attractive-sounding woman.

“This is Beatrice Ritter. Is this you, Tom?”

“None other.” He knew who she was by then, and he liked her. He had liked her when she'd come to him and begged him to take Charles's case. And he liked the pieces she had written about Marielle, and Charles, and his trial, since then. It was easy to figure out that she was on his team.

“I need to talk to you.” She sounded earnest and excited.

“Go ahead. You got me.” With a growling gut and an empty refrigerator and nothing else to do until the morning.

“Can you meet me somewhere?”

He glanced at his watch and winced. He was an attractive man, and he was standing in the kitchen in his white shirt from court that afternoon and his trousers and suspenders, and all he'd had for the past fourteen hours was a hell of a lot of black coffee. “It's almost eleven o'clock. Can it wait till tomorrow morning?”

“No, it can't.” She sounded desperate.

“Is something wrong?”

“I have to see you.”

“Have you murdered anyone?”

“I'm serious…please…trust me… it can't wait till tomorrow morning.”

“I assume that this is somehow related to my client?” She had become the champion of his cause for reasons Tom didn't quite understand, but he was willing to take advantage of, if it served his client.

“Yes, very much so.”

“And it can't wait?”

“I don't think so.” She sounded very earnest.

“Are you willing to come to my apartment?” Most girls weren't willing to visit a man at that hour of the night, but she wasn't just any girl. She was a reporter. She was used to doing things no sane man or woman would do, and he admired the gutsy way she did things. She was a tiny woman with an enormous spirit. And he liked her. One day they might even be friends, but not right at the moment.

“I be there…” she said excitedly. “Just don't tell me you live in New Jersey.”

“How's Fifty-ninth Street, between Lexington and Third?” He lived in a quiet brownstone.

“I'd say lucky. I live on Forty-seventh. I'll catch a cab and be there in five minutes.”

“Will you do me a favor first?”

“Sure.”