Danielle Steel - Vanished

“I'm not sure. I just don't know. I can't imagine him harming anyone, least of all a child. But I'm not sure how angry he still is, and I was afraid not to tell you what had happened.” In the end, it had turned out to be a blessing that the chauffeur had accused her of having a boyfriend.

It was six o'clock in the morning by then, and there were no further developments, no new clues about Teddy. But the information she'd just given him would go far. He carefully wrote down Charles's name and address, and promised to have a discreet talk with him in a couple of hours. If he was satisfied with his alibi, and believed what he said, the matter of Charles Delauney would be closed, and nothing more needed to be said. But if not, he would have to act on what he found. Secretly, he hoped that he was going to find something. If nothing else, the guy was a fool, and he had clearly threatened her. It was entirely possible he had taken the boy, even as revenge for the children he had lost and because he still blamed her for their deaths, or just because he misguidedly wanted to draw her to him. But he had promised her not to tell the press, or the FBI, or Malcolm, until he had spoken to Charles Delauney. It was the best he could do for her, and she appreciated his efforts.

It was almost seven o'clock when they left the library, and it was still dark, as they stood in the front hall and talked for a long time. He looked down at her, wishing that he could promise her he would find Teddy. If nothing else in this life, she deserved it. He had a feeling that her marriage to Malcolm Patterson was nothing more than an arrangement. All she had was Teddy, and he was gone. And Taylor could sense how much she adored him. It was clear that she was never going to return to Charles, wisely so as far as Taylor was concerned, but she really had no one in her life to help her. It was impossible to understand how the boy had disappeared at midnight that night, without a trace or a sound. He had simply been taken from his bed with his red pajamas on …and vanished.

After her lengthy conversation with John Taylor, Marielle wandered through the house like a ghost. At first, she went back to her room but she found she couldn't bear to be there. The walls seemed to be closing in on her, and she almost couldn't breathe. And without even planning to, she found her feet on the stairs, and she was back in Teddy's room before she knew it. It was the only place she wanted to be, the only room where she could feel him close to her. It was impossible to believe …impossible to understand. Who would do this and why? But it was obvious, it had to be for money. Extra phone lines had already been put into the house, and there were police everywhere. They were waiting for a call, or a ransom note. The morning newspapers were already being scoured for messages from the kidnappers. All the usual methods were being used. And more men from the FBI were waiting to talk to Malcolm. But she felt useless now. There was nothing she could do, except pray that her son was still alive. She knelt next to his bed, and laid her head down, as she remembered the feel and touch of him, only hours before when she had put him to bed in his little red pajamas with the embroidered blue collar. Miss Griffin had made them for him, and Marielle wondered if he was cold now, or afraid … if they were kind to him, or if he had eaten. It was unbearable not knowing where he was, and Marielle had to gasp for air as she knelt there. She heard a sound in the room, and turned suddenly, in time to see Miss Griffin standing behind her, still looking pale, but starched in her uniform, and for the first time in years she looked kindly at Marielle. There was something she felt she had to say to her, and like Marielle, she could hardly get the words out.

“I'm …” Her lips trembled, and she looked away from her. She couldn't bear to see the agony in the young woman's face. It mirrored all too clearly exactly what she herself was feeling. “I'm sorry … I should have been … I should have heard …” She burst into tears as she said the words that were torturing her. “I should have been able to stop them.”

“You couldn't know …and there must have been too many of them.” Armed with ropes and chloroform, and perhaps guns, they were well equipped for what they had come for. “You mustn't blame yourself.” She rose slowly to her feet, so dignified and so kind, and without a word she went and put her arms around the older woman. She was crying too, but she stood and held the old woman like a child and tried to reassure her. It made the governess feel even worse, knowing how hard she had always been to her. But she had always thought her so weak, so self-indulgent, so foolish. And now she saw something she had never known was there, a silent strength not only for herself, but for everyone around her to draw on.

The two women stood together for a long time, deriving strength from each other without speaking, and then Marielle went downstairs again. And as she did, there was a stir, she heard voices shouting and realized there were reporters outside, trying to force their way in past the police as the front door opened.

“He's here!” She heard a shout from the police, wondering who it was, praying that it was someone who would make a difference. And as she looked over the banister, she realized that it was Malcolm. He was home, looking aristocratic and pale, in his black coat, his dark suit, and his homburg. He looked so funereal as he came up the stairs and they met halfway up, she still in her dressing gown, and still barefoot. He opened his arms to her, and for a long time he just stood there and held her, and then finally they went upstairs and he spoke to her once they were in her bedroom.

“How could this have happened, Marielle? How could they force their way in and take over so completely? Where was Haverford? Where were the maids? Where was Miss Griffin?” It was as though he had expected her to keep their child and their home safe, and she had failed him. She saw now that his eyes were full of reproach and pain, and the look he gave her cut her to the core. There was no excuse she could give, no explanation. She couldn't even explain it to herself. She could barely even allow herself to understand what had happened.

“I don't know … I don't understand it either … I heard a sound while we were speaking, but I didn't think anything of it …it never occurred to me that someone was in the house, other than the servants, I mean … I didn't even know Edith was out. …” The dress had been returned to her by then, dirty, stained, with lipstick on it, and smelling of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey. But she didn't care about the dress. She only cared about her baby.

“I should have hired guards,” Malcolm said, as he looked at her in agony. “I never thought … I always thought you were so foolish to be hysterical about the Lindbergh case …who knew you would be right?” He stared at her, a broken man, his only child was gone, and with him went hope and happiness and well-being. Malcolm looked suddenly older and as though he might not survive this. It made Marielle feel as though she herself had destroyed the man by being so careless. And yet it wasn't her fault … it wasn't … or was it? It was all so confusing, just as it had been years before. So confusing as to whose fault it was, and why. Had he drowned because he'd run away onto the ice, and why had she been able to reach the two little girls and not her own child? Had she killed the baby by leaping in after Andre … or had the baby died because Charles had hit her? And now this …was it her fault …or his …or someone else's? She looked distraught and her hair was disheveled as she ran her hands through it distractedly and Malcolm watched her, realizing that she suddenly looked a little crazy.