Where Are the Children? Read online

  Her voice. She could talk now. Her lips felt rubbery, thick, spongelike. But she had to talk . . . make them find the children. She wanted to go downstairs. She mustn’t stay here . . . like last time . . . waiting in her room . . . unable to go downstairs . . . to see all the people downstairs . . . the policemen . . . the faculty wives. . . . Are there any relatives? . . . Do you want us to call anyone? . . . No one . . . no one . . . no one . . .

  Leaning heavily on Ray’s arm, she stood up unsteadily. Ray. She had his arm to lean on now. His children. His children.

  “Ray . . . I didn’t hurt them. . . .”

  “Of course not, darling.”

  The voice too soothing . . . the shocked sound. Of course he was shocked. He was wondering why she would deny it. No good mother spoke of hurting her children. Why then did she . . . ?

  With a supreme effort she groped toward the door. His arm around her waist steadied her steps. She couldn’t feel her feet. They weren’t there. She wasn’t there. It was one of the nightmares. In a few minutes she’d wake up, as she had so many nights, and slip out of bed and go in to see Missy and Michael and cover them and then get back into bed—softly, quietly, not waking Ray. But in sleep he’d reach out and his arms would pull her close, and against the warm scent of him she’d be calmed and sleep.

  They started down the stairs. So many policemen. Everybody looking up . . . curiously still . . . suspended in time.

  Chief Coffin was at the dining-room table. She could feel his hostility. . . . It was like last time.

  “Mrs. Eldredge, how do you feel?”

  A perfunctory question, noncaring. Probably he wouldn’t have bothered to ask except that Ray was there.

  “I’m all right.” She had never liked this man.

  “We’re searching for the children. I have every confidence that we’ll find them quickly. But you must help us. When did you last see the children?”

  “A few minutes before ten. I put them outside to play and went upstairs to make the beds.”

  “How long were you upstairs?”

  “Ten minutes . . . not more than fifteen.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I came downstairs. I was going to turn on a wash and call the children. But after I started the wash, I decided to heat the coffee. Then I saw the boy deliver the community paper.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “No. I don’t mean I saw him. I went to get the paper and he was just going around the corner.”

  “I see. What happened then?”

  “I went back into the kitchen. I turned on the coffeepot—it was still quite warm. I started turning the pages of the paper.”

  “And you saw the article about yourself.”

  Nancy stared straight ahead and nodded her head.

  “How did you react to seeing that article?”

  “I think I started to scream . . . I don’t know. . . .”

  “What happened to the coffeepot?”

  “I knocked it over. . . . The coffee went all over. It burned my hand.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t mean to. It was just that I was going to burst. I knew that everyone would start looking at me again. They’d stare and whisper. They’d say I killed the children. And Michael mustn’t ever see that. I ran with the paper. I pushed it into the fireplace. I lit a match and it burned . . . it started to burn . . . and I knew I had to get Michael and Missy—I had to hide them. But it was the way it was last time. When the children were gone. I ran out to get Michael and Missy. I was afraid.”

  “Now, this is important. Did you see the children?”

  “No. They were gone. I started calling. I ran to the lake.”

  “Mrs. Eldredge, this is very important: Why did you go to the lake? Your husband tells me the children have never once been disobedient about going there. Why didn’t you look on the road for them, or in the woods, or see if they’d decided to walk into town to buy you a birthday present? Why the lake?”

  “Because I was afraid. Because Peter and Lisa were drowned. Because I had to find Michael and Missy. Missy’s mitten was caught on the swing. She’s always losing a mitten. I ran to the lake. I had to get the children. It’s going to be just like last time . . . their faces all wet and quiet . . . and they won’t talk to me. . . .”

  Chief Coffin straightened up. His tone became formal. “Mrs. Eldredge,” he said, “it is my duty to inform you that you have a right to legal advice before you answer any further questions and that anything you say can be used against you.”

  Without waiting for her response, he got up and stalked out of the room and to the back door. A car with a policeman at the wheel was waiting for him in the rear driveway. As he stepped from the house, thin, driving pellets of sleet stung his face and head. He got into the car and the wind blew the door closed behind him, scraping it against his shoe. He winced at the short stab of pain in his ankle and growled, “The lake.”

  Fat chance they had of doing any searching if this weather got any worse. At noon it was already so dark you’d think it was nighttime. The diving operation was a mess under optimal conditions. Maushop was among the biggest lakes on the Cape and one of the deepest and most treacherous. That was why over the years there’d been so many drownings there. You could be wading up to your waist and at the next step be in forty feet of water. If those kids had been drowned, it might be spring before their bodies surfaced. The way the temperature was dropping, the lake would be fit for ice skating in a few days.

  The lakeside, normally deserted at this time of the year and certainly in this kind of weather, was crowded with bystanders, who huddled together in small clusters, silently watching the roped-off area where the divers and their apparatus were flanked by police.

  Chief Coffin jumped out of the squad car and hurried to the beach. He went directly to Pete Regan, the lieutenant who was supervising the operation. Pete’s eloquent shrug answered his unasked question.

  Hunching his shoulders inside his coat, the chief stamped his feet as the sleet melted into his shoes. He wondered if this was the spot from which Nancy Eldredge had dragged her kids into the water. Now men were risking their own lives because of her. God only knew where or when those poor little kids would be found. Shows what happens . . . A technicality . . . a convicted murderess gets off because a smart-ass lawyer gets a couple of bleeding-heart judges to declare a mistrial.

  Angrily, he spat out Pete’s name.

  Pete turned to him quickly. “Sir?”

  “How long are those guys planning to keep diving?”

  “They’ve been down twice, and after this session, they’ll try once more, then take a break and set up in a different location.” He pointed to the television equipment. “Looks like we’ll make the headlines tonight. You’d better have a statement ready.”

  With numbed fingers, the Chief dug into his coat pocket. “I’ve scribbled one down.” He read it quickly. “We are conducting a massive effort to find the Eldredge children. Volunteers are making a block-by-block search of the immediate vicinity of her home as well as the neighboring wooded areas. Helicopters are conducting an air reconnaissance. The search of Maushop Lake, because of its proximity to the Eldredge home must be considered a normal extension of the investigation.”

  But a few minutes later, when he delivered that statement to the growing assemblage of reporters, one of them asked, “Is it true that Nancy Eldredge was found hysterical and drenched in this area of Maushop Lake this morning after her children disappeared?”

  “That is true.”

  A thin, sharp-eyed reporter who he knew was connected with Boston Channel 5’s news team asked, “In view of that fact and her past history, doesn’t the search of the lake take on a new aspect?”

  “We are exploring all possibilities.”

  Now the questions came thick and fast, the reporters interrupting one another to ask them. “In view of the past tragedy, wouldn’t the disappearance o
f the Eldredge children be considered of suspicious origin?”

  “To answer that question could prejudice Mrs. Eldredge’s rights.”

  “When will you question her again?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Is it known whether Mrs. Eldredge was aware of the article about her that came out this morning?”

  “I believe she was.”

  “What was her reaction to that article?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Isn’t it a fact that most if not all of the people in this town were unaware of Mrs. Eldredge’s past?”

  “That is true.”

  “Were you aware of her identity?”

  “No. I was not.” The Chief spoke through clenched teeth. “No more questions.”

  Then, before he could get away, another question came. A reporter from the Boston Herald blocked his path. All the other news personnel stopped trying to get the Chief’s attention when they heard him ask loudly, “Sir, in the past six years haven’t there been several unsolved deaths of young children both on the Cape and on the nearby mainland?”

  “That is true.”

  “Chief Coffin, how long has Nancy Harmon Eldredge been living on the Cape?”

  “Six years, I believe.”

  “Thank you, Chief.”

  11

  JONATHAN KNOWLES did not realize how much time was slipping by. Neither was he aware of the activity in the area near Maushop Lake. His subconscious had registered the fact that heavier-than-usual traffic was passing on the road in front of his house. But his study was to the back of the house, and much of the sound was filtered out before it came to his ears.

  After the first shock of realizing that Ray Eldredge’s wife was the notorious Nancy Harmon, he’d gotten another cup of coffee and settled down at his desk. He resolved to stick to his schedule—to begin to study the Harmon murder case just as he’d planned. If he found that knowing Nancy Harmon personally in some way clouded his ability to write about her, he’d simply eliminate this chapter from his book.

  He began his research by carefully studying the sensational article in the Cape paper. With grim detail that insidiously evoked horror in the reader, it reviewed Nancy Harmon’s background as the young wife of a college professor . . . two children . . . a home on the college campus. An ideal situation until the day Professor Harmon sent a student to his house to repair the oil burner. The student was good-looking, glib and experienced with women. And Nancy—barely twenty-five herself—had flipped over him.

  Jonathan read excerpts from the trial testimony in the article. The student, Rob Legler, explained how he had met Nancy. “When Professor Harmon got that call from his wife about the oil burner not working, I was in his office. There’s just nothing mechanical I can’t fix, so I volunteered to go over. He didn’t want me to do it, but he couldn’t get the regular maintenance service and had to get the heat back on in his house.”

  “Did he give you any specific instructions concerning his family?” a district attorney asked.

  “Yes. He said that his wife wasn’t well and I shouldn’t bother her; that if I needed anything, or wanted to discuss whatever problem I found, I should call him.”

  “Did you follow Professor Harmon’s instructions?”

  “I would have, sir, but I couldn’t help the fact that his wife followed me around like a little dog.”

  “Objection! Objection!” But the defense attorney had been too late. The point had been made. And further evidence from the student had been totally damaging. He was asked if he had had any physical contact with Mrs. Harmon.

  His answer was direct. “Yes, sir.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I was showing her where the emergency switch was on the oil burner. It was one of those old-fashioned hot-air-blower types, and the switch had caused the problem.”

  “Didn’t Professor Harmon tell you not to trouble Mrs. Harmon with any questions or explanations?”

  “She insisted on knowing about it. Said she had to learn how to manage things in her house. So I showed her. Then she was sort of leaning over me to try the switch, and . . . well, I figured, why not? . . . so I made a pass.”

  “What did Mrs. Harmon do?”

  “She liked it. I could tell.”

  “Will you please explain exactly what happened?”

  “It wasn’t really what happened. ‘Cause nothing much actually happened. It was just that she liked it. I sort of spun her around and grabbed her and kissed her—and after a minute she pulled away, but she didn’t want to.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I said something about that being pretty good.”

  “What did Mrs. Harmon say?”

  “She just looked at me and said . . . almost like she wasn’t talking to me . . . she said, ‘I’ve got to get away.’”

  “I figured I didn’t want to get in any trouble. I mean, I didn’t want to do anything to get kicked out of school and end up being drafted. That was the whole reason for the college scene. So I said, ‘Look, Mrs. Harmon’ . . . only then I decided it was about time to call her Nancy . . . so I said, ‘Look, Nancy, this doesn’t have to be a problem. We can work something out so we can get together without anyone ever guessing. You can’t leave here—you’ve got the kids.’”

  “How did Mrs. Harmon respond to that statement?”

  “Well, it’s funny. Just then the boy . . . Peter . . . came down the stairs looking for her. He was a real quiet kid—didn’t say ‘Boo.’ She looked mad and said, ‘The children’; then she sort of laughed and said, ‘But they’re going to be smothered.’”

  “Mr. Legler, this is a crucial sentence you’re quoting. Are you sure you are repeating Mrs. Harmon’s exact phrasing?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. It really made me feel spooky right then. That’s why I’m so sure of it. But of course you don’t really believe that anyone means it when they say something like that.”

  “On what date did Nancy Harmon make that statement?”

  “It was on November thirteenth. I know because when I went back to school, Professor Harmon insisted on giving me a check for fixing the burner.”

  “November thirteenth . . . and four days later the Harmon children disappeared from their mother’s automobile and eventually were washed in on the shores of San Francisco Bay with plastic bags over their heads—in effect, smothered.”

  “That’s right.”

  The defense attorney had tried to reduce the impact of the story. “Did you continue to embrace Mrs. Harmon?”

  “No. She went upstairs with the kids.”

  “Then we have only your statement that she enjoyed the kiss you forced on her.”

  “Believe me, I can tell a receptive babe when I’m with one.”

  And Nancy’s sworn testimony when asked about that incident: “Yes, he did kiss me. Yes, I believe that I knew he was going to and I let him.”

  “Do you also remember making the statement that your children were going to be smothered?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What did you mean by that statement?”

  According to the article, Nancy simply looked past her attorney and stared unseeingly over the faces in the courtroom. “I don’t know,” she said in a dreamy voice.

  Jonathan shook his head and swore silently. That girl should never have been permitted to take the witness stand. She did nothing except damage her own case. He continued reading and winced as he came to the description of the finding of those pathetic children. Washed in, both of them, two weeks and fifty miles apart. Bodies badly swollen, seaweed clinging to them, the little girl’s body savagely mutilated—probably by shark bites; the handmade bright red sweaters with the white design still miraculously colorful against the small bodies.

  After he’d finished reading the article, Jonathan turned his attention to the voluminous file Kevin had sent him. Leaning back in his chair, he began to read through it, starting with the first newspaper clipping headlining
the disappearance of the Harmon children from their mother’s automobile while she was shopping. Blowups of fuzzy snapshots of both of the children; a minutely detailed description of their weight and size and what they were wearing; anyone with any information please call this special number. With his carefully trained mind and eyes, Jonathan read rapidly, assorting and assimilating information, lightly underlining cogent facts he wanted to refer to later. When he began reading the transcript of the trial, he understood why Kevin had referred to Nancy Harmon as a sitting duck for the prosecutor. The girl didn’t even make sense. She had played so completely into the prosecutor’s hands the way she testified—without fight; her protestations of innocence sounding perfunctory and emotionless.

  What had been the matter with her? Jonathan wondered. It was almost as though she didn’t want to get off. At one point she’d even said to the husband right from the witness stand, “Oh, Carl, can you forgive me?”

  The creases along Jonathan’s forehead deepened as he recalled that just a few hours before he’d passed the Eldredges’ house and glanced in at that young family around the breakfast table. He’d compared them with his own solitary state and had been envious. Now their life was ripped apart. They’d never be able to stay in as insular a community as the Cape, knowing that everywhere they went people were pointing and talking. Anyone would instantly recognize Nancy from that one picture. Even he remembered her wearing that tweed suit—and recently, too.

  Suddenly Jonathan recalled the occasion. It had been at Lowery’s Market. He’d run into Nancy when they were both shopping and they’d stopped for a few minutes to talk. He’d admired the suit, telling her that there was nothing better-looking than a good tweed—and pure wool, of course; none of that synthetic junk that had no depth or sheen.

  Nancy had looked very pretty. A yellow scarf knotted casually at her neck had picked up the glint of yellow in the predominantly brown and rust-colored material. She’d smiled—a warm, lovely smile that wrapped you in it. The children were with her—nice, polite children, both of them. Then the boy had said, “Oh, Mommy, I’ll get the cereal,” and as he reached for it, he knocked over a pyramid of soup cans.