Where Are the Children? Read online

  Back in the car, he’d cooled off. Maybe she’d turned into a drunk. If she was still screaming for the dead kids, chances were that she’d jump at the chance to know she didn’t have to worry about a new trial. He decided to check into some motel in Adams Port and try to see her again the next day.

  In the motel, Rob promptly went to bed and fell asleep. He awakened late in the afternoon and switched on the television set to catch the news. The screen focused in time for him to see a picture of himself and a voice describing him as the missing witness in the Harmon murder case. Numbly, Rob listened as the announcer recapped the disappearance of the Eldredge children. For the first time in his life he felt trapped. Now that he’d shaved off his beard and shortened his hair, he looked exactly the way he had in the picture.

  If Nancy Eldredge had actually killed her new family, who would believe that he hadn’t had something to do with it? It must have happened just before he got there. Rob thought of the old Ford wagon that had backed out from the dirt road just before he turned in. Massachusetts license, first two numbers 8-6 . . . heavyset guy behind the wheel.

  But he couldn’t talk about that even if he got caught. Couldn’t admit being at the Eldredge house this morning. Who would believe him if he told the truth? Rob Legler’s instinct for self-preservation told him to get off Cape Cod, and it was a cinch he couldn’t go in a bright red Dodge that every cop was looking for.

  He packed his bag and slipped out the back door of the motel. A Volks Beetle was parked in the stall next to the Dodge. Through the window he’d noticed the couple who had left it. They’d checked in just before he turned on the news. Chances were, if he was any judge, they were good for a couple of hours. No one else was outside braving the sleet and wind.

  Rob opened the engine lid of the Volks, connected a few wires and drove away. He’d use Route 6A heading for the bridge. With any luck, in half an hour he’d be off the Cape.

  Six minutes later, he ran a red light. Thirty seconds after that, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a flashing red light reflected there. He was being chased by a police car. For an instant he considered surrendering himself; then the overwhelming need to bolt from trouble overcame him. As he rounded a corner, Rob slipped open the door, wedged the accelerator down with his suitcase and jumped out. He was disappearing into the wooded area behind stately Colonial homes when the police car, its siren now screaming, chased the wildly careening Volkswagen down the sloping road.

  19

  WHEN MICHAEL BEGAN TO RUN down the stairs, he was sure that Mr. Parrish would catch him. But then he heard the terrible thumping that meant Mr. Parrish had fallen down the stairs. Michael knew that if he wanted to get away from Mr. Parrish he mustn’t make any noise. He remembered the time Mommy had had the carpet on the stairs at home taken off. “Now, until the new treads go down, you kids have to play a new game,” she’d said. “It’s called civilized walking.” Michael and Missy had made a game of walking down the side of the stairs near the banister on tiptoe. They got so good at it they used to sneak down and scare each other. Now, walking lightly that same way, Michael slipped noiselessly down to the first floor. He heard Mr. Parrish calling his name, saying he would find him.

  He knew he had to get out of this house. He had to run down the winding road to the long road that led to Wiggins’ Market. Michael hadn’t decided whether he’d go into Wiggins’ Market or run past it across Route 6A up the road that led to his house. He had to get Daddy and bring him back here for Missy.

  Yesterday in Wiggins’ Market he had told Daddy he didn’t like Mr. Parrish. Now he was afraid of him. Michael felt the choking fear as he ran through the dark house. Mr. Parrish was a bad man. That was why he had tied them up and hidden them in the closet. That was why Missy was so scared she couldn’t wake up. Michael had tried to touch Missy in the closet. He knew she was scared. But he couldn’t get his hands free. From inside the closet, he could hear Aunt Dorothy’s voice. But she hadn’t asked for them. She was right there and didn’t guess that they were there. He was very angry that Aunt Dorothy didn’t know they needed her. She should have guessed.

  It was getting so dark. It was hard to see. At the bottom of the stairs, Michael looked around, confused, then darted toward the back of the house. He was in the kitchen. The outside door was over there. He rushed to it and reached for the knob. He was just about to turn the lock when he heard the footsteps approaching. Mr. Parrish. His knees trembled. If the door stuck, Mr. Parrish would grab him. Quickly, noiselessly, Michael raced out the other kitchen door, across the small foyer and into the little back parlor. He heard Mr. Parrish bolt the kitchen door. He heard him drag the chair over to it. The light in the kitchen was snapped on, and Michael shrank behind the heavy overstuffed couch. Crouching quietly, he barely fitted into the space between the couch and the wall. Dust from the couch tickled his nose. He wanted to sneeze. The light in the kitchen and hallway went out suddenly, and the house was black dark. He heard Mr. Parrish walking around, striking a match.

  A moment later there was a reddish glow in the kitchen, and he heard Mr. Parrish call, “It’s all right, Michael. I’m not angry anymore. Come out, Michael. I’ll take you home to your mother.”

  20

  JOHN KRAGOPOULOS HAD INTENDED to drive directly to New York after leaving Dorothy, but a vague sense of depression coupled with a headache over the bridge of his nose made the five-hour trip seem suddenly insurmountable. It was the frightful weather, of course, and the intense distress Dorothy was suffering couldn’t help transmitting itself. She had shown him the picture she carried in her wallet, and the thought of those beautiful children having met with foul play left a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  But what an incredible thought, he mused. There was still the possibility the children had simply wandered away. How could anyone hurt a child? John thought of his own twenty-eight-year-old twin sons—one an Air Force pilot, the other an architect. Fine young men, both of them. A source of pride for a father. Long after he and their mother were gone, they would live. They were a part of his immortality. Suppose when they were babies, he had lost them. . . .

  He was driving down Route 6A toward the mainland. Ahead on the right an attractive restaurant was set back from the road. The lighted sign, THE STAGEWAY, was a welcoming beacon in the afternoon gloom. Instinctively, John swung off the road and into the parking lot. He realized that it was nearly three o’clock and he had had exactly one cup of coffee and one piece of toast all day. The bad weather had made the driving up from New York so slow he had been forced to skip lunch.

  He rationalized that it was common sense to have a decent meal before he attempted the trip. And it was good business sense to try to strike up a conversation with the personnel of a large restaurant in a vicinity he was considering. He might be able to garner some useful information on the probable trade in the area.

  Subconsciously approving of the rustic interior of the restaurant, he went directly to the bar. There were no customers at it, but that wasn’t unusual before five o’clock in a town like this. He ordered a Chivas Regal on the rocks; then, when the bartender brought it, he asked if it would be possible to get something to eat.

  “No problem.” The bartender was about forty, dark-haired, with exaggerated muttonchops. John liked both his obliging answer and the way he kept the bar immaculately neat. A menu was produced. “If you feel like steak, the special sirloin is great,” he volunteered. “Technically, the kitchen is closed between two-thirty and five, but if you don’t mind eating right here . . .”

  “Sounds perfect.” Quickly John ordered the steak rare and a green salad. The Chivas warmed his body, and some of his depression began to lift. “You make a good drink,” he said.

  The bartender smiled. “It takes real talent to put together a Scotch on the rocks,” he said.

  “I’m in the business. You know what I mean.” John decided to be candid. “I’m thinking of buying the place they call The Lookout for a resta
urant. What’s your top-of-the-head opinion?”

  The other man nodded emphatically. “Could work. A real class restaurant, I mean. Here we do fine, but we get the middle-buck crowd. Families with kids. Old ladies on pensions. Tourists heading for the beach or antique shops. We’re right on the main drag. But a place like The Lookout overlooking the bay . . . good atmosphere, good booze, a good menu . . . you could charge top dollar and keep it packed.”

  “That’s my feeling.”

  “Of course, if I was you, I’d get rid of that old creep on the top floor.”

  “I was wondering about him. He seems to be somewhat odd.”

  “Well, he’s supposed to be up here every year around this time for the fishing. I know because Ray Eldredge happened to mention it. Nice guy, Ray Eldredge. He’s the one whose kids are missing.”

  “I heard about that.”

  “Damn shame. Nice little kids. Ray and Mrs. Eldredge bring them in here once in a while. Some looker, Ray’s wife. But like I was saying, I’m not a native. I quit bartending in New York ten years ago after the third time I was mugged going home late. But I always been crazy for fishing. That’s how I ended here. And one day just a few weeks ago, this big guy comes in and orders a drink. I know who he is, I seen him around. He’s the tenant at The Lookout. Well, I try to make anybody relax, get his beefs off his chest, so just to make conversation, I ask him if he was here in September when the blues were running. You know what that stupe said?”

  John waited.

  “Nothing. Blank. Zero. He didn’t have a clue.” The bartender stood with his hands on his hips. “Do you believe anyone can come fishing to the Cape seven years and not know what I meant?”

  The steak arrived. Gratefully John began to eat. It was delicious. As the taste of the prime meat combined with the warm glow of the drink, he relaxed perceptibly and began to think about The Lookout.

  What the bartender had told him had confirmed his decision to make an offer on the place.

  He had enjoyed going through the house. The sense of discomfort he’d experienced had begun only on the top floor. That was it. He had been uneasy in the apartment of the tenant, Mr. Parrish.

  John finished the steak thoughtfully and rather abstractedly paid his bill, remembering to tip the bartender generously. Turning up his collar, he left the restaurant and headed for his car. Now he should turn right and keep toward the mainland? But for minutes he sat irresolutely in the car. What was the matter with him? He was acting like a fool. What crazy impulse was forcing him to return to The Lookout?

  Courtney Parrish had been nervous. John had been too many years in the business of sizing people up not to know nervous tension when he saw it. That man had been worried . . . desperately anxious for them to leave. Why? There had been a heavy, sour sweaty smell on him . . . the smell of fear . . . but fear of what? And that telescope. Parrish had rushed over to change the direction it was pointing in when John bent over it. John remembered that when he put it back to approximately where it had been, he’d been able to see the police cars around the Eldredge home. Such an incredibly powerful telescope. If it was directed into the windows of homes in the town, anyone looking into it could become a peeping tom . . . a voyeur.

  Was it possible that Courtney Parrish had been looking through the telescope when the children disappeared from behind their home . . . that he had seen something? But if he had, of course he would have called the police.

  The car was cold. John turned the ignition key and waited for the engine to warm up before switching on the heater. He reached for a cigar and lighted it with the small gold Dunhill lighter that had been his wife’s anniversary present to him: an extravagant, deeply cherished gift. He puffed at the cigar until the tip began to glow.

  He was a fool. A suspicious fool. What did one do? Phone the police and say that a man seemed nervous and they should look into it? And if they did, Courtney Parrish would probably say, “I was about to take my bath and disliked having such short notice of the house being shown.” Perfectly reasonable. People who lived alone tended to become precise in their habits.

  Alone. That was the word. That was what was nagging John. He had been surprised not to see someone else in the apartment. Something had made him sure that Courtney Parrish was not alone.

  It was the child’s toy in the tub. That was it. That incredible rubber duck. And the cloying scent of baby powder . . .

  A suspicion so absurd that it would be impossible to vocalize took shape in John Kragopoulos’ mind.

  He knew what he had to do. Deliberately he took his gold lighter from his pocket and hid it in the glove compartment of his car.

  He would drive back to The Lookout unannounced. When Courtney Parrish answered the door, he would ask permission to look for his valuable lighter, which he must have dropped somewhere in the house during his inspection. It was a plausible request. It would give him a chance to look around carefully and either allay what was probably a ridiculous suspicion or have something more than suspicion to discuss with the police.

  Having made up his mind, John stepped on the accelerator and swung the car left on Route 6A, back toward the center of Adams Port and the curving, hilly road that led to The Lookout. Visions of a faded, peeling rubber duck bobbed in his head as he drove through the steadily pelting sleet.

  21

  SHE DIDN’T WANT TO REMEMBER . . . there was only pain in going back. Once when she was very little, Nancy had reached up and pulled the handle of a pot on the stove. She could still remember how great torrents of bright red tomato soup had gushed over on her. She’d been in the hospital for weeks and still had faint scars on her chest.

  . . . Carl had asked her about those scars . . . stroked them . . . “Poor little girl, poor little girl. . . .” He liked her to tell him about the incident over and over. “Did it hurt very much?” he would ask.

  Remembering was like that. . . . Pain . . . only pain. . . . Don’t remember . . . forget . . . forget. . . . Don’t want to remember. . . .

  But the questions, persistent, far away . . . asking about Carl . . . about Mother . . . Lisa . . . Peter . . . Her voice. She was talking. Answering.

  “No, please, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But you must. You must help us.” That persistent voice. Why? Why?

  “Why were you afraid of Carl, Nancy?”

  She had to answer, if only to stop the questions.

  She heard her voice, far away, trying to answer. . . . It was like watching herself in a play. . . . Scenes were taking shape.

  Mother . . . the dinner . . . the last time she saw Mother . . . Mother’s face so troubled, looking at her, at Carl. “Where did you get that dress, Nancy?” She could tell Mother didn’t like it.

  The white wool dress. “Carl helped me pick it out. Do you like it?”

  “Isn’t it a bit . . . young?”

  Mother left to make a call. Was it to Dr. Miles? Nancy hoped so. She wanted Mother to be happy. . . . Maybe she should go home with Mother. . . . Maybe she would stop feeling so tired. Did she say that to Carl?

  Carl left the table. “Excuse me, dear.” . . . Mother back before him . . .

  “Nancy, you and I must talk tomorrow . . . when we’re alone. I’ll pick you up for breakfast.”

  Carl came back. . . .

  And Mother . . . kissing her cheek . . . “Good night, darling. I’ll see you at eight.” Mother getting in the rented car, waving goodbye, driving down the road . . .

  Carl drove her back to school. “I’m afraid your mother doesn’t approve of me yet, dear.”

  The call . . . “There’s been an accident . . . Steering mechanism . . .”

  Carl . . . “I’ll take care of you, my little girl. . . .”

  The funeral . . .

  The wedding. A bride should wear white. She’d wear the white wool dress. It would do for just going to the Mayor’s office.

  But she couldn’t wear it . . . grease stain at the shoulder. . . . “Carl, where co
uld I have gotten grease on this dress? I only wore it to have dinner with Mother.”

  “I’ll have it cleaned for you.” His hand, familiar, patting her shoulder . . .

  “No . . . no . . . no. . . .”

  The voice. “What do you mean, Nancy?”

  “I don’t know. . . . I’m not sure. . . . I’m afraid. . . .”

  “Afraid of Carl?”

  “No . . . he is good to me. . . . I’m so tired . . . always so tired. . . . Drink your medicine. . . . You need it. . . . The children . . . Peter and Lisa . . . all right for a while. . . . Carl was good. . . . Please, Carl, close the door. . . . Please, Carl, I don’t like that. . . . Don’t touch me like that. . . . Leave me alone.”

  “How should he leave you alone, Nancy?”

  “No . . . I don’t want to talk about it. . . .”

  “Was Carl good to the children?”

  “He made them obey. . . . He wanted them to be good. . . . He made Peter afraid . . . and Lisa. . . . ‘So my little girl has a little girl’ . . .”

  “Is that what Carl said?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t touch me anymore. . . . I’m glad. . . . But I mustn’t have medicine after dinner . . . I get too tired. . . . There’s something wrong. . . . I must get away. . . . The children . . . Get away . . .”

  “From Carl?”

  “I’m not sick. . . . Carl is sick. . . .”

  “How is he sick, Nancy?”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Nancy, tell us about the day Lisa and Peter disappeared. What do you remember about that?”

  “Carl is angry.”

  “Why is he angry?”

  “The medicine . . . last night. . . . He saw me pour it out . . . got more . . . made me drink it. . . . So tired . . . so sleepy. . . . Lisa is crying . . . Carl . . . with her. . . . I must get up . . . must go to her. . . . Crying so hard. . . . Carl spanked her . . . said she wet the bed. . . . I have to take her away . . . in morning. . . . My birthday . . . I’ll tell Carl. . . .”