Vanished[070-011-4.4]

By: danielle steele

Synopsis:

He was their son, their pride and joy .  Then the unthinkable
occurred


"STEEL IS ONE OF THE BEST!"

--Los Angeles Times

PRAISE FOR

DANIELL STEEEL

"THE PLOTS OF DANIELLE STEEL'S NOVELS TWIST AND WEAVE AS INCREDIBLE

STORIES UNFOLD TO THE GLEE AND DELIGHT OF HER ENORMOUS READING

PUBLIC.

"

--United Press International

"Ms.  Steel's fans won't be disappointed!"  --The New York Times Book
Review

"Steel writes convincingly about universal human emotions."

--Publishers Weekly

"One of the world's most popular authors."  --The Baton Rouse Sun

PRAISE FOR DANIELLE STEEL'S Vanished

"FASCINATING ... the world's most popular author once again tells a
good, well-paced story and explores some important issues.... Steel .
affirm[s] life while admitting its turbulence, melodramas, and
misfiring passions."  --Booklist

"An intriguing tale of guilt, desire, and suspense."  --Chief-Union
(Upper Sandusky, Ohio)

"A TIGHTLY PLOTTED STORY."

--Kirkus Reviews

"Vanished is a good story.  Her fans will be thrilled!"  --Richmond
Times-Dispatch

A MAIN SELECTION OF THE LITERARY GUILD AND THE DOUBLEDAY BOOK CLUB

Also by Danielle Steel

THE GIFT CHANGES

ACCIDENT THURSTON HOUSE

MIXED BLESSINGS CROSSINGS

JEWELS ONCE IN A LIFETIME

NO GREATER LOVE A PERFECT STRANGER

HEARTBEAT REMEMBRANCE MESSAGE FROM NAM PALOMINO

DADDY LOVE: POEMS

STAR THE RING

ZOYA LOVING

KALEIDOSCOPE TO LOVE AGAIN

FINE THINGS SUMMER'S END

WANDERLUST SEASON OF PASSION

SECRETS THE PROMISE

FAMILY ALBUM NOW AND FOREVER

FULL CIRCLE PASSION'S PROMISE

A DELL BOOK

Published by Dell Publishing a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell
Publishing Group, Inc.

1540 Broadway New York, New York 10036

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that
this book is stolen property.  It was reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher
has received any payment for this "stripped book."

The cover format and design of this book are protected trade dresses
and trademarks of Dell Publishing, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell
Publishing Group, Inc.

Copyright 1993 by Danielle Steel

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher,
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S.

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ISBN: 0440217466

Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press

Printed in the United States of America

Published simultaneously in Canada

October 1994

10 987654321

OPM

To Nick

For the pain of having a mother who follows you everywhere, and the
agony of so many years of not being able to do what you want, when you
want to.  For the person you are, and the person you will become.  The
fine man, the good friend, and maybe even the great writer!

With all my love, Mom,

And to John,

The best Daddy, the best friend, the greatest love, the sweetest man,
the most extraordinary blessing in my life .  how lucky we all are to
have you!  With all my love and heart, always, Olive.

Charles Delauney limped only slightly as he walked slowly up the steps
of Saint Patrick's Cathedral, as a bitter wind reached its icy fingers
deep into his collar.  It was two weeks before Christmas, and he had
for gotten how cold it was in New York in December.  It was years since
he'd been back to New York .  years since he'd seen his father.  His
father was eighty-seven now, his mother had been gone for years.  She
died when he was thirteen, and all he could remember of her was that
she had been very beautiful, and very gentle.  His father was senile
and ill, bedridden and infirm.  The attorneys had insisted that Charles
come home, at least for a few months, to try and get the family affairs
in order.  He had no siblings and the entire burden of the Delauney
affairs rested on his shoulders.  Landholdings throughout the 2
Danielle Steel state, an enormous estate near Newburgh, New York, coal,
oil, steel, and some very important real estate in downtown Manhattan.
A fortune that had been amassed not by Charles, or even by his father,
but by both of his grandfathers.  And none of it interested Charles for
a single moment.

His face was young, but weather-lined, and showed;

the wear of pain and battle.  He had just spent almost two years in
Spain, fighting for a cause that was not his own, but about which he
cared deeply.  It was one of the few things he did care about .
something he truly burned for.  He had joined the Lincoln Brigade to
fight the Fascists almost two years before, in February of 1937, and
he'd been in Spain ever since, fighting the battle.  In August he had
been wounded again, near Gandesa during the battle of Ebro, in a
ferocious confrontation.  It was not the first time he had been
wounded.  At fifteen, in the last year of the Great War, he had run
away and joined the army and' been wounded in the leg at
Saint-Mihiel.

His father had been furious about it then.  But there was nothing he
could do now.  He knew nothing of the world, or| his son, or the fight
in Spain.  He no longer even recognized Charles, and perhaps, Charles
had decided as he watched him sleeping in his enormous, bed, perhaps it
was better.  They would have argued and fought.  He would have hated
what his son had become, his ideas about freedom and liberty, his
hatred of "fascists."  His father had always disapproved of his living
abroad.  Born late in his father's life, it made no sense to the elder
Delauney that Charles wanted to live over there, raising hell in
Europe.  Charles had gone back to Europe at eighteen, in 1921, and had
lived there for seventeen years since then, working occasionally for
friends, or selling an occasional short story in his youth, but in
recent years primarily living from his very substantial trust fund. 
The size of his income had always irritated him.

"No normal man needs that much money to live on," he'd once conBded to
a close friend, and for years he'd given most of his income to
charitable causes, although he still derived great pleasure from making
a small sum from one of his short stories.

He had studied at Oxford, and then at the Sorbonne, and finally, for a
brief while, he had gone to Florence.  He had been more than a little
wild in those days.  Drinking as much fine Bordeaux as he could
consume, an occasional absinthe, and carousing with a fascinating array
of women.  At twenty-one, he had thought himself a man of the world,
after three very uncontrolled years in Europe.  He had met people
others only read about, did things few men dreamed, and met women
others only longed for.  And then .  there had been Marielle .  but
that was another story.  A story he tried not to let himself think of
anymore.  The memory of her was still too painful.

She wandered into his dreams at night sometimes, especially when he was
in danger, or afraid, asleep in a trench somewhere, with bullets
whistling past his head .  and then the memory of her crept in .  her
face .  those unforgettable eyes .  her lips .  and the bottomless
sorrow she wore like a wound the last time he saw her.  He hadn't seen
her since, and that was almost seven years before.  Seven years without
seeing her, touching her .  holding her .  or even knowing where she
was, and telling himself it no longer mattered.  Once, when he was
wounded and convinced he would die, he had allowed himself to wallow in
the memories, and the medics had found him unconscious in a pool of
blood, but when he awoke, he could have sworn he saw her standing just
behind them.

She had been only eighteen when they met in Paris.  She had a face so
beautiful and alive it looked as though it had been freshly painted.

He had been twenty-three, and he had seen her as he sat in a cafe with
a friend.  He had been taken with her instantly as he watched her.  And
as she glanced at him, she had a face full of mischief.  She had run
away then, back to her hotel, but he had seen her again, at an
ambassador's dinner.  They had been introduced formally, and everything
had been very circumspect except Marielle still had those laughing eyes
that had bowled him over.  But her parents were far less taken with
him.  Her father was a serious man, much older than his wife, and he
knew of Charles's reputation.  Her father was a contemporary of his own
father's, and Charles thought they knew each other slightly.  Her
mother was half French, and always seemed to Charles to be incredibly
proper and extremely dreary.  They kept Marielle on a ridiculously
short leash, and insisted that she dance attendance on them every
moment.  They had no idea what a flirt she was, or how funny she could
be too.  But there was a serious side to her as well, and Charles found
he could talk to her by the hour.  She had been vastly amused to
discover him at the embassy, and remembered seeing him at the cafe,
although she didn't admit it to him, until much later when he teased
her.  He was fascinated by her, and she by him.  To her, he was a very
intriguing young man, unlike any she had ever known.  She seemed to
want to know everything about him, where he came from, why he was
there, how he came to speak such good French.  And she was impressed
from the first by his ambitions and abilities as a writer.

She painted a little, she'd explained to him rather shyly at first.

And later when they knew each other better, she had shown him some
astoundingly good drawings.  But that first night, it was neither
literature nor art which appealed to either of them, it was something
in their souls which drew them irrevocably together.  Her parents
noticed it too, and after her mother had seen them chatting with each
other for a while, she attempted to pull Marielle away and introduce
her to some other young people who had been invited.  But Charles had
followed her everywhere, a ghost who could no longer stand to be
without her.

They met at the Deux Magots the following after l noon, and afterward
went for a long walk along the Seine, like two mischievous children.
She told him everything about herself, her life, her dreams, of wanting
to be an artist one day, and then marrying someone she loved and having
nine or ten children.  He was less amused by that but fascinated by
her.  There was something ephemeral and delicate and wonderful about
the girl, and yet underneath it something powerful and resilient and
alive.  She was like lace delicately placed over exquisitely carved
white marble.  Even her skin had the translucence of the statues he'd
seen in Florence when he first arrived from the States, and her eyes
shone like deep blue sapphires as she listened to how he felt about his
own dreams about writing.  He hoped, one day, to publish a collection
of his short stories.  She seemed to understand everything, and to care
so much about all the things that mattered so deeply to him.

Her parents had taken her to Deauville, and he had followed her there,
and then on to Rome .  Pompeii .  Capri .  London and finally back to
Paris.  Everywhere she went, he had friends, and he would conveniently
appear, and as often as possible go for long walks with her, or escort
her to balls, and spend extremely boring evenings with her parents. 
But she was like a drug to him now, and wherever he was, wherever he
went, he knew he had to have her.  Absinthe had never been as
fascinating as this girl.  And by August .  in Rome .  as she looked at
him, her eyes were filled with the same unbridled passion.

Her parents were nervous about him, but they knew the family after all,
and he was well mannered, intelligent, and it was difficult to ignore
the fact that he was the sole heir to an enormous fortune.  The fortune
meant nothing to Marielle, her parents were comfortable, and it was
something she never thought about.  She thought only about Charles, the
strength of his hands, his shoulders, his arms, the wild look in his
eyes after they kissed, the chiseled beauty of his features, like an
ancient Greek coin, the gentleness of his hands when he touched her
body.

He had no intention of ever returning to the States, he'd explained
early on, he and his father hadn't gotten along since he'd gone off to
the war at fifteen, and returning to New York afterward had been a
nightmare.  He felt as though the place was too small for him, too
boring, too restrictive.  Too much was expected of him, and they were
all things he had no intention of doing.  Social obligations, family
responsibilities, learning about investments and holdings and trusts,
and the things his father bought and sold which one day he would
inherit.  There was more to life than that, Charles had explained to
Marielle as he ran long, gentle fingers through her silky cinnamon
colored hair, which hung long past her shoulders.  She was a tall girl,
but she was dwarfed next to him, and with him she felt delicate and
frail and yet wonderfully protected.

He had lived in Paris for five years when they met, and it was obvious
that he adored it.  His life was there, his friends, his writing, his
soul, his inspiration.  But in September, she was due to sail home on
the Paris.  To the gentle life they had in store for her, to the men
she would meet, and the girls who were her friends, and the small but
elegant brownstone on East Sixty-second.  In no way did it compare with
the Delauney home, only ten blocks north, but it was respectable
certainly .  respectable .  and very boring.  In no way did it compare
with his garret on the rue du Bac, rented to him by an impoverished
noblewoman who owned the entire hotel particulier below it.  Charles
had taken Marielle there one day, and they had all but made love.  But
at the last moment, he had come to his senses, and left the room
hastily for a few moments to compose himself.  And when he returned
with a serious air, he sat down next to her on the bed, as she tried to
straighten her dress and regain her composure.

"I'm sorry ..."  His dark hair and fiery green eyes made him look even
more dramatic, but there was an anguished air about him too, which
always touched her.  She had never known anyone even remotely like him,
or done the things she suddenly wanted to do with him.  She knew she
was losing her head over him, but she couldn't help it.

"Marielle ..."  He spoke very gently as the soft reddish brown hair
concealed half her face.

"I can't do this anymore ... you're driving me mad."  But he was doing
the same to her, and she loved it.  Neither of them had ever felt
anything like this before.

She smiled at him, seeming very old and wise, as he leaned over and
kissed her.  He felt almost drunk when he was near her.  The only thing
he knew for sure was that he didn't want to lose her.  Not now, not
ever.  He didn't want to go back to New York for her, now or later, to
plead for her hand, or negotiate with her father.  He didn't want to
wait another hour.  He wanted her now.  In this room, in this house. 
In Paris.  He wanted her with him always.

"Marielle?"  He looked at her very soberly and her eyes grew dark.

"Yes?"  She spoke very softly.  She was so young, yet she was so in
love with him, and he knew her well enough to sense how strong her
spirit.

"Will you marry me?"

He heard her gasp, and then she laughed.

"Are you serious?"

"I am ... God knows ... will you?"  He was terrified.  What if she said
no?  His whole life seemed to depend on what she would say in the next
minute.  What if she wouldn't marry him?  What if she wanted to go home
with her parents after all?  What if it was only a game to her?

But he knew from the look in her eyes that his worries were foolish.

"When?"  She was giggling she was so excited.

"Now."  And he meant it.

"You're not serious."

"I am."  He stood up and began to pace the room, like a very handsome
young lion, running a hand through his hair as he made plans and
watched her.

"I am very serious, Marielle."  He stopped dead and looked at her,
everything about him taut and electric.

"You still haven't answered my question."  He rushed to her side, and
held her tightly in his arms until she laughed he was being so
absurd.

"You're crazy."

"Yes, I am.  And so are you.  Will you?"  He held her tighter and she
pretended to scream.  He held her tighter still, and she laughed
uncontrollably and then he kissed her, teasing her until he forced an
answer from her lips between the kisses.

"Yes ... yes ... yes ... I will."  She was breathless, and they were
both smiling.

"When will you ask my father?"  She sat back with a blissful
expression, and Charles's face clouded over.

"He'll never agree.  And if he does, he'll insist we go back to the
States and start a serious life there where he can watch us."  He
looked like a caged lion again as he spoke and once more began to pace
the room.

"I'll tell you right now, I won't do that."

"Won't ask my father, or go back to New York?"  She looked suddenly
worried, as she stretched her long, graceful legs in front of her, and
he tried desperately not to notice.

"New York, for sure ... and ..."  He stopped and looked at her again,
his black hair looking wild, his eyes boring into hers.

"What if we elope?"

"Here?"  She looked stunned, and he nodded.  He was serious, she knew
him well enough to know that.

"My God, they'll kill me."

"I won't let them."  He sat down next to her, as they both thought it
over.

"You sail in two weeks, if we're going to do it, we'd better do it
quickly."  She nodded quietly, thinking it over, weighing it in her
mind, but she already knew there was no choice, no question, no
decision.  She would have gone to the end of the world with him.  And
when he kissed her again, she was certain.

"Do you think they'll forgive us eventually?"  She was concerned about
them as well.  Like him, she was an only child, and her father was so
much older.  And they expected so much of her, particularly her
mother.

Marielle had been presented to Society in New York the winter before,
and now they had done the Grand Tour, their expectation was that in a
short while, she would find a suitable husband.  And in some ways,
Charles was certainly that, in terms of his family at least, but there
was no denying that his lifestyle was, at the present time, a little
eccentric.  But in time, her father would say, he would settle down.

But when she tried to broach the subject to him that night, he
suggested that she wait until he did that.

"Wait and see how you like him when he comes back to New York, my dear.
And in the meantime, there are lots of handsome young men waiting for
you there.  There's no need to fall head over heels over this one."  A
young Vanderbilt had pursued her for a time that spring, and there was
a handsome young Astor her mother had her eye on.  But they were of no
interest to Marielle now, and never had been.  And she had no intention
of waiting for Charles to move back to New York.  She was quite certain
he never would, not the way he felt about New York, or even the United
States, and more specifically his father.  He was happy where he was,
he had flourished in the past five years.  Paris suited him to
perfection.

They eloped three days before her parents were to set sail, leaving a
note for her parents at the Hotel Crillon.  She felt more than a little
guilty about the grief they would feel, but on the other hand, she knew
her parents well enough to know that they'd be pleased she was marrying
a Delauney.  She wasn't entirely right on that score, given the
reputation Charles had for running wild, but it certainly soothed them
a little.  Her note had urged them to go ahead and set sail, and she
and Charles would come to New York to visit them over Christmas, but
they were not as cavalier as that, and they waited patiently, and very
angrily, for the young lovers' return, with every hope of annulling the
marriage and squelching the entire affair before it became a proper
scandal.  Of course the ambassador knew what she'd done, because they'd
sought his help, and he had made discreet inquiries.  But all he knew
was that they had gotten married in Nice, and he had reason to believe
they had driven across the border into Italy shortly after.

They had an exquisite honeymoon in Umbria, Tuscany, Rome, Venice,
Florence, Lake Como, they had ventured into Switzerland, and two months
later, as October drew to a close, they made their way leisurely back
to Paris.  Her parents were still at the Crillon and when the
honeymooners returned, there was a note waiting for them at Charles's
lodgings.

Marielle couldn't believe they were still there, but she was amazed to
discover that they had indeed waited.  And two months had done nothing
to warm their hearts on the subject of their only daughter's elopement.
When Marielle and Charles appeared at the hotel hand in hand, looking
happy and peaceful, they demanded that Charles leave at once, and
announced that they were setting the annulment en route in the
morning.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Marielle said quietly, causing
Charles to smile at the firm stand she took on his behalf.  For a shy,
quiet girl, she had a remarkable way of taking extremely definitive
positions.  And he was pleased that this was one of those times.

Pleased, and a moment later, very startled.

"Don't you tell me what to do!"  her father roared at her, and at the
same time her mother ranted about how ungrateful she was, how dangerous
her life would be with Charles, how they had only wanted her happiness,
and now it was all ruined.  It made a Greek chorus to the ears, and
Marielle stood in the eye of the storm, watching them all calmly.  At
eighteen, she had suddenly become a woman, and one Charles knew he was
going to adore for an entire lifetime.

"I can't get an annulment.  Papa."  Marielle spoke quietly again.

"I'm having a baby."

This time Charles stared, and then suddenly he was amused.  It was most
likely not true, but it was the perfect way to make them give up the
idea of an annulment.  But as soon as she said the words, all hell
broke loose, her mother cried louder still, and her father sat down and
began to gasp, insisting he was having chest pains.  Her mother said
Marielle was killing him, and when the old man was ushered from the
room, with his good wife's help, Charles suggested that they go back to
the rue du Bac, and discuss the matter with his in-laws later.

He and Marielle left shortly afterward, and as they walked a few blocks
in the warm air, Charles looked vastly amused as he pulled her close to
him and kissed her.

"That was brilliant.  I should have thought of it myself."

"It wasn't brilliant."  She looked amused too.  -"Tt's true."  She
looked very pleased with herself, the little girl she had been only
moments before was now going to be a mother.  He looked stunned.

"Are you serious?"

She nodded her head and looked up at him.

"When did that happen?"  He looked startled more than worried.

"I'm not sure ... Rome?  ... maybe Venice ... I wasn't entirely sure
until last week."

"Well, you sneaky little thing ..."  But as he held her close to him,
he looked pleased.

"And when is the Delauney heir due?"

"June, I think.  Something like that."

He had never given much thought to being a father.  It should have
frightened him, given the life he'd led of such great freedom, but the
truth was he was thrilled.  He hailed a cab for her, and they rode home
toward the rue du Bac, kissing in the backseat like two children,
instead of two prospective parents.

Her own parents were just as distraught the next day, but after two
weeks of arguments, they finally relented.  Marielle's mother had taken
her to an American doctor on the Champs-Elysees, and there was no doubt
about it, she was pregnant.  The idea of an annulment was out of the
question.  And their daughter was certainly happy enough.  And like it
or not, they knew they had to live with the reality of Charles
Delauney.  He promised them, before they finally left, to get a better
apartment, a maid, a nurse for the child, a car.  He was going to
become a "respectable man," her father extracted from him.  But
respectable or not, the obvious fact was that the two were deliriously
happy.

Marielle's parents left shortly after that on the France, and after all
the excitement and fuss and strain and exhaustion of dealing with them,
she and Charles agreed that they were not going to New York for
Christmas, or maybe ever.  They were happy in their garret on the Left
Bank, with their life together, his friends, even his writing had never
been better.  In

Paris, in 1926, for one brief shining moment, life had been perfect.

As Charles pulled open the enormously heavy cathedral doors, even his
bones felt chilled, and the leg throbbed more than usual.  It had been
just as bitter a winter in Europe.  It had been so long since he'd been
in New York, so long since he'd been in a church, as he walked inside
and looked up at the enormous vaulted ceiling.  In some ways, he was
sorry he had come.  It was depressing to see his father so ill, and so
unaware of his surroundings and those around him.  For an instant, he
had seemed to recognize Charles, and then the moment passed, the eyes
were blank and then closed as his father dozed heavily on his
pillows.

It made Charles feel lonely whenever he watched him.  It was as though
the older Delauney was already gone.  He might as well have been.  And
for Charles, there was no one left now.  They were all gone .  even the
friends he had fought with in Spain.  There were almost too many to
pray for.

He watched a priest in black robes cross his path, and Charles walked
slowly to the back of the church, to a tiny altar.  Two nuns prayed
there, and the younger of the two smiled at him as he knelt stiffly
beside them.  His black hair was flecked with gray, but his eyes still
had the same electricity they'd had when he was fifteen, and he still
exuded energy and strength and power.  Even the young nun could feel
it.  But there was sorrow in his eyes too as he bowed his head, and
thought of all of them, the people who had meant so much to him, those
he had loved, those he had fought with.  But he had not come here to
pray for them.  He had come here because it was the anniversary of the
worst day of his life .  nine years before .  two weeks before
Christmas.  A day he would never forget .  the day he had almost killed
her.  He had been insane, out of his mind with rage and pain .  a pain
so terrible he truly couldn't bear it.  He wanted to tear her limb from
limb to make it stop, to turn back the clock, to make it not happen .
and yet he had loved her so much .  loved them both he couldn't bear
thinking of it now, as he bowed his head, unable to pray for him or
her, or himself, or anyone, unable to think .  the pain of it still so
great, barely dim, the only difference was that now he seldom allowed
himself to think about it.  But when he touched the place in his heart
where they still lived, the pain of it still took his breath away, and
he almost couldn't bear it.  A tear ran slowly down his cheek as he
stared unseeingly straight ahead and the young nun watched him.  He
knelt that way for a long time, seeing nothing, thinking of them, and
what had been in a life that was no more, in a place he seldom allowed
himself to remember.  But today, he had wanted to come here just to
feel a little closer to them.  And it always made it worse that the
date fell just before Christmas.

In Spain he would have found a church some l where, a little chapel, a
shack, and he would have hac the same thoughts, the same excruciating
pain too but in the simplicity of his life there, there woulc have been
comfort.  Here, there was nothing, excep strangers in a vast cathedral
and cold gray stone, no unlike the cold gray stone of the mansion he
now shared with his dying father.

And as he stood u]:

slowly, he knew he would not stay long in the States He wanted to get
back to Spain before much longer He was needed there.  He wasn't needed
in New York, except by lawyers and bankers, and he carec nothing for
that.  He never had.  If anything, he carec less now than he had years
before.  He had never] become the "respectable man" his father-in-law
hac dreamed of.  He smiled at the thought, as he remembered his
in-laws, they were dead now too.  Everyone was.  At thirty-five,
Charles Delauney felt as thougt he had already lived ten lifetimes.

He stood for a long time, looking at the statue o the Madonna and child
remembering then .  and then he walked slowly back the way he hac come,
feeling worse than he had before, instead o better.

He wanted to feel close to Andre again wanted to feel him close to him,
the delicious warmtt of his flesh, the softness of his cheek, the tiny
hands that had always held his so tightly.

Charles was blinded by tears as he walked slowly back toward the main
door of the cathedral.  The leA seemed to pain him more, and the wind
was whistling through the church, as something happened to him which
hadn't happened in a long time.  But it used to happen frequently.
Sometimes even on the battle- Reld, he imagined he saw her.

He saw her in the distance now, swathed in furs, walking past him, like
a ghost, going toward something he couldn't see, unable to see him.  He
stood for a long moment, watching her, aching for her again, as he
hadn't in so long, a memory come to life, as he stared, and then he
realized it was no ghost, it was a woman who looked just like her.

She was tall and thin and serious, and very beautiful.  She was wearing
a somber black dress covered by a sable coat that almost swept the
floor and seemed to frame her face with softness.  A hat tried to
conceal all but one eye, but even with so little of her visible, it was
as though he sensed her, the .  way she moved, the way she looked, the
way she quietly took off one black glove, and then sank to her knees at
another small altar.  She was as graceful as she had ever been, as long
and lean, except now she seemed so much thinner.  She covered her face
with graceful hands, and for a long time she seemed to be praying.  He
knew why.  They had both come here for the same reason.  It was
Marielle, he realized as he stared at her, unable to believe it.

It seemed an eternity before she turned and looked at him, but when she
did, it was obvious that she hadn't seen him.  She lit four candles,
and slipped some money into the collection box, and then she stood and
stared at the altar again, and there were tears on her cheeks too.  And
then, head bowed, she pulled the fur coat more tightly around her.  She
began to walk slowly between the pews, as though her whole body ached,
and her soul with it.  She was only inches from him, when he gently
reached out a hand and stopped her.  She looked startled when he did,
and she glanced up at him with a look of astonishment, as though she
had been wakened from a distant dream.  But as she looked into his
eyes, she gasped and stared at him.  Her hand flew to her mouth, her
eyes brimmed with the tears she had shed at the altar.

"Oh my God ..."  It couldn't be.  But it was.  She hadn't seen him in
almost seven years.  It was impossible to believe it.

He touched her hand without making a sound, and as he did, without
hesitating she melted into him, without a thought, without a word, and
he put his arms around her.  It seemed right that they had both come
here, that they should be together today, and they clung to each other
in the church like two drowning people.  It was a long time before she
pulled away, and looked up at him.  He looked older than he' had
before, more battle worn, more weary in many ways.  There were small
scars on his face, a bad one she couldn't see on his arm, the leg of
course, and;

gray in his hair, and yet as she looked at him, she feltj eighteen, and
her heart pounded as it had when she was a girl in Paris.  She had
known for years that there was a part of her that would never release
Charles

Delauney.  She had known that for a long time, and she had come to live
with it.  It was something she had to accept, like pain, like the leg
he had to drag at times, or that irked him so much when the weather was
cold or damp.  It was a pain like the others she had learned to
carry.

"I don't know what to say," she smiled sadly at him, wiping her own
tears away, "after all this time, 'how are yon?"  seems so stupid.  "

It did, but what else was there to say?  She had heard echoes of him
from time to time, but nothing in many years now.  She had known for
some time that his father was ill.  Her own parents had died, within
months of each other, before she'd come home from Europe.  But Charles
knew that.

"You look incredible."  He could only stare at her.  At thirty, she was
even more beautiful than she'd been at eighteen when they were married.
It was as though her promise had been fulfilled, and yet her eyes were
still so sad.  It hurt him just to see them.

"Are you all right?"  He meant it in a thousand ways, and as she always
had before, she understood him.  Eventually, they had become like one
dance, one song, one movement.  He would have half a thought and she
could finish it without saying a word.  They just knew each other so
well.  It was as though they were the identical halves of a single
person.  But no more, they were two halves now .  or were they whole?
He wondered as he watched her.  She was expensively dressed, and the
sable coat was incredible.  The hat had been done for her by Lily
Dache,

and made quite an effect the way she wore it.  She was certainly more
sophisticated than she had been as a young girl.  Like this, she might
have frightened him then, he smiled to himself, or perhaps not appealed
to him in the same way.  But she didn't frighten him now, she tore at
his heart, as she had for years.  Why had she been so damn stubborn the
last time he saw her?

"You look so serious, Marielle."  His eyes seemed to bore into hers,
wanting the answers to a thousand questions.

She tried to smile, and turned away before she looked at him again.

"It's a difficult day ... for both of us ..."  If it were otherwise,
they wouldn't have been there.  It still seemed remarkable to her that
they were standing here together, after all these years, in Saint
Patrick's Cathedral.

"Have you come home for good?"  She was curious about him.  He looked
bigger and stronger than he had before, more powerful, and as though he
would tolerate even less nonsense.  And difficult as it was to believe,
his nerves seemed even closer to the surface.

He shook his head, wishing they could slip into a pew and talk all
day.

"I don't think I could stand it here.  I've been back for three weeks,
and I'm already;

itching to go back to Spain.  " | " Spain?  " She raised an eyebrow.
His life seemedi so integrally interwoven with Paris and their memories
there, it was hard to imagine him somewhere else, now.  ^

"The war there.  I've been there for two years."

She nodded then.  It made perfect sense.

"I wondered once if you were there."  It was his kind of battle.

"Somehow I had a feeling you would go."  She'd been right, and he had
no reason not to.  Nothing to lose.

Nothing to gain.  Nothing to stay home for, "And you?"  He looked
pointedly at her.  It was odd asking each other for news here, and yet
they each wanted to know what the other had been doing.

It was a long moment before she spoke, and then she answered him very
softly.

"I'm married."

He nodded, trying not to look as though she had caused him pain,
although in truth she had run a dagger into a wound that had long
festered.

"Anyone I know?"  It was unlikely, as he had lived abroad for the last
seventeen years, but she looked as though she were married to at least
an Astor.

"I don't know."  But she knew that her husband had been a friend of his
father's.  Her husband was twenty-five years her senior.

"Malcolm Patterson."  There was no joy in her eyes as she said his
name, no pride, and suddenly the hat concealed her expression from him
completely.  He sensed something he didn't like, and she looked
anything but happy.  So this was what she'd done with the past seven
years.  He didn't look impressed.  He looked annoyed.  Very much so.

"I know the name," Charles said coolly, and then waited to look her in
the eye again.

"And are you happy?"  Was it worth refusing to come back to him?  It
was obvious to him that it wasn't.

She wasn't sure what to say to him.  There were things about her
marriage that she cherished.  Malcolm had promised to take care of her,
at a time in her life when she needed that desperately and he had done
that.  He had never let her down.  He was always kind.  But she hadn't
realized at first how cool he would be, how aloof, and how busy.  And
yet, in some ways, he was the perfect husband.  Polite, intelligent,
chivalrous, charming.  But he was not Charles .  he was not the flame
and passion of her youth .  he wasn't the face she dreamt of when she
hovered between life and death .  or the name she called .  and they
both knew he never would be.

"I'm at peace, Charles.  That means a great deal."  There had been no
peace with Charles .  there was only joy, and excitement, and love, and
passion .  and eventually despair.  As great as the joy had been, so
had the sorrow.

"I saw you ... in Spain ... when I was shot ..."  he said almost
dreamily.  And I saw you every night for years .  she wanted to tell
him, but knew she couldn't.  Instead, she only smiled.

"We all have ghosts, Charles."  Some were just more painful than
others.

"Is that it then?  Are we ghosts?  Nothing more?"  ^ "Maybe."  It had
taken her two years in a sanatorium to understand that it was over, to
live with the!  pain, to be able to go on after what had happened.

She couldn't jeopardize that now, not even for him, especially not for
him.  She couldn't allow herself to step back, no matter how much she
thought she still loved him.  She touched his hand and then his cheek,
and he bent to kiss her, but she turned her head just a fraction.  He
kissed her cheek, just near her lips, and she closed her eyes for a
long moment as he held her.

"I love you ... I will always love you ..."  His eyes were blazing with
the passion she knew so well, as he said it.  It was not the passion
born of desire, but of believing and wanting and caring so much it
almost kills you.  Charles cared about everything that way, and she
knew that one day it would kill him.  She had barely survived his
flame, and now she knew that she could no longer risk it.  He had his
scars, and she had her own, no less fierce because they hadn't been won
in battle.

"I love you too," she whispered, knowing that she shouldn't say those
words to him.  But it was a whisper from the past, a salute to all that
had been and had died with Andre.

"Will you see me before I leave for Spain again?"  It was so like him
to pressure her, to make her feel responsible for him once he went into
battle.  She smiled at him, but she shook her head this time.

"I can't, Charles.  I'm married."

"Does he know about me?"  Slowly, with a look of agony, she shook her
head in answer.

"No, he doesn't.  He thinks I went a little wild one summer on the
Grand Tour, and got a little out of hand, as I think my father
described it to his friends.  That's what my father said years ago,
something about a 'little romance."  And that's all Malcolm knows.  He
has never allowed me to discuss it.  Malcolm has no idea we were ever
married.  " It was so like her father to tell people that.  He had
never told people of her life with Charles and their staying in Europe
had made it easier for him.  All he cared about were appearances, and
reputation.  He had lied to protect her, and told everyone she had
stayed in Europe to study.  He had to save face at all costs, and he
had wanted to save Marielle from her " terrible mistake" when she
married Charles Delauney.  And now, Marielle's husband still believed
the lie, because she let him.

Charles couldn't believe she had never told her husband the truth.

They had told each other everything.  They had shared all their
secrets.  But at eighteen, what was there to hide?  At thirty, it was
different.

"He knows none of it, Charles.  Why tell him?"  Why tell him she had
spent twenty-six months in a sanatorium, wanting to die .  that she had
tried to slash her wrists .  take pills .  drown herself in the bathtub
why tell him any of that?  Charles knew, he had paid the bills .  and
she had recovered.  ?

"Will you tell him you saw me today?"  He was| curious about her, and
them.  What kind of marriage ;

could they have if she told him nothing?  Did she love him, or he her?
She had said "I love you" so easily after all these years, and Charles
believed her.  And now she shook her head in answer to his question.

"How can I tell him I saw you, when he doesn't know you exist in my
life anyway?"  Her eyes were very calm, and her face very lovely.  She
seemed at peace, and that was something.

"Do you love him?"  He didn't believe she did, and he wanted to hear
it.

"Of course.  I'm his wife."  But the truth was she respected him, she
admired him, she owed him.  She had never loved him as she loved
Charles, and she never would.  What's more, she didn't want to.  A love
like that caused too much pain, and she no longer had the courage.  She
glanced at her watch and then back at Charles.

"I have to go."

"Why?  What will happen if you don't go home, if you come home with me
instead?"  He looked as though he meant it.

"You haven't changed.  You're still the man who convinced me to elope
with him in Paris."  She smiled at the memory, and so did he.

"You were easier to convince in those days."

"Everything was easier then, we were young."

"You still are."  But in her heart, she knew she wasn't.

She pulled her coat more tightly around her, and slipped on her other
glove, and he began to walk her slowly toward the main door of the
cathedral.

"I want to see you again before I go."

She sighed, and stopped to look up at him.

"Charles, how can we do that?"

"If you don't, I'll come to your house and ring your doorbell."

"You probably would."  She laughed in spite of the sorrow of the day
that had brought them together.

"You'll have a hell of a time explaining that."  Just thinking about it
almost brought on one of her migraines.

"You know where I am.  I'm at my father's.  Call.  Or I will."

After seven years, here he was threatening her, and looking so damn
handsome while he did it.

"And if I don't call?"

"I'll find you."

"I don't want to be found."  She looked serious, and so did he when he
answered.

"I'm not sure I believe that.  And after all these years, we can't just
I can't just let go, Marielle ... I can't ... I'm sorry."  He looked so
forlorn, and in an odd way, almost broken.

"I know."  She slipped a hand into his arm, and they walked through the
door, just as Malcolm's chauffeur darted through a side door.  He had
spent an interesting hour watching them.  It was a side to Marielle he
hadn't seen before, but in some ways it didn't surprise him.  Malcolm
had his own life too, and she was a beautiful young woman.  Beautiful,
and frightened, he knew.  She was intimidated by everyone, especially
her husband.  And he wondered who would pay more for the intelligence
of what he'd just seen, in time .  Mrs.  Patterson herself?  Or her
husband?

Charles and Marielle were walking slowly down the steps arm in arm, and
he held her close to him as they reached the bottom.

"I won't press it if you don't want me to, but I'd like to see you
before I go."  But he really looked as though he meant it.

"Why?"  She looked straight at him, and he gave her the only answer he
could have.

"I still love you."

Tears filled her eyes as she looked away from him.  She didn't want to
love him anymore, or be loved by him, didn't want the memories, the
pain, the anguish.  She looked up at him again.

"I can't call you."

"You can do anything you want.  And whatever you do, I'll still ... is
it just as hard for you ..."  He glanced back at the church, thinking
of the day that had brought them here, and then he looked down at her,
his eyes filled with tears, as hers overflowed in answer, and she
nodded.

"Yes, it's just as hard.  It doesn't go away."  And it never would. 
She understood that now.  She had to live with it, like constant pain. 
She looked up at him again.

"I'm so sorry ..."  She had wanted to say those words to him for years,
and now she had, but nothing was different.

He shook his head, pulled her tight against his chest, and then let her
go.  And with a last look at her, he walked away, up Fifth Avenue,
without saying good-bye to her.  But the truth was, he couldn't.  She
watched him for a long time, and then she slipped into Malcolm's car.

As the chauffeur drove her home, she was thinking about Charles .  a
life long lost, never to be found again .  and Andre.

-c=^Patrick, the driver, took Marielle home, driving north up Fifth
Avenue, but she didn't see Charles there.  And finally, they drove east
on Sixty-fourth Street, to the house where she had lived for six years
with Malcolm.

The house was between Madison and Fifth, just around the corner from
the park, and it was a beautiful home, but it had never been hers.  It
was Malcolm's.  She had felt ill at ease there from the first.  It was
an awesome establishment, with a huge staff, and it had once belonged
to Malcolm's parents.  He had maintained it almost as a memorial to
them, with priceless collections everywhere, added to only by the rare
objects he collected on his travels, or sometimes by curators of
museums.  Sometimes Marielle felt like a precious object there,
something to be displayed, but never played with.  A doll to be admired
on a shelf and never handled.  His servants treated her politely, for
the most part, but they had always made it clear that they worked not
for her, but for her husband.  Many of them had been there for years,
and after six years, she still felt she scarcely knew them.  Malcolm
always urged her to keep her distance.  She had, and so had they. 
There was no warmth in their exchanges with her.  And from the first,
Malcolm had let her make no changes.  It was still his home, everything
was done his way, and if her orders differed from his at all, they were
politely ignored, and the matter never mentioned.  He hired the staff
himself, and most of them were Irish or English or German.  Malcolm had
an enormous fondness for all things German.  He had gone to Heidelberg
University in his youth, and he spoke the language to perfection.

Marielle wondered sometimes if the reason the staff resented her,
albeit secretly, was because she had worked for Malcolm.  It had been
impossible for her to get a job when she came back from Europe in 1932.
The Depression was in full swing, even men with college degrees were
unemployed, and she had absolutely no training.  She had never worked
for anyone before, and her parents had left her nothing.  Her father
lost everything in the crash of '29, which basically had killed him.
He'd been too old to survive the strain, to start over again.  In the
end, his heart had given out, but before it, his spirit.  And there was
nothing left but a few hundred dollars when his wife died six months
later.  Marielle had still been in Eu

rope then, and Charles had arranged for their house to be sold in order
to pay their debts.  She'd been too ill to take care of it herself, and
when she went back to New York eventually, she was left with nothing
and had no home to go to.  She stayed in a hotel on the East Side, and
started looking for a job the week she'd arrived.  She had two thousand
dollars she'd borrowed from Charles.  It was all she'd let him give
her.  She was totally alone.  And in many ways, Malcolm had saved her.
She was grateful to him for that still, and she always would be.

She had appeared in his office on a wintry February day, and the face
that smiled at her across the desk was like a ray of sunshine.  She had
gone to him because she knew he was one of her father's friends, and
she hoped that somehow he might know of a job, or someone who needed a
companion who spoke French.  It was all she knew other than her
graceful drawings, but she hadn't drawn now in years.  She had no
secretarial skills at all, but after speaking to her for an hour, he
hired her, and until she found a place of her own, he even paid for her
hotel bill.  She had tried to repay him afterward, but he wouldn't hear
of it.  He knew what dire straits she was in, and he was happy to help
her.

She learned quickly and she worked well, as an assistant to his senior
secretary, an Englishwoman who clearly did not approve of Marielle, but
was al ways civil.  And it came as no surprise to anyone whei Malcolm
started inviting her, first to quiet lunches and then to romantic
dinners.

Eventually, he started taking her to important social events with him,
always discreetly suggesting that she buy a new dress for the occasion,
at a store where they knew him.  It trouble her at first.  She didn't
want to take advantage of him didn't want to put herself in an awkward
position.  Yet he was always so kind to her, so intelligent, so
amusing, so understanding.  He never pressed her about what her
previous life had been, why she had lived ii Europe for six years, or
why she had finally returned They kept their conversations strictly to
the present She was surprised that she was always comfortablf with him.
He was so polite, and so kind, and so eas] to be with.  All her earlier
resistance to him disappeared, and she was particularly surprised that
he never made improper advances.  He just seemed to like her company,
being seen with a beautiful young^ woman in the expensive clothes he
paid for.  She was painfully shy then, and sometimes she still felt a
little shaky.  But he never seemed to notice it, and whei she was with
him, she always felt more confident, and surprisingly stronger than she
had in a long time.  She wasn't her old self anymore, but at least she
was i new one she could live with.

With Malcolm, no one asked her anything.  Peopit wanted to know who she
was, of course, but beyont her name, they never wanted to know where
she'c been or why she wore such a serious expression.  The]

were impressed with her because of whom she was with, and how she
looked, and sometimes she even found it amusing.  She felt so safe with
him, he protected her from everything, and that was precisely what he
offered her, when he asked her to marry him at Thanksgiving.  He
offered to protect and take care of her for as long as he lived, which
wouldn't be as long as she lived, because he was so much older.  He
made no pretense of loving her, and yet in some ways, she felt that he
did, because he was always so considerate and kind, so thoughtful, and
so decent.  In fact, she wanted nothing more from him.  She couldn't
have taken the risk, or been able to stand the pain, if anything went
wrong, or something happened.  Even the memories of Charles were still
exquisitely painful, and the rest was something she still couldn't talk
about, even to Malcolm.  She had tried to be honest with him, to tell
him that there were things in her past that had caused her great pain,
but he didn't want to hear it.

"We each have a past, my dear."  He had smiled gently at her, as they
dined at the Plaza.

"But at twenty-four, I suspect that yours is still a little more
wholesome."  He was so tolerant of her, so accepting.  She could come
to him with her past and her pain and her wounds and find solace there,
and protection.  It was that that she wanted from him, not his house,
or his jewels or his money.  He had been married twice before, and she
knew from those who talked too much, that his generosity had been
legend.  But all she wanted from him was a port in the storm, a place
to hide for the rest of her life, and that was what he promised.  He
sensed easily how frightened she was, although even he did not suspect
how battered.

And all he required of her was that she be willing to bear his
children.  Neither of his previous wives had, and at forty-nine, it was
something he wanted very much, an heir for the Patterson empire.  His
money had been made in steel, and several generations earlier it had
been far less genteel, but by the time Malcolm was born, the name was
highly respected.  And in his lifetime, Malcolm had made it even more
so.

She'd been stunned by his proposal at first, and for a brief moment,
she even thought he was joking.  They had certainly been out together
many times, and he had been unspeakably generous with her, but until
then, he had never even kissed her.

"I ... I don't know what to say ... are you serious?"  He smiled coolly
at her, and took her hand in his, amused by her astonishment.

She still looked like a child to him, and he gently raised her hand to
his lips and kissed her fingers.

"Of course I'm serious, Marielle."  His eyes met hers, and in some ways
he seemed more like a fatherj But that was part of what she liked about
him, and more than that, it was what she so desperately!  needed.

She had been back in the States by then forj less than a year, and she
had no one in the world, except Malcolm.

"I want you to be my wife.  I wiB|

take very good care of you, my dear.  I promise you that.  And if we're
lucky enough to have children, I will be grateful to you for the
remainder of my lifetime.  " It was an odd offer, as she listened to
him, and in some ways it almost sounded more like a business
arrangement than a marriage.  He wanted children from her, and she
wanted and needed his protection.  He hadn't told her he loved her, or
looked at her adoringly, she wasn't head over heels in love with him.

It was totally different from what she had had with Charles, but that
was precisely what she wanted.  Only the idea of having children
frightened her now.  She wasn't sure she wanted to take that risk
again, but she didn't dare explain that to him.

"And if there are no children?"  Her eyes searched his with a worried
expression, as he wondered if there was something he didn't know.  He
had thought he knew everything about her.

"Then we will be friends."  He looked peaceful as he said it, and that
reassured her, but she still couldn't understand why he wanted her,
with so many other women who would have died to have him.  And in fact,
he scarcely knew her.

"But why me?  There are ... so many other ... more suitable ..."  She
blushed as she said the words.  She had no money, no social status
anymore.  Her parents had been respectable certainly, but not in his
league, and they had left her without a penny.  But all of that was
part of what appealed to him.  She was a girl with no ties, no family,
no obligations.  She was "his" in a way, or she would be if she married
him, and he liked that.  Malcolm Patterson was a man who was obsessed
by possessions, his houses, his cars, his paintings, his Faberge
collection, his "things."

Marielle was something more for him to possess .  a very important
possession if she could give him children.  Besides which, she was a
very quiet, undemanding girl, and he liked that.  She would be a
dignified, attractive wife and perhaps, with luck, one day, a very good
mother.

"Perhaps I should say I love you," he said very gently, but they both
knew he didn't.

"But I'm not sure that's important to either of us."

He knew her well, better than she had realized.

"Perhaps that doesn't matter at all.  Perhaps it will be better like
this, and we will come to love each other in time, won't we?"  She
nodded, still awed by what he was saying.  And then he looked down at
her expectantly, as though she knew what she was expected to say, and
he was waiting for her to say it.

"Do you have an answer for me?"

She hesitated, but only for an instant.

"I ..."

She looked at him worriedly.  "Are you sure?  ..."  She was afraid for
him, more than for herself.  What if she was a disappointment to him?
What if .  what if she fell apart again?  The past year hadn't been
easy.  The Lindbergh child had been kidnapped two weeks after her
return, and the horror of it had mesmerized her at first, and in May
when the world heard that he was dead, she felt a pain in her heart for
them that she knew she would always remember.  For days she had stayed
in bed, claiming to have the flu.  But in truth, she had been unable to
function.  Finally, in a wave of terror, she had called her doctor in
Switzerland, and he had been able to reassure her.  But what if that
happened again?  What if Malcolm knew.  "I'm not sure it's fair to
you."  Marielle lowered her eyes, and tears clustered on her lashes.

Suddenly he wanted to pull her into his arms and make love to her.  It
was the first time she had actually inspired him with any kind of
passion, and for an instant he wondered if he really might come to love
her.

"Darling ... please ... marry me.... I'll do everything for you It was
the only language he knew, but she looked up at him with a sad smile,
and shook her head.

"You don't have to do that.  All you have to do is be kind to me, and
you always have been.  Too kind.  I don't deserve it."

"That's nonsense.  You deserve more than I can give you.  You deserve a
handsome young husband who is so mad about you he's half insane, and
takes you dancing every night.  Not an old man you'll have to push
around in a wheelchair when you're forty."  She laughed at the picture
he painted, it was difficult to imagine Malcolm ever being anything but
vital and youthful.  He was a powerful, vibrant man who, despite his
mane of prematurely white hair, looked ten years younger than he was.
The white hair only made him look more important.

"So, now that I've told you what the future holds, will you accept my
offer?"  Her eyes met his, and almost imperceptibly, she nodded.  She
felt her breath catch as she looked at him, and he pulled her into his
arms and crushed her against him.  She felt tears fill her eyes as she
looked at him.  She wanted to be as good to him as he was to her, she
wanted to promise him everything, and she swore to herself she would
never disappoint him.

The wedding was tiny and discreet.  They were married on New Year's Day
by a judge who was a close friend of his, at Malcolm's home, with fewer
than a dozen of his friends present.  She knew no one to invite anyway,
except the women she had met when she was working in his office.  But
they resented her now anyway.  Her Cinderella story did not fill them
with happiness for her.  She had walked off with what they had always
wanted, but they had wanted him for very different reasons than she
did.  They wanted his money, and all Marielle wanted was his
protection.

She wore a beige satin suit that he bought for her from Mainbocher,
with a matching hat that had been made by Sally Victor.  And she had
never looked lovelier than she did that day, with her dark auburn hair
in an elegant chignon, and her deep blue eyes filled with emotion.  She
had cried when the judge declared them man and wife, and she stood very
close to him all day, as though she was afraid that if she didn't, some
evil spirit might come between them.

They honeymooned in the Caribbean, on a private island near Antigua. 
It belonged to a friend, and there was a fabulous house, a yacht, and
an army of discreet, extremely well trained British servants.  It had
been perfect in every way, and she found that her affection for him was
rapidly growing deeper.  His thoughtful, gentle ways touched her more
often than she was able to tell him.  And he approached their physical
life together with wisdom, kindness, and enormous caution.  He was
anxious for a child, but not so much so that he was ever rough or hasty
with her, and he spent most of their honeymoon learning the ways that
brought her pleasure.  He was an experienced man, and she enjoyed the
time she spent in bed with him, but there was no hiding from the fact
that there was something missing between them.  But they enjoyed each
other's company, and when they returned to New York three weeks later,
they were good friends, and she walked into his house with a conBdent
air, and a bounce in her step that hadn't been there in years.  But
once home again, the reality of their life together had hit her.  They
lived in his house, saw his friends, day and night, she was surrounded
by his servants and Marielle had to do everything he wanted.  For the
most part, the servants considered her a fortune hunter, and treated
her like an intruder.  Knowing she had previously worked for him,
jealousy stoked the fires of their hatred.  Her orders were ignored,
her requests were secretly ridiculed, her belongings either disappeared
or were "accidentally" destroyed, and when she finally tried to mention
it to Malcolm, he treated her complaints with amusement, which upset
her even more.  He told her to give "his people" time to get used to
her, and in time they would come to love her as much as he did.

Once back in New York, he was busy at the office again.  He kept to
himself much of the time, and led his own life, and Marielle became
very lonely.  He still enjoyed being seen with her, and he was always
kind to her, but it was clear that she was not going to share his
entire life, or even his bedroom.  He explained that he stayed up very
late at night, reading documents, or making overseas calls, and it was
important to him to have privacy while he did that, and he didn't want
to disturb her.  She had suggested that they shift their rooms around,
and that he have an office next to their bedroom, where he could work
at night, but he was adamant that he didn't want to change anything.

And in the end, he didn't.  Not one single thing changed in Malcolm's
life after he married Marielle, except that they went out together a
little more often.  But more than once, in spite of his kindness, she
felt as though she was still one of his employees.

She got an allowance now, which was discreetly shifted into an account
on the first of every month, and he encouraged her to shop anywhere and
buy anything she wanted.  But the servants were still his, the house
still looked exactly as it had before, the people they saw were all his
friends, and he still traveled without her when he went on business. 
In fact, Marielle had traveled more with him before, when she was only
an undersecretary to him.  She would have been angry at the new
secretary who did travel with him, except that Marielle liked her. 
Brigitte was a pretty German girl from Berlin.  Her behavior and
reputation were impeccable, and she treated Marielle with enormous
deference.  She had pale blond hair, and bright red fingernails.  She
carried herself well, and was highly efficient.  More than that, she
was always kind to Marielle, to the point of being friendly.  As they
had been of Marielle, the older secretaries were jealous of her, and
Marielle felt sorry for her more than once when she noticed the raised
eyebrows of Brigitte's colleagues.  Brigitte was always very respectful
to her, and very helpful whenever Marielle called the office.  And she
was particularly nice to Marielle when she got pregnant, sending small
but thoughtful gifts for the baby.  She even knitted him a blanket, and
several sweaters, which also deeply touched Malcolm.  The rest of the
time, he seemed to scarcely notice her existence.  But he had other
things on his mind, important business deals, and his wife, and
eventually, the son he had wanted so badly.

Marielle had expected to get pregnant easily.  She had before, and she
was surprised when it hadn't happened after the first few months of
their marriage.  And after six months, Malcolm insisted that she go to
a specialist in Boston.  He had taken her there himself, and he had
left her at the hospital for the afternoon, while a team of specialists
checked her over.  In the end, they found nothing wrong with her, and
they encouraged her and Malcolm to continue trying.  They felt that it
was just a matter of time, and they made some suggestions which
embarrassed her, but Malcolm was more than willing to try them.  But
six months later, their suggestions still hadn't worked, and both of
them were deeply worried.  It was then that she spent a quiet afternoon
with her own doctor.  He had no new explanations to offer her, and he
very gently said that some women just weren't made to have babies.  He
had seen it happen before, healthy young women who had nothing wrong
with them, but simply never conceived.  It was no one's fault, but
"Sometimes," he said quietly, "God just doesn't want it to happen." 
She was beginning to get hysterical every month when she saw that she
was not pregnant again, and the strain of it had started her
migraines.

"It has happened before," she said softly, almost afraid to look at
him.  It was something she still hadn't told Malcolm, particularly now
since she'd been unable to have his baby.

"You've been pregnant?"  The doctor looked intrigued.  He had wondered
once when he examined her, but he hadn't been certain and hadn't asked
her.  And she had never said anything to him.  They had asked her in
Boston several times, but she had denied it.  But she felt more
confidence in this man to keep her secrets to himself.  She had found
him herself,

and he was one of the few people in her life who did not owe any
special allegiance to Malcolm.

"Yes," she nodded.

"Did you have an abortion?"  That really worried him.  In his
experience, women who had the land of abortions that were available in
dark alleys and back streets, were seldom able to have other
children.

They went to butchers and were lucky if they lived, let alone were
still able to have babies.

"No, I didn't."

"I see ..."  He looked suddenly more sympathetic.

"You lost it."

"No," she started to say, and then winced as though he had caused her
physical pain.

"I mean, yes ... I had him ... and he died ... later...."

"I'm so sorry."  She told him about it then, and she cried endlessly,
but she felt relieved two hours later when she left his office.  And in
some ways it was like a weight being lifted from her shoulders.  He
reassured her by saying that he felt certain she would get pregnant
again eventually.  There was absolutely no reason for her not to.

And he was right.  Two months later, with amazement and delight she
discovered that she was pregnant.  She had just begun to think that it
was never going to happen at all, and she had even begun morosely
wondering if she should offer Malcolm a divorce, if that was what he
wanted, since she had been unable to bear his children.  But suddenly,
the light had shined, and Malcolm was beside himself with gratitude and
excitement.  He showered jewelry and gifts on her, came home at lunch
to check on her, treated her like the rarest jewel, and seemed to spend
every hour making plans for their baby.  It was obvious that he wanted
a son from her, and yet he was even prepared to be pleased with a
daughter.

"We'll just have to have more, if it's a girl," he said happily, and
Marielle laughed.  By then, she could no longer see her feet and hadn't
slept decently in weeks.  The prospect of more was a little daunting.
On the other hand, she had blossomed in pregnancy, and the pain of the
last several years seemed dimmer now with the excitement of life inside
her.  She sat for hours feeling the baby move, and waiting for the hour
when she could hold it.  It would fill a void that had been aching for
years, and she knew that nothing would fill that void again except
another baby.  She had to tell herself again and again that it would
not be Andre this time, it would be another child .  he would never
return, and still, no matter who this child was, she knew she would
welcome him or her with her whole heart, and so would Malcolm.

He ordered everyone in the house to take care of her, to cater to her
every whim, to feed her practically every hour on the hour, and make
sure she didn't fall or trip or get tired, but his staff was far less
enthusiastic about her pregnancy than he was.  They seemed to see it as
an opportunity to be even more disagreeable to her, particularly the
housekeeper who had been there for twenty years, through both previous
wives, and continued to view Marielle as a very temporary intruder. 
The prospect of the baby made her a greater threat, so instead of being
pleased, the most malevolent of them were actually angry.  The
housekeeper, the maids, the driver, Patrick, an Irishman Marielle had
disliked since they'd first met, and even the cook and her staff of
underlings were all annoyed at having to cater to Marielle's few whims,
or even making special tea for her when she had one of her migraine
headaches.  They seemed to consider her headaches a sign of weakness in
her, and they were often rude about her indisposition.  Even the baby
nurse Malcolm hired for her seemed to view Marielle as something of a
lesser being.  She was an Englishwoman Malcolm had hired on one of his
trips abroad, and she had a face like a stone wall and a heart to match
it.  It was difficult to imagine her giving any kind of warmth or
tenderness to a newborn baby.  And when she arrived a month before the
baby was due, Marielle was horrified when she saw her.

"She looks like a prison warden, Malcolm.  How can we let her take care
of our child?"  The real issue for Marielle was, why did they need
her?

She had taken care of Andre herself, but then the memory of that was
too painful to endure, and there was no way now that she could discuss
that with Malcolm.

"I can take care of the baby myself."  But he only laughed at her and
told her she was being silly.  He wanted her to let everyone spoil
her.

"You'll be exhausted when the baby comes.  You'll need to rest.  Miss
Griffin will be perfect.  She has excellent references, is hospital
trained.  She's just what you need, and you don't even know it.  You'll
see, babies aren't as easy as you think."

She knew for a fact they were easier than he thought, but she couldn't
tell him.  At eighteen, she had taken care of her own baby, with no
assistance from the likes of Miss Griffin.

Miss Griffin announced early on that Marielle's migraines were bad for
the child, and probably a sign of some very dangerous weakness in the
mother.  It was as though she wanted to shame Marielle out of them, but
they were too severe for anything except a dark room and bed rest.  A
thousand things brought them on.  Tension, worry, an argument with
Malcolm, a cruel remark from a maid, a head cold, a virus, a late
night, too much rich food, even a glass of wine.  They were torture for
Marielle, and she was always apologizing for them, as though they were
a serious character disorder, just as Miss Griffin had suggested.

Only Haverford, the English butler, was ever kind to her.  He had never
shown any undue interest in her, but he was unfailingly polite and
always pleasant.  Unlike Miss Griffin, who was intent on allying
herself with Malcolm, who had hired her in the first place.  And like
everyone else in the house, she rapidly began treating Marielle like an
intruder.  She treated Marielle like the unpleasant but necessary
vehicle they had to put up with in order to get the baby.  Eventually,
it began to make Marielle feel frightened.

She wanted to be with people who loved her now, and she longed for her
happy days with Charles before their baby.  Sometimes she just lay on
her bed and cried, and on more than one occasion, Malcolm was shocked
when he found her.

"You're just sensitive right now.  Try not to take it all so much to
heart," he tried to tell her.  But after talking to Miss Griffin, he
did think she was being a little foolish.  She seemed to cry all the
time.  She even got upset when she came to the office and saw
Brigitte.

Marielle felt so fat and ugly in comparison to her that for three days
she refused to go anywhere with Malcolm.  But he was always patient
with her, and tried to be understanding.  But it was obvious even to
him that Marielle was desperately overwrought at the end of her
pregnancy.  It was as though she was terrified, and barely able to
cope, but he did all he could to help her.  Miss Griffin explained that
some women are so afraid of delivery that they go crazy in anticipation
of the pain.  It seemed to support her general theory that Marielle was
weak, and worse yet, a coward.

She wanted to have the baby at home, she had insisted on it early on,
but Malcolm was equally insistent that the baby be born at Doctors'
Hospital, with every possible modern development near at hand in case
there was a problem.  Marielle felt it would be more peaceful to have
the baby at home, and she was worried about kidnapping, as she
confessed to Malcolm.  Bruno Richard Hauptmann had been arrested in
September for kidnapping the Lindbergh child and she became obsessed
with the Lindbergh kidnapping again, but Malcolm decided she was just
unduly nervous because she was six and a half months pregnant.  It was
a difficult time for her, in ways no one else knew.

Only her doctor realized what she was going through, and whenever she
saw him, he tried to soothe her and reassure her that this time
everything would be different.

They were at home the night the baby came, she was reading in her room,
and Malcolm was working on some papers in his bedroom when the first
pains came.  She waited for a while, and then she went to tell him, and
he rushed to her side the moment he saw her.  Patrick drove them to the
hospital and Malcolm stayed with her as long as the doctor would let
him, and then they wheeled her away to have their baby.  She was groggy
from the medication they'd given her by then, and she was telling
Malcolm something about how different it had been in Paris.

The doctor smiled at him, and the two men exchanged looks of
understanding, she was in a dream world.

"It should go easily for her," the doctor said softly as the nurses
took her away.

"I'll come back to you very quickly."  He smiled and Malcolm settled
into a chair to wait in the huge private suite of rooms they'd reserved
for her.  It was midnight by then, and Theo-i dore Whitman Patterson
was born at four twenty-' three that morning.  < Marielle saw him first
through a kind of haze, and the doctor held him out to her swaddled in
a blanket.  He had a round pink face and a shock of blondish hair, and
he looked at her with surprise as though he'd been expecting someone
else, and then he gave a long loud wail, and everyone in the delivery
room smiled while tears coursed down Marielle's cheeks.  She had
thought he was gone .  she remembered him so well .  the same round
cheeks, those surprised eyes .  but his hair had been black, like
Charles's .  shiny black hair like a raven .  this wasn't him and yet
it looked so like him.  She nuzzled her cheek next to his, feeling a
primeval ache in her soul, and at the same time a rush of joy and
tenderness and completion.  They took him away to clean him up and
introduce him to his father, while Marielle dozed, and the doctors did
some minor repair work.

It was morning when they brought her back to her room again, and
Malcolm was dozing peacefully there, waiting for her return, and there
was champagne cooling in a silver bucket near her bedside.  He woke as
soon as the gurney entered the room, and she was more awake than she
had been the last time she saw him.  Awake, and sore, and happier than
she'd been in years .  and proud .  she had finally fulfilled Malcolm's
dreams, and their agreement.

"Did you see him?"  she asked as Malcolm bent and kissed her cheek, her
eyes tired but content as he watched her.

"I did."  There were tears in Malcolm's eyes now l in September for
kidnapping the Lindbergh chilc and she became obsessed with the
Lindbergh kidnap ping again, but Malcolm decided she was just un dub
nervous because she was six and a half months pregnant.  It was a
difficult time for her, in ways no on else knew.  Only her doctor
realized what she was going through, and whenever she saw him, he tried
t( soothe her and reassure her that this time everything would be
different.

They were at home the night the baby came, she was reading in her room,
and Malcolm was working on some papers in his bedroom when the first
pain;

came.  She waited for a while, and then she went t( tell him, and he
rushed to her side the moment h< saw her.  Patrick drove them to the
hospital and Malcolm stayed with her as long as the doctor would Ie
him, and then they wheeled her away to have the baby.  She was groggy
from the medication they'c given her by then, and she was telling
Malcolm some thing about how different it had been in Paris.  Th<
doctor smiled at him, and the two men exchanged looks of understanding,
she was in a dream world.

"It should go easily for her," the doctor said softh as the nurses took
her away.

"I'll come back to yoi very quickly."  He smiled and Malcolm settled
into i chair to wait in the huge private suite of rooms they'c reserved
for her.  It was midnight by then, and Theo dore Whitman Patterson was
born at four twenty three that morning.

Marielle saw him first through a land of haze, an the doctor held him
out to her swaddled in a blanket.  He had a round pink face and a shock
of blondish hair, and he looked at her with surprise as though he'd
been expecting someone else, and then he gave a long loud wail, and
everyone in the delivery room smiled while tears coursed down
Marielle's cheeks.  She had thought he was gone .  she remembered him
so well .  the same round cheeks, those surprised eyes but his hair had
been black, like Charles's .  shiny black hair like a raven .  this
wasn't him and yet it looked so like him.  She nuzzled her cheek next
to his, feeling a primeval ache in her soul, and at the same time a
rush of joy and tenderness and completion.  They took him away to clean
him up and introduce him to his father, while Marielle dozed, and the
doctors did some minor repair work.

It was morning when they brought her back to her room again, and
Malcolm was dozing peacefully there, waiting for her return, and there
was champagne cooling in a silver bucket near her bedside.  He woke as
soon as the gurney entered the room, and she was more awake than she
had been the last time she saw him.  Awake, and sore, and happier than
she'd been in years .  and proud .  she had finally fulfilled Malcolm's
dreams, and their agreement.

"Did you see him?"  she asked as Malcolm bent and kissed her cheek, her
eyes tired but content as he watched her.

"I did."  There were tears in Malcolm's eyes now too.  This was all he
had ever wanted.

"He's so beautiful, and he looks just like you."

"No, he doesn't."  She shook her head, wanting to say the forbidden
words .  he looks like Andre.  "He's so sweet ... where is he?"  She
looked at the nurse, suddenly terrified .  what if he was gone?  if
something happened to him .  if someone took him.  "He'll be back in a
little while.  He's sleeping in the nursery."

"I want him here, in my room."  Marielle looked | nervously at Malcolm
and he took her hand in his| own.

"He'll be all right."

"I know ... but I want to see him...."  Shi was never going to take her
eyes from him, never| going to let him go, never going to let it happen
again| .  never .  she began to feel frantic as shei looked around the
room for him, and for an instant!  she was afraid she was getting a
headache.  But the moment passed and Malcolm poured her a glass ofi
champagne, which she only pretended to sip at.  After all she'd been
through and the medication they' dA given her, even the Cristal he'd
brought wasn't totM appealing.

They brought the baby back to her after that, am she held him close to
her while he slept, and when h woke, she unbuttoned her nightgown and
nurse him.  It all came back so easily, as though nothing ha happened
since, no grief, no loss, no tragedy nothing .  the eternity of
motherhood was hers, and she was lost in love at the hands of this tiny
baby.

Malcolm watched in fascination as she nursed, and he held the baby
afterward, watching his son in adoring silence.  And later that
morning, Malcolm went home, and slept peacefully in his own bedroom,
knowing that his life was full, complete, and almost perfect.  And
despite any doubts he may have had in the past two years, he was glad
now that he had married Marielle.  The child had made it all worth
it.

The heavy oak door swung open somberly, as Marielle stepped into the
house on silent feet.  She was still serious, from having seen Charles
after so many years.  It had been a shock, but it had also touched
her.

"Good afternoon.  Madam."  The butler took her coat from her, as one of
the maids stood by to help her.  And Marielle sighed as she saw them.

It had been a difficult afternoon, a difficult day.  She could still
feel the chill of the church in her bones as she took off her gloves
and laid them beside her black suede handbag.

"Good afternoon, Haverford."  She spoke to the old butler.

"Is Mr.

Patterson at home?  "

"I don't believe so."

She nodded, and walked up the stairs, torn as to whether she should go
to her own room, or the third floor.  Often, when she wanted to visit
him, she decided not to.  At first, much to her own surprise, she had
had mixed reactions to Malcolm's child.  She had a passion and a love
for him she had never expected .  more even than the first time more
than she'd been capable of at eighteen .  more than she had known she
could ever love another human being.  And yet at the same time,
outwardly she held back from him, and often the love she felt for him
was a well-kept secret.  It was too dangerous to allow;

herself to fall that much in love with him.  She knew^ that, this time,
if something happened, it would IdlH her.  So she forced herself to
stay away from him, or,|j even appear to be a little indifferent.  But
there werief| times when she couldn't feign the pose, times when'll she
had to be with him, times when she crept upstairs!  at night on bare
feet, and just looked at him while he- was sleeping.  He was more
beautiful than any ctulEtJ she had ever seen, warmer, rounder, sweeter,
lovelier more perfect .  he was the reward for all heirf pain, the gift
from God for all she'd lost.  He wgi| everything she lived for.  ,^ Of
course Malcolm adored him as well, particular^ his bright mind and easy
ways.  He had none of we tension or fears or anxieties about Teddy's
safety.  Kl| was just an easy, happy child who brought joy to id who
knew him.  ^ He had made Malcolm greedy for more for a tva^ and for the
first year after Teddy's birth, Malcolm ha hoped to get Marielle
pregnant.  But once again, that| efforts had been in vain, and now with
Teddy, Ma|

colm was less anxious to pursue it.  His efforts were abandoned before
success was gained, and now he and Marielle kept to their own rooms
discreetly.  She didn't seem to mind and both of them were content with
the lives they led.  At thirty, Marielle had a child she adored, a
husband who treated her well, it was more than most women had these
days, and Malcolm had the heir he had longed for.  It was enough for
both of them.

And Marielle seemed calmer now in some ways, except on the subject of
Teddy's safety.  There she was leonine in her defenses.  The Lindbergh
kidnapper had been put to death more than two years before, but she
still acted as though there was a potential kidnapper on every
corner.

Malcolm was grateful to her, she took excellent care of his child, she
was a fine mother, a good wife, and she had given him the perfect,
beautiful, bright, blond baby of his dreams.  It was all he had ever
wanted.

As Marielle walked slowly up the stairs, she debated whether or not to
go on, she wasn't really in the mood to endure the nurse, and she
didn't want to disturb Teddy with Miss Griffin.  But suddenly, she
heard him.  There was a chortle of laughter far away down an upstairs
hall, and as she heard it, she smiled.  She had already seen him that
morning, and sometimes she tried to ration herself.  She had to, or he
would become an all-consuming passion.  It was a game she constantly
played with herself, never decided not to.  At first, much to her own
surprise, she had had mixed reactions to Malcolm's child.  She had a
passion and a love for him she had never expected . more even than the
first time .  more than she'd been capable of at eighteen .  more than
she had known she could ever love another human being.  And yet at the
same time, outwardly she held back from him, and often the love she
felt for him was a well-kept secret.  It was too dangerous to allow
herself to fall that much in love with him.  She knew that, this time,
if something happened, it would kill her.  So she forced herself to
stay away from him, or even appear to be a little indifferent.  But
there were times when she couldn't feign the pose, times when she had
to be with him, times when she crept upstairs at night on bare feet,
and just looked at him while he was sleeping.  He was more beautiful
than any child she had ever seen, warmer, rounder, sweeter, lovelier,
more perfect .  he was the reward for all her pain, the gift from God
for all she'd lost.

He was everything she lived for.

Of course Malcolm adored him as well, particularly his bright mind and
easy ways.  He had none of her tension or fears or anxieties about
Teddy's safety.  He was just an easy, happy child who brought joy to
all who knew him.  ;

He had made Malcolm greedy for more for a time,;

and for the first year after Teddy's birth, Malcolm had hoped to get
Marielle pregnant.  But once again, their, efforts had been in vain,
and now with Teddy, Malcolm was less anxious to pursue it.  His efforts
were abandoned before success was gained, and now he and Marielle kept
to their own rooms discreetly.  She didn't seem to mind and both of
them were content with the lives they led.  At thirty, Marielle had a
child she adored, a husband who treated her well, it was more than most
women had these days, and Malcolm had the heir he had longed for.  It
was enough for both of them.

And Marielle seemed calmer now in some ways, except on the subject of
Teddy's safety.  There she was leonine in her defenses.  The Lindbergh
kidnap- per had been put to death more than two years before, but she
still acted as though there was a potential kidnapper on every
corner.

Malcolm was grateful to her, she took excellent care of his child, she
was a fine mother, a good wife, and she had given him the perfect,
beautiful, bright, blond baby of his dreams.  It was all he had ever
wanted.

As Marielle walked slowly up the stairs, she debated whether or not to
go on, she wasn't really in the mood to endure the nurse, and she
didn't want to disturb Teddy with Miss Griffin.  But suddenly, she
heard him.  There was a chortle of laughter far away down an upstairs
hall, and as she heard it, she smiled.  She had already seen him that
morning, and sometimes she tried to ration herself.  She had to, or he
would become an all-consuming passion.  It was a game she constantly
played with herself, never al56 Danielle Steel lowing herself quite
enough, never being with him as often as she wanted, because she knew
that if she did, she would go mad if anything ever happened.  But in
truth, the child was already woven into the very fiber of her soul in
such a way that she couldn't have torn herself from him.  But if she
rationed her time with him, she could allow herself to think that she
had kept some distance and freedom.

Unfortunately, as a result, he spent the rest of the time in the
constant care of the indomitable Miss Griffin.  Malcolm had insisted
she stay with them, and after four years Marielle still disliked her.

And Miss Griffin still treated her like a somewhat deficient being.

Her migraines, her nerves, her fear of kidnappers, her barely
concealed, and obviously unhealthy, passion for the child, alternating
with periods of restraint, Miss Griffin felt it was all symptomatic of
a truly unworthy person, a view she was not embarrassed to share with
any and all who would listen whenever she visited the kitchen.  It was
Malcolm whom the governess adored," Malcolm she respected, and secretly
dreamed of.  He was her senior by a mere four years, and had fate been
kinder to her, it was Miss Griffin who would have stood in Marielle's
shoes, not that pathetic, nervous weakling, as she sometimes called
her.  She still talked about the Lindbergh child, about how traumatic
it had been, and where she'd been when she heard the news.  Of course
it had been an unpleasant business, but it had happened six years
before, and after all, the Lindberghs had had two sons since then.

Marielle stood for a long moment in the hall, listening to the child,
smiling to herself, and then, as though pulled by unseen forces, she
walked slowly up the marble stairs to the third floor, her elegant
suede shoes resounding down the long hallway as she walked toward
him.

The door of the nursery was closed, and as she reached it, she could
hear him giggle.  She should have knocked, she knew.  Miss Griffin
would be shocked by it, but she preferred the element of surprise, and
slowly she pressed down the brass handle of the door and it swung
slowly open.  As it did, a small child turned, with golden curls and
huge blue eyes, and his face exploded into smiles when he saw her.

"Mommy!"  He flew across the room and into her arms, as her own face
melted into a smile and she held him.  She picked him up and held him
close to her as he nuzzled her neck and breathed deep of her perfume.

"You smell so good."  He always noticed things like that, the way she
smelled and looked, and she loved it when he thought she looked really
pretty.  The rest of the women around him were so plain, except
Brigitte, Daddy's secretary, who sometimes came to visit him and
brought him German storybooks and German candies.  She said everything
was better in Germany, but Miss Griffin said that wasn't true.  Miss
Griffin said everything was really better in England.

"How are you today, my handsome prince?"  She kissed his cheek and set
him down again, as the governess looked at her with disapproval.

"We're very well thank you, Mrs.  Patterson.  We were about to have tea
before you interrupted."  Marielle never thought that he should drink
any of it, but Miss Griffin felt it was a sacred ritual, and Malcolm
had long since given their afternoon tea parties his official stamp of
approval.  As usual, Marielle was overruled, she thought milk and
cookies would have been healthier, and in truth Teddy preferred them.

"Good afternoon, Nanny."  Marielle smiled uncertainly at her, she was
never quite sure of how she would be received, and it made her feel
awkward to be around her.  But explaining that to Malcolm had been
impossible over the years, and sometimes it seemed as though Miss
GrifBn would stay forever.  And at four, it was too soon to say that
Teddy didn't need her.

The nurserymaid served tea to the three of them.  She was an unpleasant
Irish girl Marielle had never liked, but the housekeeper had hired her,
and Miss Griffin adored her.  She and the driver were also fast
friends, and her name was Edith.  She had dyed red hair and familiar
ways, but she did Teddy's and Miss Griffin's laundry to perfection.

And she always kept an interested eye on Marielle's wardrobe.

"And what did you do today?"  Marielle asked Teddy conspiratorially
over their tea.  He looked very | serious as he answered.

"I played with Alexander Wilson.  He has a train,"

he said with enormous importance, and went on to explain to her how it
worked, how there were little bridges set up and villages and stations,
and how he wished he'd gotten one for his birthday.  His birthday had
been two weeks before.  December was a strange month for her, so much
to rejoice over, so much to mourn.

"Maybe Santa Claus will bring you a train."  In fact, she knew that
Malcolm had already bought one, and there had been men working in the
basement for weeks, to set up a special train room, with mountains and
hills and lakes and exactly the kind of villages he had just described
seeing at the Wilsons'.

"I hope so."  He looked pensive, and then he smiled up at her again,
moving imperceptibly closer.  He loved being close to her, smelling her
perfume, feeling the silk of her hair, and letting her kiss him the way
she had when she first saw him.  She was the most exciting person he
knew, and he loved her more than anything .  even trains .  "Did you do
something nice today?"  He always asked, as though he really cared,
just as he asked Malcolm and Brigitte how things were at the office. 
It made Malcolm smile.  And he always said Brigitte was very beautiful,
almost as beautiful as his mommy, which pleased the girl from Berlin.
She thought him an adorable child, and Marielle had allowed her to take
him to the zoo on several occasions, and once she had taken him to the
Empire State Building, which he said was the most exciting thing he'd
ever done.  When he came home that day he'd been so emphatic, he even
told Brigitte he loved her.

"I went to church today," Marielle said quietly, as Miss Griffin
watched her.  Teddy looked surprised, usually he went with her, but
today he hadn't.

"Is today Sunday?"

"No," she smiled, wondering if she would ever tell him.  Perhaps when
he was a man, she suspected even now that one day he would be the land
of person you could talk to.

"But I went anyway."

"Was it nice?"  She nodded.  It had been "nice" and sad .  and she had
seen Charles, after all these years.  She hadn't had the courage to
tell him about Teddy.  It seemed unfair.  He was fighting wars in
Spain, risking his life, perhaps hoping to die, as she had.

But now she had this wonderful child, this ray of hope and sunshine to
fill her days and life.  On this particular day of the year, she
couldn't bring herself to tell Charles that she'd had another baby.

All she had told him was about Malcolm.  And she knew she wouldn't call
him again.  She couldn't .  it wasn't right .  he was part of another
lifetime.

"I went to Saint Patrick's Cathedral.  You know.  the big, big
church.

We went there last year, at Easter.  "

He nodded, like a small, wise man.

"I remember.  Can we go again?"  He liked watching the ice skaters
across the street, at Rockefeller Center.

She stayed with him for a long time, talking to him, holding him, and
reading him a story, until Miss Griffin said it was time for his bath,
and Teddy turned imploringly to look at his mother.

"Can't you stay?  Please ..."  She wanted to, more than anything, but
she knew that disrupting Miss Griffin's routine was a breach of conduct
the nurse would not easily forgive her.

"I can give him his bath," she said hesitantly, knowing full well what
was going to be the reaction.  Miss Griffin hated interference.

"There's no need, thank you, Mrs.  Patterson."  She stood up crisply.

"Kiss your mother good night, please, Theodore, and tell her you'll see
her in the morning."  It was a hint of sorts.  And Marielle understood
it.

"But I don't want to see her in the morning.  I want to see her now"
And I want to see you now too, she wanted to tell him .  I want to give
you your bath, and make dinner for you, and put you in my bed and hold
you till you fall asleep, and kiss your little eyes and cheeks and nose
while you're sleeping.  But they wouldn't let her do things like that.
She had to visit the nursery, and have tea with him, and say good night
to him hours before bedtime.

"We'll go to the park tomorrow, sweetheart.  Maybe to the boat pond."

"There's a birthday party at the Oldenfields' tomorrow afternoon,
Mrs.

Patterson.  " Marielle was clearly interfering with their more
important social engagements.

"Then I'll take him in the morning."  She looked at

Miss Griffin defiantly, but to no avail, the older woman always won,
and she had Malcolm's support and knew it.  Marielle always felt so
powerless here, so out of control, as though she didn't exist and had
never existed.

"We'll go tomorrow morning."  She looked at Teddy reassuringly but
there were tears running down his little round cheeks anyway.  Tomorrow
was too far away, for both of them, and he knew it.

"Can't you stay?"  She shook her head sadly in answer, and held him
close to her for a moment.  And then she stood up, trying to look
lighthearted, as he was led away, crying, to his bathroom.  As she
left, Marielle closed the door softly behind her.  She always felt so
cruel leaving him, he was being brought up by strangers, not even
friends, and Marielle herself didn't dare defy them.  She had been
brought into this house to have this child, and once she had, she no
longer seemed to serve any purpose whatsoever.  It was hard to live
with that, hard to feel useless and unwelcome.  And yet her life with
Malcolm was something she was grateful for, and she had the child . 
but that was all she had, and why he was so infinitely, desperately
precious to her.

She went to her own dressing room then, thinking of him, and changed
into a long, pink satin dressing gown, and looked at herself long and
hard in the mirror.  In some ways, the years had been kind to her.  Her
figure had stayed the same, despite two children, but her face seemed
older now, more sharply etched,

more defined and wiser.  The eyes were what gave her away, they said
she had lived several lifetimes.  And as she sat there, she found
herself thinking of Charles again, only a few blocks away, and for an
insane moment, she wanted to call him, but she knew she couldn't.

There was nothing left to say to him except recriminations and
apologies and regrets.  There were no answers to their questions and
now they both knew there never would be.

Malcolm came home shortly after that, and told her he had a business
dinner scheduled for that evening.  It had come up unexpectedly, and he
apologized, as he kissed the top of her head and disappeared hastily to
his own bedroom.  She ordered a tray in her room that night, and tried
to read the same page of the same book over and over, but she found she
couldn't make sense of it, no matter how hard she tried.  Her mind was
elsewhere.

All through the evening, memories of Charles kept intruding on her .
Charles in Paris when he was so brave, so wild, so young .  in Venice
in Rome on their honeymoon .  of Charles laughing .  teasing her .
swimming in a lake .  running through a field .  and then the last time
in Switzerland .  and now, today.  She laid her head down, and cried
finally, unable to bear the memories a moment longer.  And finally,
late that night, as the house lay still, she tiptoed silently upstairs
and looked at the sleeping child.  She knelt on the floor next to his
bed and kissed the velvet of his forehead, and then tiptoed back
downstairs to the room where she slept alone.  She was aching to call
Charles, but she owed Malcolm too much.

He had done too much for her.  She could not call Charles, no matter
what .  no matter what she still felt, or what he had said .  she knew
her days with Charles Delauney were over forever.

05^The next morning, Marielle made one of her rare appearances in the
dining room for breakfast.  Usually, she had her breakfast in her room
on a tray, but this morning she had woken early.  She found Malcolm
downstairs, finishing his coffee and eggs, and reading the morning
paper.  In Italy, Mussolini had just demanded that France hand over
Corsica and Tunisia.

"Good morning, my dear."  He was always courteous, always land, always
seemed pleased to see her, like a charming houseguest he hadn't
expected to encounter quite so early.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not very," she said honestly, which was rare.  Usually it was easier
to just say what was expected .  fine .  thank you .  excellent .
marvelous .  but her night had been filled with nightmares.

"One of your headaches again?"  He put down the paper to look her over,
but she seemed well.  In fact, she looked better than she had in a
while, he decided.

"No, just a long night.  I probably drank too much coffee after
dinner."

"You should drink wine, or champagne."  He smiled.

"That'll put you to sleep."

She smiled in answer.

"Are you home tonight?"

"I think so.  We'll spend a quiet evening by the fire."  Everything was
always such a frenzy right before Christmas, the week before they had
been out five evenings in a row, at least this week was quiet.

"What are you doing today?"

"I thought I'd take Teddy to the park this morning."  She led such a
small life, he felt.  She seldom went out, never had lunch with
friends.  He had introduced her to everyone, yet even after all these
years, she kept to herself.  She was a very quiet young woman.  And
when he pressed her about it from time to time, she always said she
didn't have time, but the truth was she didn't have the courage.  And
only she knew what terrible sins she thought she was hiding.

"I want to take him to Snow White too.  Do you think he's too young?"

Marielle asked him.  It had just opened earlier that year, and it was
an enormous hit.

Malcolm shook his head as he set down his paper.

"Not at all.  I think he'll love it.  That reminds me.  I want to check
on the progress of the train room.  They're working down there like
elves."  It was only twelve days until Christmas.

"Will it be ready in time?"  She knew it would, with I

Malcolm in charge of the project.  He tolerated no broken deadlines.

"I certainly hope so.  By the way, I'm going to Washington next week.

Would you like to come?  "

"To see your friends again?"  He had important friends in the War
Department, and he loved going to Washington to see them.  He nodded.

"About some important business I'm doing.  And then I have an
appointment with the German ambassador, about a project in Berlin."

"You sound as though you'll be very busy."

"I will, but you're more than welcome to come with me."  But she knew
perfectly well that he would have no time for her there, and despite
his invitation, she would only be a burden.  And she had so much to do
before Christmas.

"I'd really love to stay here and get organized.  Would you be upset if
I didn't come?"

"Of course not, my dear.  It's up to you.  I'll be back very
quickly."

"Maybe after the New Year," she suggested, wondering if she was failing
him, or if he'd be angry at her not going.  She was always afraid of
doing the wrong thing, or hurting someone, or letting him down, or not
being wherever, or not doing something she should be.  But where should
she be?  With Malcolm in Washington, or here with Teddy?

Those decisions had become difficult for her over the last nine years,
because if you made the wrong choice, it could cost you all you had.
She had learned that lesson and paid for it dearly.

"Is that all right?"  she asked nervously.

"It's fine."  He was quick to reassure her.  He kissed her good-bye
then, and a little while later, she went I upstairs to dress.  And
later that morning, as promised, she went out with Teddy.  Miss Griffin
had attempted to accompany her, but for once Marielle had been firm and
told her that she and Teddy wanted to be alone for the morning.  He was
thrilled with what she said, and Miss Griffin was so outraged that, as
Marielle and Teddy made their way downstairs, they heard the nursery
door bang smartly behind them.  Teddy only laughed, and Marielle smiled
as she put his coat on, and Brigitte stopped to chat with them for a
minute, on her way upstairs to see Malcolm.

"Are you going somewhere exciting this morning, Theodore?"  She said it
with her very slight German | accent, and her eyes exchanged a warm
smile with|| Marielle.  Marielle had always felt that the two of^ them
might have been friends, had circumstancesH been different.  But
Malcolm would never have tolerated Marielle befriending his
employees.

"We're going to the park," Teddy said proudly glancing at Marielle with
the full measure of his affection.  And then, noticing the blue dress
his father's secretary had on, he executed a little bow that brought a
smile to Brigitte's lips.

"I like your dressy Briggy.  You look very pretty."

The young German woman laughed, and blushed faintly.

"Perhaps you will tell me that again in anothe twenty years, young man,
yes?"  Teddy looked a little baffled by the suggestion, as both women
smiled.

"Never mind, thank you very much.  I think you look very handsome too.
Is that a new coat?"  It was the navy blue English coat with matching
cap which Miss Griffin had ordered for him, and which he hated.

"No."  He shook his head matter-of-factly.

"It's my old one."  And then he looked up at his mother.  She had her
fur coat on, and they were both ready.

"All set?"  She smiled down at him and he nodded, and then stood on
tiptoe to plant a kiss on Brigitte's cheek, noticing the faint musk of
her perfume.

"Have a good time, Theodore."  She waved, as he left, hand in hand with
his mother, and he turned back once for a last wave at Brigitte.

It was freezing outside, as it had been the day before, and she decided
to have Patrick drive them up Fifth Avenue, to bring them closer to the
boat pond.  Teddy chatted all along, and as they walked into Central
Park from Fifth, Marielle was telling him about Paris when she lived
there.  Malcolm loved telling him about his trips to Berlin, and she
knew that Miss Griffin was always rhapsodizing to him about England.

"One day we'll go on a trip to Europe, on a big ship, like the
Nonnandie," and then she told him all about that, as he listened to her
wide-eyed.

"Will Daddy come too?"  The idea of a trip on a ship really thrilled
him.

"Of course.  We'll all go."  She loved going on trips with him.  She
hated leaving him behind, which was one of the reasons why she didn't
like traveling with Malcolm and was relieved that he seldom asked
her.

Teddy looked thoughtful as they walked along hand in hand, the wind
bitter cold on their faces.  His nose was red and her eyes watered but
they were well bundled up in coats and hats and scarves and mittens.

"Maybe Daddy will be too busy," he said with regret, and Marielle tried
to reassure him.

"No, I'm sure he'll come if we take a trip like that."  She tried to
sound lighthearted as she said it.  But he, was right, Malcolm was
always busy, especially lately.

"Maybe we could meet him in Berlin, if he's too busy to come with us,"
Teddy said with a matter-of- fact air.  He was so bright.  He noticed
everything.  Even that Malcolm did a lot of business with the
Germans.

It was why Brigitte was so useful to him, and probably why she had
lasted for six years in his office.  She was incredibly efficient, as
well as nice, and his dealings with Germany seemed to have tripled over
the years of their marriage.

"Maybe we could go to London too," Teddy added out of kindness to Miss
Griffin.

"And we could see Big Ben, and the Tower of London ... and Buckingham
Palace ... and the King!"  He seemed very impressed by everything Miss
Griffin had told him| and Marielle smiled as they walked along and
Rnallyj reached the boat pond.  But there was a thin layer of ice on it
today, and she felt a shiver run through her.

Marielle pulled the child close to her, as though something evil waited
for them there, and pulled him away from it very quickly.

"There's no one here today.  Let's go see the Carousel."  But she was
very pale in the chill wind as she said it.

"I wanted to see the boats."  He looked so disappointed.

"There are none."  She was looking frightened, but he was too young to
know it.

"Come on ... let's go-" "Can we walk on the ice?"  he asked, fascinated
by the thin crust that lay across most of the boat pond, but she pulled
him away even harder.

"Never, ever do that, Teddy, do you hear me?"  He nodded, startled by
the vehemence of her reaction.  It was then that she looked across the
ice, and thought she saw him.  It seemed impossible this time, as
though her mind were playing tricks on her again.  Maybe she was
finally going mad.  Maybe coming here today, to the pond, with its thin
veil of ice on it, had been too much for her.

She closed her eyes for a moment, as though to clear her vision, and
then opened them again, very quickly.

"We're going home."  Her voice was a croak of terror as her eyes darted
between Teddy and the man she thought she saw across the lake, as
though she were still not sure of what she was seeing.

"Now?"  Teddy looked as though he might cry.

"We just got here.  I don't want to go home.  Can't we go to the
Carousel?"

"I'm sorry ... we'll go for a drive ... the zoo ... tea ... maybe the
skaters ..."  anything to get away from here.  As she stood there, her
whole body began shaking.  But as she tried to lead the child away, the
man she had seen ran as fast as he could around the lake, coming toward
them.  And as he reached her, his black hair was disheveled, his eyes
looked wild, and she saw with dismay that she knew she hadn't been
mistaken.  As Teddy saw the look on his mother's face, he was suddenly
frightened.  His mother had always instilled in him a vague terror
about strangers, and this one looked particularly dreadful.  He was
tall and disheveled and he seemed to swoop down on them breathlessly,
and without warning, he grabbed both of Marielle's shoulders in his
hands, looked her in the eye, and then stared down at Teddy.  But at
least she knew now she wasn't mad.  She hadn't dreamed him.  It was
Charles, and then she remembered how close the boat pond was to the
Delauney mansion.  He had had a long drunken, sleepless night himself,
and had come out for some air to sober up before a meeting with his
father's lawyers.

"What are you doing here?"  He looked at her, and then at the boy.

"And who is that?"  There was something of Andre in his face, and yet
he was so different.  There was something almost angelic about this
child's face, it was a face you wanted to kiss, with eyes that made you
want to laugh the moment you saw him.

"This is Teddy," she said quietly, her voice still shaking.

"Teddy who?"  He stared at her accusingly, and she suspected instantly
that he was not entirely sober.

"This is Teddy Patterson."  She straightened her chin and looked
Charles in the eye.  He couldn't do this to her, couldn't make her feel
guilty again, couldn't ruin her life .  or could he?  "My son."  Teddy
held tightly to her hand wondering who the man was.  He thought he
looked pretty scary.

"You didn't tell me that yesterday.  You only told me about Malcolm."

His eyes bore into hers so hard it was almost painful to meet his gaze,
but nonetheless she met it.  She was braver than Malcolm thought.

But Charles had always known that.

"It didn't seem the time or place to tell you."

"Why not?"  He was accusing her again.  He was angry at her.

"Why didn't you tell me?"  She knew his anger too well.  It was the
same anger which, nine years before, had almost killed her.

"It seemed unfair to tell you about him yesterday."

"And now?"  His eyes were furious and his face was right next to hers,
as Teddy watched in terror.  In a minute, he was going to scream, if he
could, if only to protect her.

"Is it unfair?"  Charles asked again, this time louder, seeming very
drunk now.  But she was calm, and in total control.  She had Teddy with
her, and she was not going to let Charles hurt them.  No matter what
had happened in the past, he no longer scared her.  She could not let
him.

"I don't think we should discuss this now."  She pulled Teddy closer to
her, and gently touched his face so he wouldn't be afraid.  But it only
seemed to make Charles more angry.  He was still such a
striking-looking man, and she still felt weak in the knees when she
looked at him, but he seemed so out of control now.

"Why do you have a child?"  He shouted at her as she tried not to
flinch, so she wouldn't frighten Teddy.

"What do I have?"

"I don't know ... your battles in Spain ... your beliefs ... your
friends ... your writing ... if you have nothing else, perhaps that's a
choice you made."  She was desperate not to discuss it in front of
Teddy, but she was afraid just to walk away and make Charles even more
angry.  She held tightly to the child's hand, trying to give him
courage with her pressure.

"That's a choice you made, seven years ago when you left me," Charles
shot at her.

"You made that choice for me.  We could have had more children."

"We have to go now."  She began to cry as she said the words and Teddy
stared at them, wondering what it all meant as she spoke to Charles
again, this time more softly.

"What land of life could we have had?

You hated me, and you were right then, I hated myself too .  maybe I
always will .  but Charles, I couldn't have stood it.  I couldn't have
looked you in the eye, knowing how you felt about me.  " She had told
him all that seven years ago, before she left Europe.

"I told you I wanted you back," he said stubbornly.

"It was too late then."  She took a breath and wiped her eyes,
forgetting Teddy for an instant.

"I think you'd always have blamed me, just as I blamed myself."

She had still loved him in some ways, but she could never have stayed
with him, not after what happened.

Charles looked down at Teddy then, as though he still could not believe
he even existed.  He was a beautiful child, in some ways, even more
beautiful than Andre.  And then Charles looked at Marielle again,
wanting desperately to hurt her.

"You don't deserve this," he raised his voice to her, and for an insane
moment, he wanted to slap her.  Why had she married again?  Why did she
have this child?  Why in God's name had she left him?  But they both
knew why, and perhaps it could never have been any different.

"You don't deserve him," he said with the cruelty she still remembered.
It was the other side of their great love, the side that had battered
her before she left him.

"Perhaps not."

"You shouldn't have left me."

"I had no choice.  If I'd stayed, it would have killed me."  And he
knew that was true too.  They had both gone more than a little crazy.
She with attempted suicides, he with his wild attack on her the night
it happened.  But they had both been so mortally wounded by what had
happened.

"Perhaps we would all have been better off dead...."  There were tears
in his eyes now too, as Teddy drew even closer to his mother.

"That's a terrible thing to say."

"For yon, maybe ... you have a life now ... a husband ... a child.

And why should you?  Why should you, dammit, when I still wake up every
day thinking of him .  and of you .  wishing I had died with him.  Do
you ever think of him?  Do you ever remember .  or is it all forgotten?
" But as he said the words, fury suddenly raged in her eyes.

Fury born of years of pain and anguish, about which Charles knew
nothing.

"How dare you?  There isn't a day that I don't remember, that I don't
think about him ... that I don't see his face if I close my eyes ... or
even yours...."  Just as she had seen them the night before as she lay
sleepless, remembering, fighting herself not to call him.

"But nothing is going to bring him back, no matter how badly we destroy
our lives now, or each other.  He's gone ... he's at peace ... perhaps
it's time for us to be at peace too."

"I will never be at peace without you."  He raged at her, looking young
again, and this time she smiled at him, and shook her head.  In some
ways, despite the fact that he was older, he seemed even more childish.
He hadn't gone on, hadn't grown, hadn't healed, he had just stayed
there, doing the same crazy things he had done as a boy, playing the
expatriate, fighting other people's wars, and in some ways, hiding from
being a grownup.

"That's a stupid thing to say.  You don't even know who I am now.  Or
maybe even who I was then.  Maybe it would have all died a normal death
anyway, if things had been different."  She looked down at Teddy then,
and smiled at him, and pulled him close beside her.

"Teddy, this is an old friend.  His name is Charles, and sometimes he
acts a little crazy, but he's a nice man.  Would you like to say
hello?"  Teddy shook his head firmly and hid in the folds of her fur
coat.  They had spoken much too freely, but at four, a lot of it had
missed him.  The tone hadn't, the anger, the passion, but the history
was too complicated for him to follow.

"I'm sorry if I frightened him."  He looked briefly remorseful, but
still like a madman.  He hadn't shaved since the day before, and
everything about him looked wild and woolly.

"You should be.  And for what?  Can you really hold this against me?"
He looked at her and then at the boy long and hard, and when he looked
back at her, the look in his eyes hadn't mellowed.  Instead he
frightened her more, and he seemed even drunker.  For the first time in
a long time, she knew real terror.  It reminded her of the bad times
when Charles had become a stranger.

"He should be mine.  By all rights ... he should be."  He was staring
hard at Teddy, hidden in her coat, and Marielle looked at Charles
firmly.

"But he isn't yours, Charles."

"What right did you have to move on ... to do this ... to have a child
without me?"  As he said the words, his fury seemed to be growing.

"You agreed to the divorce, I had every right."  She refused to be
bullied.

"You said that if I didn't, it would kill you."

"It nearly did."  And they both knew she meant it.

"I'd rather you were dead than have this child without me."  His eyes
were like daggers into her heart as he said it, and she shrunk back
from him, frightened and disgusted, wondering how she had ever loved
him, reminded of how irrational he could be, and why she had left
him.

"Charles, stop it."  He reached out and grabbed her arm then, and Teddy
let out a small shriek and jumped behind her.

"You're frightening the child.  It's not fair.  Stop it!"

"I don't give a damn.  He's mine ... by all rights, he should be."

"Stop!"  She spat the word at him, no longer afraid of him or anyone as
she wrenched her arm free.  She was not going to watch her life fall
around her.

"He's not yours, and neither am I ... and Andre wasn't ours either.  No
one belongs to anyone else in this world.  We all belong to God, and
we're here on loan to each other ... and when the loan is up, it's over
and it's terrible ... and it hurts like hell ... and sometimes it comes
much too soon ... but we didn't own him ... you didn't own me, or I you
and I don't own Teddy."

"You love him, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"And he loves you?"

"Yes."

"Why do you have that, and I have nothing?"

"Maybe because I'm lucky.  Or maybe because Malcolm felt sorry for me
or maybe just because that's the way it is, or I'm willing to pay a
price you aren't."

"And what price is that?  What price did you pay to marry him?"  She
had married a man she didn't love and who didn't love her and she knew
it.

It was not as easy as one might have thought.  But it was also
something Charles would never even have considered doing for a
moment.

"What exactly did you give up when you married him?"

Hope .  love .  tenderness .  the kind of love and passion they had
once shared .  the kind of love that she knew existed.

"Everybody gives up something when they get married."  Out of loyalty
to Malcolm, she would never have told Charles the truth.

"Perhaps I gave up the past."

"I'm deeply impressed by your sacrifice," he said scornfully, glaring
at her through the booze.

"I'm deeply impressed by your behavior.  You're as bad as ever."  He
had upset Teddy and her, and they had resolved nothing.  There was
nothing to resolve anymore.  It was over.

"There's no reason to do this to me, or yourself.  What do you think
you're going to accomplish?"  But he was staring at Teddy again, and
the way he looked at him made her nervous.  He was like that when he
drank.  It had happened in the old days too, he would drink too much
and stay drunk all night and the next morning, and Rnally go more than
a little crazy.  He had destroyed an entire hotel room once, and a bar,
and a restaurant, and nearly killed two men .  and her, but only once.
Only once .  but she knew what he was capable of.  It was hard to
forget it.

"I apologize."  He looked at her unhappily, but he didn't sound as
though he meant it.  He looked down at Teddy then, who was peeking
around his mother.

"I apologize to you too, young man.  I have been extremely rude to you
and your mother.  It's a bad habit I have, but I've known her for a
long time, almost since we were children."  They had almost been
children then.  Eighteen and twenty-three .  My Cod, they'd been
babies.  And then he looked at Teddy more seriously.

"One day, I would like to get to know you."  Teddy didn't look as
though he reciprocated the feeling, but he nodded politely.

"I had a little boy once too ... his name was Andre...."  Charles's
eyes filled with tears as he looked at Marielle again.

"I'm sorry ... maybe it's just because yesterday was so difficult ...
and seeing you ... dammit" He looked away and sniffed to try to clear
his head.

"Why is it always just there?  Why does it hurt so damn much?  Is it
like that for you too?"  He looked at her questioningly, but he was
calmer again, and she nodded.

She had told him that at church the day before too, but he'd forgotten.
And he'd started drinking the moment he left her.

"We should go back now," she said again.

"It's getting late."  Teddy had to have lunch, and go to the birthday
party he was attending with Miss Griffin.  In the end, it hadn't been
much of a morning.  In fact, it had been horrendous.  And she was
sorry.  Her time with Teddy was so precious.

"I'm sorry we ran into you like this."  It had been easier the day
before, before he knew about her son.  Now he was filled with anger and
resentment.  All during the night, he had drowned himself in alcohol
and self-pity.  But now he had set his feelings ablaze with the
incendiary fumes of jealousy and fury.

"I'm leaving next week.  I decided yesterday.  Will you see me?"

She shook her head, holding Teddy's hand firmly in her own.

"Why not?"

"You know why.  You're angry at me anyway, if we see each other it will
just make things worse.  Why torture ourselves with what we can't have
now?"

"Who's to say what we can't have?  You're not happy, it's written all
over you.  You're nervous, taut, wound up like a tight screw, your
insides all tied in a knot.  We can have anything we damn well want, if
we've got the guts to take it."  He seemed threatening somehow, when he
said it.

"That's a nice attitude, Charles."

"I can do whatever I damn well please."

"How fortunate for you."

"I want you."

"Don't say that."  Her eyes blazed at him.

"And even if you do, so what?  We 'take it," as you put it, and you
leave and go back to Spain.

Where would that leave me?  " She was trying to reason with him, but it
wasn't easy in the state he was in.

"Maybe it'll leave you happier than you are today.  Or maybe you'd like
to come with me."  The simplicity of it almost made her laugh.  After
six years she was supposed to just walk out on Malcolm, and their
child, and go back to Europe with Charles as though nothing had ever
happened.  He really was more than a little crazy.

"You could even bring the boy."

"Your hospitality overwhelms me.  And Malcolm?  What happens to him
after all this?"

"You win ... you lose ... he loses ..."  ^ "That's a rotten thing to
suggest, Charles, and you;;

know it.  You also know me well enough to know l| wouldn't do it.  "

"Perhaps," he said, grabbing her wrist in his powerful hand, "perhaps
you could be forced...."  " " Charles, this is not Spain, and you are
not fighting for my freedom.

This is ridiculous," but she was trying to cover the fact that the look
in his eyes scared her.

"How ridiculous would it be if I took something you wanted--or
loved--very much ... and then perhaps you could be ... induced, shall
we say ... to join me?"

"What exactly are you saying?"  Even the thought of what he was
suggesting terrified her.

"I think you understand me."

"You wouldn't do a thing like that."  He was suggesting that he kidnap
Teddy in order to make her go with him, but he was mad, and even he
wouldn't do that.  Or would he?  His eyes said he would.  But history
said he couldn't.  Or could he?

"It all depends on how desperate I am, doesn't it?  ... doesn't it?  .
" He suddenly let go of her wrist and laughed, and she looked at him
with terror.  It would be a relief when she knew that he was gone
again.  She was suddenly sorry that she had run into him at the church
the day before.  Perhaps he still mourned for Andre too, but it had
obviously twisted him into someone she no longer knew and didn't want
to.

"If you ever did anything like that, I want you to know that you would
never get away with it, and instead of making me follow you ... I would
kill you ... and so would my husband," "You terrify me."  He laughed
drunkenly again.

"You make me sick.  We had something beautiful that I've cherished in
my heart for twelve years ... along with the memory of someone sweet
and pure ... and you use it in this vile way to poison yourself and
everyone around you.  That isn't what he We about, and it isn't what
you were about then."

"Perhaps I've changed."  He smiled evilly at he but the tragedy for
both of them was that he real] hadn't.  He still loved her, still
longed for their chil( wished she'd return, and that they could
recapture past long gone and never to be forgotten.

"Good-bye."  She looked at him sadly for a Ion moment, and smiled
gently down at Teddy, as the walked away.

"We're going home now."

There We nothing more to say to Charles and he was staring i them as
they walked away, but this time he didn't as her to call him.  He was
angry at her, angrier than h had ever been.  She felt colder than ever
as they walked back to the car, and Teddy said not a word until they
reached it.

"I don't like him," he said quietly, as the chauffeu closed the doors
of the Fierce-Arrow.  Patrick had followed them into the park,
according to Malcolm orders to him, to ensure their safety, and he had
see Charles again, but he had heard none of the convel sat ion He
recognized him from the church, and h was ever more intrigued by what
Marielle was up to It was odd that she had taken the boy with her, bi
maybe she wanted the boy to meet him.

"He's not a bad man," Marielle said sadly as the drove toward home.

"He's very unhappy.  We used f be very good friends."

Teddy nodded, trying to understand it.  And the he looked at her again,
and asked a question she hadn't expected.

"Who's Andre?"  Her breath caught as he asked and she took a moment
before she answered.

"Andre was his little boy.  He died ... a long time ago ... and Charles
has been very sad ever since then.  That's what makes him act so
crazy."  Teddy nodded then, as though now everything was clear to him.
And then he looked up at his mother.

"Did you know Andre too?"  She fought back tears as she nodded and held
his hand tightly.  She had wanted to tell him one day, but not like
this, and not hiding behind the subterfuge she had to use now.  But he
was too young, and it was too soon.  And she still had to try and
answer his questions.

"I knew him too," she said sadly, wiping a tear from her cheek.

"Was he nice?"  That was always important to Teddy, and Marielle felt a
sob lodge in her throat, begging to spring forward, but she wouldn't
let it.

"He was very sweet ... and very young when he died."  There were tears
rolling slowly down her cheeks, and she wasn't sure what to say to
Teddy.  There was really nothing more to say to him.  She just held him
close to her, more grateful than ever that she had him.  She was
frightened too over what Charles had said to her.  And she wondered if
he meant it.  Would he take the boy, to force her to come with him?  It
was unimaginable.  She knew they were empty threats.  He would never do
anything to hurt

Teddy.

"I'm sorry we met him today.  I wanted to have a nice time with you at
the boat pond."

"That's okay."  He smiled up at her.

"I always like to be with you."  He always said the thing that meltec
her heart, and made her love him.

"How about if we go to see Snow White tomorrow?"  It was Sunday, and
usually Malcolm liked to d< paperwork at home, which left her at loose
ends.  An< the best part was that Miss Griffin was off, and then would
be no interference whatsoever.  Teddy would be with Marielle all day,
with Betty's help if she needed it, and Edith would baby-sit for him in
the evening.

"Wow!  Can we do that?  Can we really see Snow White?"

"We sure can.  I'll arrange it."  He leapt out of the car when they got
home and raced up the front step as Haverford opened the door for them,
and almos smiled as young Master Theodore exploded into the house as he
entered.

And as he did so, he almost collided with his father For a moment,
Marielle wondered if he would tel Malcolm about Charles, but he was in
too much ofi hurry to get to lunch and get ready for the party, an he
was much too excited about Snow White to ever think about the odd man
they had met in Central Park.  Teddy was halfway to the third floor be
fori Marielle even got her coat off.

"Where have you two been?"  Malcolm asked conversationally He had been
to the office and back.  Hi liked going in on Saturdays, and now he was
going to his club for lunch with an old friend visiting from
California.  They were all rituals he enjoyed, and that were important
to him.

"We went to the boat pond, but it was frozen."

"It must have been awfully chilly," he said, looking at her, and she
nodded.

"You're going out?"  she asked, wondering where he was going.

"Yes," he gave her a businesslike lass on the cheek, "but don't forget
dinner at the Whytes' this evening."  They were giving a Christmas
dance, and she was planning to wear a fabulous dress Malcolm had bought
her from Madame Gres in Paris.  It was all made of tiny, tiny folds of
shimmering white satin, and she was going to wear it with diamonds at
her throat and ears, silver shoes, and a floor-length ermine coat he'd
given her for her birthday.  It was quite an outfit.

"Do we have anything tomorrow night too?"  Suddenly she couldn't
remember.  But it reminded him of the note he had just left on her desk
that morning.

"I'm leaving for Washington a day early.  I want to go down tomorrow
afternoon, and have a quiet dinner with the Secretary of Commerce
tomorrow night, and be ready for a full day of business with the
ambassador on Monday."  In fact, he was so serious about the trip, he
was taking both of his secretaries with him.

"Is that all right with you?"  They both knew it didn't matter if it
wasn't, but he was always good about asking, and she was equally so
about playing the game, pretending to "allow him."

"It's fine.  I have a date with your son to see Snow White tomorrow
afternoon, and we'll have a quiet evening."  She smiled at her
husband.

His courteous ways were such a relief, after seeing Charles act like a
madman.

"You're sure you won't come?"

"We'll be fine here."  She smiled again, and he kissed her forehead.

He signaled to Patrick that he was ready, and the driver went back out
to the car to wait for him, as ;

Haverford handed him his homburg.

"See you later, my dear.  Have a nice afternoon.  Rest up for this
evening.  You don't want to get one of your headaches."  I Sometimes
she thought they all treated her like a cripple.  Of course, the
meeting with Charles would | have been the perfect spark to provoke
one, but she| was fine all afternoon.  She saw Teddy before and after
he went out, and she went upstairs to kiss him I again before she went
out for the evening.  Miss Griffin growled when she did, she felt she
had already I seen enough of him for one day, but sometimes it was 4
fun to let him see how she looked when she was| dressed for the
evening, and he loved it.  He oohed| and aahed over everything she was
wearing.  ^ The Madame Gres dress looked sensational on her;| It clung
to her figure like angels' wings, and Malcolm| said she looked like a
goddess when he saw her.  She won the attention of the Whytes' dinner
guests too everyone was in awe of how she looked, and most of the men
told Malcolm how lucky he was to have a wife half his age, and so
incredibly lovely.

She was quiet that night on the way home from the party, and he told
her again how beautiful she had looked.  She smiled her thanks, but she
was thinking about Charles and the threats he had made in the park
about Teddy.  She decided that Charles was just enraged, she was sure
that he would never harm a child, hers, or anyone else's.  He was just
frustrated at her refusal to see him and he didn't know what else to
do, except threaten.  But she was glad she had decided not to see
him.

It would have just fanned old flames, and made them both unhappy.  Had
things been different between them, she would have told Malcolm, but
under the circumstances, she knew she couldn't.  He had no idea how
important Charles had been to her, or that he'd even existed, let alone
that they'd been married and had a child, who had died, or what reason
Charles might have to resent Teddy.

"You seem preoccupied."  He had noticed it too, but it gave her a
dreamy look that made her seem even more beautiful, and for the first
time in a long time, he found he wanted her, which surprised him.

"I was just thinking."

"What about?"

"Nothing special."

"Well, you look very special to me."  She smiled again, still looking
distracted, and for reasons of his own, Malcolm decided not to pursue
it.

Marielle took Teddy to see Snow White the following afternoon.  It was
playing at the Radio City Music Hall, and they went to Schrafft's for
hot chocolate afterward.  It was a perfect afternoon for both of
them.

Teddy said he loved it when Miss Griffin had a day off, which made
Marielle wish, more than ever, that she would leave them.  It reminded
her to broach the subject again with Malcolm.  He still thought that
Miss Griffin did the boy good, she instilled manners in him, and
according to Malcolm, as far as governesses went, there was nobody like
the British.  But she was far from their minds as Marielle and Teddy
drove home again, and that night she gave him a bath in her own
enormous marble bathtub, and he loved it.  They used tons of bubble
bath and got it all over the bath room, and Edith, the redheaded Irish
girl, looked furious when she saw it.  She was supposed to be
baby-sitting for Teddy that night, but she had long since made other
plans with Patrick.  They were going to a Christmas dance at the Irish
Dance Hall in the Bronx, and she had already gotten Betty, the young
kitchen maid to agree to come up and baby-sit for him while she went
out.  And when she got back, she would slip a five-dollar bill into
Betty's hand, get into the bed in the nursery spare room, and nobody
would be the wiser.  So she didn't appreciate the mess they had made,
and the fact that she'd have to clean it up before she went anywhere,
unless she could get one of the others to do it for her, which was
unlikely.  I Marielle had dinner with Teddy in the nursery sitting room
that night, and she read him a story before he went to bed.  Later she
sang Christmas carols to him and stroked his hair, and he fell asleep
as he lay next to his mother in his red pajamas.  It was a far cry from
his swift, brisk good nights, and the freezing cold open windows he
experienced with Miss Griffin.  I And Marielle slid gently off his bed
so as not to wake , him.

As she walked back downstairs to her own rooms,.  ;

Marielle wondered if she was spoiling him, as MissJl Griffin said, and
if she was, if it really mattered.  ^ Lately, Marielle had been
spending more and morel time with him, and she seemed to be having
trouble!  keeping her distance.  Her old fears about getting too| close
seemed to have been cast to the winds, and she| thrived on being with
him.  And if she loved him too'J

much, what harm could it do?  What difference could it make?  She was
so lucky to have him.  And she refused to let herself believe that
anything could happen.  Malcolm was right, she worried about too many
things, and it was time she stopped it.

She went to bed with a copy of Rebecca, and Malcolm called her from
Washington when he returned from dinner.  It was after ten o'clock, and
he said he had had a delightful evening.  He had dined with Harry
Hopkins, who would be replacing Daniel Roper as Secretary of Commerce
in the next two weeks, although it was still very much a secret.  Louis
Howe, FDR's right-hand man, had been there too.  And they had talked
extensively about FDR's feelings about Europe.  He was beginning to
feel that war was inevitable, but he still hoped that with any luck at
all, it could be avoided.

The German ambassador had told Malcolm how well things were going in
Berlin.  There was no doubt that the German army was stepping up its
activities, but he assured Malcolm that his investments were safe
there.  And when Malcolm questioned him, the ambassador admitted that
the business of Kris- tallnacht had been an embarrassment, but on the
other hand what Hitler was doing for Germany industrially could change
the entire world for the better.  Malcolm was deeply excited to be
involved, and he told Marielle that it had been interesting sharing
some of the latest developments with Howe and Roper, and the men they'd
brought with them.  Malcolm said he could see an extraordinary future
ahead for Germany and all her allies, and Marielle was touched that he
had called to share his excitement with her.

He was going back to Germany again soon, and as usual" she was planning
to stay home with Teddy.

"How was the movie, by the way?"  He loved hearing about the boy.  Next
to Germany, the child was his greatest passion.

"Teddy loved it."

"I knew he would.  I hear it's terriRc.  Maybe we'll take him again."

Even though he was away more and more, he still liked doing things with
them.  She was so sweet to the boy, and it was obvious that despite her
other anxieties, she was a good mother.  Malcolm yawned then, and
Marielle smiled.  It had been a long day for him, and not as relaxing
as hers, going to the movies, and giving bubble baths to Teddy.  As
they finished the conversation, she heard an odd noise in the hall,
like someone bumping into things, and then footsteps on the stairs. 
She listened for a minute, but it was quiet again and she decided it
was nothing.

"You'd better get some sleep," she told Malcolm.

"You must have a long day ahead tomorrow.  Will you be back tomorrow
night?"  She had forgotten to ask him when he'd left, they had both
been so busy.

"More like Tuesday.  I may want to have dinner with the German
ambassador tomorrow night, if he's free.  We have meetings tomorrow
afternoon, and we'll see then.  But in any case, I think it makes more
sense to come back on Tuesday.  I'll call you tomorrow evening."

"I'll talk to you then.  And Malcolm ... good luck with your
meetings...."  She felt grateful to him again suddenly.  He had given
her so much, and he asked for so little.

"Take care of yourself, Marielle.  We'll have a nice evening together
when I come home."  And soon there would be Christmas.  With Teddy, it
was a magical time which meant a great deal to both of them.  For
Malcolm, never having had children before, it was like a whole new
life, and he couldn't wait to give the boy his train, and show him the
room that had been specially built to house it.

She hung up after the call from Washington, and lay in the dark for a
long time, thinking about him, and his many virtues.  But two hours
later, she was still awake, she couldn't sleep thinking of Charles and
what he'd said at the boat pond.  And she prayed this didn't mean she
was getting one of her headaches.  It had been a difficult few days
after running into Charles twice, and sometimes insomnia meant that the
next day she would be felled by a migraine.  She decided to get up, and
with a small smile, she began to mount the stairs to the third floor,
silent and barefoot.  She was going to give him one more kiss as he
slept, touch his hair, and just watch him for a minute before she went
back to her own bed.  She noticed that someone had dropped a towel on
the stairs, and realized that one of the maids had been careless.

That was probably the noise she had heard a while before, someone
bumping the laundry down the marble stairs, and perhaps they'd run into
some of the furniture and dropped some of the laundry.  She picked the
towel up, and walked down the third-floor corridor to the nursery
door.

There were three bedrooms off the nursery living room and hall, one was
Miss Griffin's, one was a spare, and would have been for the second
child they never had, and the largest was Teddy's.  And as she crossed
the living room on silent feet, Marielle heard a stirring somewhere,
and assumed that it was probably Edith in the spare bedroom.  She knew
that Miss Griffin would be asleep in bed by then, back from her day
off, but officially on Sunday nights, she was still off duty, so Edith
was baby-sitting that night.  But as Marielle took a step closer to
Teddy's door, she fell over an unexpected obstacle and went sprawling
across the nursery floor, and had to remind herself not to scream, so
as not to wake Teddy.  The object she had fallen over seemed large and
soft, and as she sailed over it in her nightgown and bare feet,
something touched her leg, and she let out a yelp of fear, and tried to
jump clear of it before it touched her again.  But the room was so
dark, she could see nothing.  And suddenly just near her, there was an
ugly animal sound, and she was really frightened.  Groping blindly
along the wall, she found a table she knew was there, and switched on a
light, wondering what she would do if she found herself face-to-face
with an attacker.  But she was not about to run from the room and leave
her child unprotected.  But what she saw as she turned on the light was
not at all what she had expected.  Betty, the second kitchen girl, was
rolled up in a ball, her hands and feet tied with rope, and a towel had
been shoved into her mouth and secured with more rope.  Her face was
red, and her cheeks were covered with tears, but she was able to make
no sound other than a low moan as Marielle saw her.

"Oh my God ... my Cod ... what happened?  .. In the shock of seeing the
girl bound and gagged on the floor, she forgot to keep her voice down,
or to worry about waking Teddy.  Had there been a robbery?

A fight?  An intruder?  What had happened?  And what was this girl
doing here?  She worked in the kitchen.  Marielle pulled the gag out of
her mouth and fought to loosen her bonds, as she frantically asked her
questions.  But the knots were tight and the ropes strong, and for a
moment she wondered if she would have to cut them as the hysterical
girl screamed incoherently and at last Marielle was able to free her.

"What happened?"  she asked, shaking her, desperate for information.

"Where's Edith?"  And where was Miss Griffin?  But the girl was still
too hysterical to explain, all she could do was sob and flail her arms
wildly.  And then, feeling terror creep into her heart, Marielle leapt
past her to Teddy's room and flung open the door.  Her worst nightmare
had come true.  He was gone, and the bed was empty.  There was no sign
of him, no note on his pillow, no threat, no demand for ransom.  He was
simply gone, and the bed was still warm when she touched it.  Her whole
body began to tremble as she realized what had happened.

She ran back out to Betty then, still sobbing as she rubbed her hands
and feet and gasped for air as Marielle began to shake her.

"What happened?  You have to tell me!"

"I don't know ... it was dark ... I was asleep on the couch when they
grabbed me.  All I know is that I heard men's voices."  But where was
Teddy, Marielle thought frantically .  where in God's name was Teddy?

"What were you doing here?"  Marielle was shouting at her and the girl
was crying so hard she could hardly talk, but she knew she had to tell
the truth now.

"Edith went out ... to a Christmas dance ... she asked me to stay with
him ... until she came back ... I don't know what happened.  I think
there were a lot of them.  They put a pillow over my face, and I
smelled something terrible and then I think I;

fainted, and when I woke up I was tied, and they were gone, and that's
all I know until you found me.  "i " Where's Miss Griffin?  " Had she
taken the child Was she capable of that then?  Marielle ran to the
governess's room, feeling more than half crazy.  H baby was gone ...
someone had taken him .. and she didn't know who, or where he was ... b
in the back of her mind a voice began to whispe:

had he meant what he'd said in the park?  Had he taken him?  Would he
do something like that?  For revenge?  She felt sick as she tore open
Miss Griffin's door, and found her bound and gagged with a pillowcase
over her head and the smell of chloroform everywhere, and as Marielle
pulled the pillowcase off, she thought the older woman looked as though
she were dead, but she stirred, and for a moment, Marielle left her.
She ran to the nursery phone, and rang for the operator, praying that
they'd find him quickly.  In a voice that sounded like someone else's,
she told the operator who she was and that she needed the police at
once.

"And what is the problem?"  the woman asked.  She hesitated for only a
moment, fearing the press, and then not caring, as her voice caught on
the words.  She had lost one child, and she knew she wouldn't survive
the loss of another.

"Please ... please send the police at once ..."

She barely got the words out, and then regained her composure as she
put words to every mother's nightmare.

"This is Mrs.  Malcolm Patterson.  My son has been kidnapped."  There
was a brief silence at the other end, and then the operator sprang to
life, got the address from her, and Marielle set the phone down with
trembling hands, and stared at Betty sitting on the floor terrified of
what would happen now, certain that the boy's disappearance was in some
way her fault.

And for a long moment, Marielle only stood there .  thinking of him,
the tiny face, the soft curls she had stroked as she sang him to sleep
only hours before.  And now he was gone, at midnight.

She heard a groan from Miss Griffin's room then and hurried to her aid.
She removed the gag from the governess's mouth, and then she called to
Betty to help untie her.  The older woman was dazed and she began to
vomit from the chloroform they'd given her, but when she was Rnally
able to speak, she knew no more than Betty about her assailants.  They
had come into the room while she was asleep, and she thought she'd
heard two men's voices, or perhaps more, but they said very little, and
then the chloroform overtook her.  , As she listened to her, Marielle
felt numb.  It was as though she were listening to a story that had
happened to someone else.  It was difficult to absorb what had
happened.  Then she heard the front doorbell ring, and hurried
downstairs, still in her bare feet an her nightgown.  She came down the
marble stairs like a ghost in a dream, and Haverford was wearing
dressing gown and looking puzzled.  He'd been aslee] when the police
came, and he was in the process assuring them that all was well and
there must some mistake because they weren't needed.

"A practical joke perhaps, some mistake ..."  H looked grave, as though
they had committed some frightful faux pas.  But as she flew down the
stairs toward them, her hair loose, her face pale, it clear that there
was no mistake, and the three policemen in her front hall and the
butler stared up at her in amazement.

"There's no mistake."  She looked at them as she stood in their midst,
suddenly shivering, as Haverford went to Rnd her a coat with which to
cover herself.

"My son has been kidnapped."  They followed her rapidly upstairs to the
nursery, with Haverford just behind them.  He stopped in her room to
find her slippers and dressing gown, and he was shocked when he reached
the nursery and heard the two women's tale.  There was no mistake.  The
child had vanished.  One of the two policemen took notes, while the
other two conferred, and one of them reached for the phone.  Kidnapping
was no longer just a state offense, ever since the kidnapping of the
Lindbergh baby.  It was federal now, and the FBI would want to be in
charge of the investigation.

The man who appeared to be in charge spoke to Marielle first, and urged
everyone else not to touch anything in the room, if possible, for fear
of disturbing fingerprints the kidnappers may have left there. 
Everyone nodded, Betty continued to cry, and the governess still looked
desperately unwell as Haverford went to call the doctor.

"Was there any ransom note?  Any message left anywhere in the room?"

The senior officer asked, he was an Irish policeman in his early
fifties.  He had five children of his own, and the prospect of losing
any of them at any time filled him with terror.  He could just imagine
how she felt, and as he looked at Marielle he wondered.  She seemed so
calm, so cool, so totally in control she was almost frozen, and yet her
hands shook terribly, and her whole frame trembled even in the warm
dressing gown Haverford had brought.  Her feet were still bare, her
hair loose, and her eyes had the wild look of someone who does not
quite understand what has happened.  He had seen it before, many times,
at fires, in an earthquake once, during the war .  at murders .  it was
a kind of shock that set in to numb the mind and the soul, but sooner
or later, no matter what she did, it would hit her.  Her baby had been
taken.

She explained that there had been no note, no message at all, no sign
of anything except the empty bed and the two women bound and gagged by
their attackers.  He nodded, made notes, and the others called for more
police.  In half an hour, the house was ablaze with lights, and
two-dozen policemen were searching the house inside and out, for clues
of any kind.  But so far, there was nothing.

The servants were all awake and lined up now, as Sergeant O'Connor
questioned each of them, but no one had seen anything, or knew anything
at all.  And then suddenly Marielle realized that both Patrick and
Edith were missing.  She had never trusted them, and suspected they
hated her, whatever their reasons.  And now she wondered if their
hatred would lead them to take Teddy.  It was difficult to believe
but;

anything was possible, and everything was worth;

looking into.  She signaled their absence to the police,]

and a description of them, and of Teddy, was put out on the police
radios.

"The quicker we find him, the better it is," Sergeant O'Connor
explained.  He didn't tell her that it gave them less time to do damage
to him, to spirit him too far away, or worse, to kill him.  Even then
she remembered only too well that the Lindbergh child had most likely
been killed the night they took him.

The sergeant warned her too that putting a bulletin on the police radio
meant that the press would arrive soon, but if putting a police
bulletin out for the child could mean finding him at once, she knew it
was a risk well worth taking.  She also knew she had to call Malcolm
before he heard it on the radio or read it with his morning coffee, but
the house was already swarming with police, and the FBI arrived before
she had time to call him.  It was all like a nightmare, or a very bad
film, police running up and down stairs, throwing open windows, pulling
back drapes, moving furniture, tearing up the garden, putting
searchlights into bushes, stopping pedestrians, and questioning the
servants.  It was totally frantic and unreal, and through it all she
had a continuing sense that it really hadn't happened.  It was all a
bad dream, and she would awake in the morning.

It would turn out to be one of those terrible nightmares she had with
her migraines.

"Mrs.  Patterson."  Sergeant O'Connor was standing next to her,
surrounded by half a dozen men in dark suits.  They all seemed to be
wearing hats, save one,

who was apparently their leader.  He was about forty or forty-two,
tall, lean, serious, with brown hair and piercing blue eyes that seemed
to run right through her.  He looked hard as steel as he stared down at
her, and he looked as though he always got what he wanted.

"Mrs.  Patterson."  Sergeant O'Connor spoke to her as gently as he
could in the confusion.

"This is Special Agent Taylor.  He's with the Federal Bureau of
Investigation, and he's been assigned to your case."  Her case .  what
case?  what had happened?  Where was she?  Where was Malcolm?  and
where was their baby?  "How do you do."  She shook his hand woodenly
while he watched her, and like the rest of him, his eyes were cool.  He
gave away nothing as he listened to the few details she gave him.  He'd
been on the Lindbergh case too, but it was too late by then.  It had
all been so botched by the time they brought in the FBI, and in the end
it didn't make much difference.  Kidnapping was his specialty, and at
least now they could get in on it from the first.  But so far there was
very little to work with.  The chauffeur and maid had disappeared, and
there was an all points bulletin out on them, but other than that,
there was nothing.

No ransom notes, no clues, no fingerprints, no description of the men,
nothing at all except their M.

O.

" the chloroform and the fact that the child was gone.  He'd heard it
all, but what intrigued him was this woman.  There was something
absolutely terrified in her eyes, as though at any moment she would
lose control, and her hands shook visibly, but other than that she
seemed completely calm and collected, and she was painfully polite and
deliberate when she spoke.  But for a moment, he was almost afraid she
would snap and go crazy.  She was barely hanging on by her fingernails,
he knew.  And she was genuinely terrified.  Yet through it all,
standing there in her nightgown and robe, she looked like an empress at
a ball, quiet, aloof, and unbelievably pretty.

"Is there somewhere quieter for us to talk?"  he inquired, looking
around at the police tearing her house apart, while the servants stood
by and watched them.

"Yes."  She motioned him to Malcolm's study.  It was a handsome room,
filled with rare books, leather couches and chairs, and the huge desk
Malcolm worked on, the desk where he had sat only that morning.  The
sight of the room reminded Taylor that he hadn't seen her husband.  He
asked her about it, as she invited him to sit down.  She sat down,
shivering, on one of the couches as she answered.

"He's away.  In Washington.  I spoke to him about two hours before I
discovered ... before I went upstairs...."  She could not bring herself
to say the words that Teddy had been kidnapped.

"Have you called him yet?"  She shook her head, looking deeply
troubled.  How would she tell him?

"I haven't had time to call him," she said softly, suddenly feeling it
was all her fault.

He nodded, watching her, deeply intrigued by this woman.  He came from
a totally different world, and he had never met anyone quite like her.
So distinguished, so polite, and at the same time so warm and gentle.

He had grown up in Queens, and came from a desperately poor family.

He'd been in the Marines, in the big war, and came out and joined the
FBI right after.  He'd been with them now for twenty years, and he had
just had his forty-second birthday.  He had a wife and two kids, and he
loved them deeply, but as he sat facing her, trying to concentrate on
the case, he had to admit to himself, he had never seen a woman like
this one.  Even in her nightclothes, she looked aristocratic and
dignified.  Her face was so innocent, her eyes so full of pain, that
all he wanted to do was put his arms around her.

"I'm sorry, Mrs.  Patterson."  He had to force his mind back to the
case, for her sake.

"Tell me about it again, exactly the way it happened."  At first he
just closed his eyes and listened to her, and then from time to time
he'd open his eyes and watch her face, as though to see if there was
some discrepancy there, something wrong, some untruth, the kind he had
an uncanny sense for.  But there was something different here, no lie,
but some intangible terror.  He waited until she was through, and then
he asked her, "Is there anything else?  Anything else you might have
seen, tonight, or in the last few days ... anything that frightened
you, or that might make sense to you now, in light of what has
happened?"  But she shook her head again, unwilling to share her
private terrors with a stranger.

"Is there anything you'd like to share with me, anything you want to
say, before the rest of the world gets in on this ... even your
husband?"  At other times, he had asked women about boyfriends, lovers,
friends, but somehow here it seemed wrong.  She didn't feel like that
kind of woman .  to him, she looked like the land of woman you wanted
to die for.

"Is there anyone in your life, or even from your past, who might want
to do something like this to you ... anyone you can think of?"

There was a long, long silence this time, and then she shook her head
with a look of visible pain.

"I hope not."

"Mrs.  Patterson ... think carefully ... your child's life may depend
on the information you give me."  And as she thought of him, her heart
turned over.  Was it possible that she was still willing to protect him
now?  could it even be him?  but could she take the chance and not tell
Agent Taylor?  Before she could say another word.  Sergeant O'Connor
knocked briefly and walked into the room to announce that the maid and
driver were home, and the child wasn't with them.

"Where are they?"  The FBI man looked annoyed.  He had sensed that she
was wrestling with herself, and had been about to tell him something
important.

"They're in the living room, and John ..."  He looked conspiratorially
at him, and then apologetically at Marielle.

"They're drunk as skunks, the pair of them, and she's wearing one hell
of a ball gown."  He glanced at Marielle again.

"I'd bet my bottom dollar it's yours and you don't know she's got it."
But all of that seemed unimportant now.  The question was, where was
her son, and who had him?

"Take them to the kitchen and give them as much black coffee as you can
get into them till they puke, and then call me."  The policeman nodded
and disappeared, as John Taylor turned his attention back to the
child's mother.  And then the officer returned again, as though to tell
her something.

"Mrs.  Patterson, we called your husband."  She wasn't sure whether to
thank him or not.  She felt guilty for not calling him herself, but
relieved too.  She had wanted to spare him the shock of hearing it from
a stranger.  There was no way to gentle this news, and all she could
think was how much he loved Teddy.

"What did he say?"  She looked terrified, as the inspector watched her
reaction.

"He was very upset."  He glanced at John, and didn't tell her that her
husband had cried openly on the phone, but he hadn't asked to speak to
his wife.  O'Connor thought that was strange, but between people of
their kind, sometimes things were different.  He'd seen it all before,
everything from kidnappings to murders.

"He said he'll be here in the morning."

"Thank you."  She nodded as he left the room, and she looked at the FBI
agent again, and as he watched her, he knew that there was more than
she had told him.  He wondered how straightforward he could be with
her, if she would lie, or swoon, or attempt to leave the room in a
rage, but she did none of those, she only listened to him.  And watched
him.  He was a powerful, compelling, very handsome man in a rugged way,
but she wasn't paying any attention to his looks, only to what he was
saying.

"Mrs.  Patterson, sometimes there are things we don't want to say to
people we don't know, things we don't want to admit about ourselves or
people we love ... but in a case like this, it could make all the
difference.  I don't need to tell you what's at stake here.  You know .
we all do.  Will you please give it some thought, and see if there's
anything else you want to tell me?"  But before she could say anything,
he left the room, and promised to come back as soon as he'd spoken to
Patrick and Edith.  And she sat there in Malcolm's den, wondering how
much she should say to him, but knowing that she had to trust him.

Both Patrick and Edith were still very drunk when he walked in, but
they were coherent enough to know where they'd been, what they'd done,
and who they'd been with.  O'Connor wrote it all down as Taylor talked
to them, and Patrick acted outraged that an APB had been put out on
him, he said it could ruin his reputation, which neither O'Connor nor
Taylor cared about for a single moment.  They both suspected he could
be a nasty piece of work, given the chance, as could Edith.

"Why were you out with him tonight?"  Taylor asked her as she crossed
her legs and tried to look sexy in the dress she'd stolen.  It was the
one Marielle had worn the night before, to the Whytes', and she had
asked Edith to send it to the cleaners.  She was planning to send it to
them, but she had worn it first, as she had with lots of other gowns
before.  She just hadn't had the courage to "borrow" the ermine.

"Weren't you supposed to be on duty?"

"Yeah, so what?"  Patrick said.

"What difference did it make who sat with the kid?  So if she'd been
there she'd have wound up gassed and all trussed up like a chicken.
What for?  For the lousy salary they give us?"  He was still too drunk
to realize that what he said could damn them both, but Edith was
sobering fast and looking very nervous.

"I didn't know ... I should have ... I guess ... I just thought it
being almost Christmas ..."

"Where did you get the dress?"

"It's mine."  She tried to brazen it out.

"My sister made it."  Taylor nodded understandingly, and then sat down
across from her, as though he knew her better than he did, and had no
intention of buying her story.

"If I ask Mrs.  Patterson to come in, will she agree with that, or is
the dress hers?"  The girl bowed her head and started to cry in answer,
as Patrick became increasingly belligerent.

"Oh for chrissake, you sniveling bitch, cut it out ... so what ... so
you borrowed her dress.  You always give 'em back.  Shit, you'd think
we was working for the Virgin Mary.  And listen," he waved a finger
menacingly at John Taylor, "don't you buy any of that holy Madonna crap
from her.  Twice this week I seen her with her boyfriend.  Once she
even took the kid, so don't you go insinuating it was us.  You talk to
her and ask her about the guy she was kissing in the church on Friday,
and in the park yesterday, with Teddy."  Nothing registered on
O'Connor's face as he made a note of it, and John Taylor stared at him
with silent interest.  He knew that if he kept his mouth shut, there
would be more, and he was right, there was, less than a minute later.

"The guy looks like a lunatic if you ask me, ranting and raving at her,
shouting, he looked like he was threatening her, then trying to kiss
her.  Poor Teddy looked scared out of his wits he did, if you ask me,
the bastard is crazy."

"What makes you say that he's her boyfriend?"  The voice was cool, but
the eyes were icy.

"Have you seen him with her before?"

Patrick thought about it and then shook his head.

"No ... just the other afternoon in church and yesterday in Central
Park.  But she could have seen him other times, and he really seemed to
know her.  She don't always let me drive her."

"Does she drive herself?"

"Now and then," he thought it out again, "she goes for walks sometimes.
But she don't go out much.

Feels sorry for herself a lot, I think.  She gets a lot of headaches.
"

It was certainly an interesting portrait he painted.  Somehow, John
Taylor had gotten the impression she was stronger.

"Have you ever seen her with other men?"  He seemed sorry to admit that
he hadn't, except this one.  And then Taylor threw him a curve, with a
question he didn't want to answer.

"Have you ever seen Mr.  Patterson with other women?"

There was a long, pregnant pause, when Patrick looked at the still
sobbing Edith.  She was sure she was going to lose her job over the
dress she had taken.  She was far more concerned with that than the
disappearance of the little boy when she was supposed to have been
there to watch him.

John Taylor repeated the question again, in case Patrick needed to be
reminded.

"Have you ever seen your employer with another woman?"

"Not that I can remember ..."  And then, "... except his secretaries of
course."  But that was all information Taylor knew he could delve into
later.  The matter of the boyfriend, however, did intrigue him.

She seemed too cool for that, too smart, too clean, and too decent.

But you never knew, and now he certainly had to ask her.  He hated
these things, forcing answers, causing pain.  But the entire situation
that had brought him here was painful, and if he could help find the
boy for them, then it was worth it.

He stood up and looked at the driver he had come to loathe in a single
moment.  They were a slimy pair.

But instinct also told him that it was unlikely they were involved in
the kidnapping.  It was possible they'd taken a bribe, had left a door
open somewhere for a hundred bucks, but he wasn't even sure they'd done
that.  They were just out, taking advantage of their employers, in a
purloined dress, a borrowed car, having shirked their duties to the
child, but he doubted if there was more to it than that.  Lucky for
them, or he'd have been glad to nail them.

He went back to the library after telling O'Connor to let them go.

He'd interrogate them again in the morning.  They had both already
insisted that they'd seen nothing unusual that night, or in the days
before.  The only thing unusual, Patrick repeated, was Marielle's
meeting with her "boyfriend."

"What did you make of that?"  O'Connor asked in an undertone before
Taylor left the kitchen.

"It's probably all lies, but I'll ask her."

"She don't look the type."  O'Connor shook his head.  Maybe the
boyfriend had taken the kid.  It was certainly a possibility if she was
involved with someone other than her husband.  And you never knew.  It
was always the quiet ones who surprised you.

"No, she doesn't look the type," Taylor agreed almost sadly.  But if it
was true, he was even more anxious to talk to her before the return of
her husband.  As he walked into the library, he saw her sitting there,
almost as though she hadn't moved, but she seemed to be shaking harder
than ever.  The house was warm, but she was clearly in shock, and in
spite of himself, '| he felt sorry for her.  I "Would you like a drink,
or a cup of tea?"  | "No, thank you," she said sadly.

"Did they know' anything?"  she asked him hopefully, but he shook his
;

head.

"Do you think it's possible they took him and left him somewhere, and
came back?"  It was a thought she'd had while he was talking to them,
and she was anxious to share it.  | "Possible, but not likely.  I'll
see them both again | tomorrow morning.  But I think they've probably
just' been out dancing and drinking."  Like her, he was disappointed.
It would have been so simple if they | had him.  "Neither of them is
very fond of me."  Few people were, in Malcolm's house, but she was
embarrassed to say it.  Malcolm was their only boss, as far as they
were concerned.  No matter how kind she'd been to them, they were still
cold and rude and surly, and more than they knew it, it hurt her.

Being married to Malcolm wasn't always the easy life it appeared.

There had been many long nights , when she'd been unhappy and lonely.

There'd been i years of them now, and yet she was faithful to him, and
honorable, decent, and a good mother to Teddy.  But no one gave her
credit for that.  Sometimes, she thought, not even Malcolm.

Taylor was watching her face then, and wondering something.

"Why do you think they don't like you?"  It wasn't that he disagreed
with her, he had seen the hatred in Patrick's eyes, and the look on
Edith's face when she talked about her dresses.

"I think they're jealous.  Most of them have been here since before we
were married.  I was an intruder, as far as they were concerned.  They
had their arrangements with my husband, and suddenly there I was, and
they didn't want to be bothered.  Everyone has an angle in a house like
this, something they're doing, something they want, something they
shouldn't have done, but did, and they don't want to get found out.

I'm a headache for them, and they don't like it.  " Something about
what she'd just said reminded him about her headaches.  It was an odd
thing that had stuck in his mind, and he couldn't help wondering, in
light of everything else the driver had said, if she and Malcolm were
happily married.

"Maybe you're right."  The investigator from the FBI was
noncommittal.

"What about what I asked you before I left the room?"

"I can't think of anything else."  She was still struggling with her
conscience and her terrors, and her unwillingness to believe that
Charles would take Teddy, no matter what he had said.  He couldn't have
meant it.

"You're sure?"  Two uniformed policemen wandered by, and Taylor gave
them a high sign and asked for a cup of tea for her, and coffee for
himself, if they could find it.  It was three o'clock in the morning by
then, and just watching her shiver made him feel cold and tired.

"Do they have any news at all?"  She had to fight back tears as she
asked, and he shook his head.  She still couldn't let herself believe
that if she went upstairs, she wouldn't find Teddy.  He had to be there
but in her heart, she knew he wasn't.

"Mrs.  Patterson," he said slowly, after the tea had arrived and the
policeman who'd brought it had left again, leaving the library door
ajar.  Taylor stood up and strode over and closed it.

"I want to tell you, something your driver said.  I want to discuss
this with you myself.  Because if the press get hold of this, it's
going to make a hell of a story."  She knew before he said anything
what the story was going to be, and maybe in some ways it would be a
relief to tell him.

"Mr.  Reilly says you have a 'boyfriend."

" His face was without expression as he said the word, and Marielle
smiled.  It was so absurd that she had to smile, but she also knew how
vicious Patrick was, and she could imagine the story.  | " That's an
interesting term.  " ;

"Is it accurate?"  She could feel him pressuring her.  i He wanted to
know everything about her, for the sakej of her child's life.  And if
he had to, no matter hows pretty he thought she was, he would be
ruthless.  | She sighed, and looked at him.

"No, it's not accu1 rate."  It was almost funny to even think of
Charles asj her "boyfriend."

"He's my ex-husband, and I hadn't seen him in almost seven years until
two days ago.  We ran into each other at Saint Patrick's Cathedral."

"Was the meeting prearranged?"

She shook her head solemnly, and the way she looked at him, he believed
her.  Her eyes were full of grief, and he sensed that behind the new
sorrow was old grief.

"It was totally coincidental that we met.  He's been living in Spain .
fighting against Franco."

"Oh Christ, one of those."  Taylor took a long sip of coffee.  It had
already been a long night, but he needed to be alert as the night grew
longer.  He wanted to talk to her himself, and to hear her story before
her husband came home.

"Is he a Commie?"

She smiled again.  That was another funny word to apply to Charles,
although nothing was funny now.  Now that Teddy was gone, nothing would
ever be funny again .  or happy .  or nice .  or even worth staying
alive for .  but he would return.  It would be different this time.

It had to be.  The story would have a happy ending.

"I don't think he's actually political.  He just spends his life
tilting at windmills.  He's an idealist and a dreamer and writer.  He's
gone to Pamplona to run with the bulls.  He's close to Hemingway.  I
think he just saw a fight in Spain, and he went to fight it.  I don't
know.  I haven't seen him in years.  I haven't spent any real time with
him since 1929 ... I haven't seen him at all since 1932 when I came
back to the States, and married Malcolm."

"And why now?  Why is he suddenly here?  To see you?"

"No."  She shook her head.

"Family obligations.

His father is very old, and probably dying, or close to it.  "

"Did he call you when he arrived, or write to you?"  She shook her
head.

"Do you think he followed you?  Is he angry at your remarriage?"

She sighed and looked at the inspector long and hard.

"I don't know if he has followed me, I don't think so.  He hasn't
called ... and yes I think he is angry at my remarriage ... and about
Teddy ... he didn't know.  I told him on Friday that I'd remarried, but
I didn't .. say anything ... about Teddy.  And then yesterday, he saw
him."

"Yesterday?"  John Taylor looked intrigued as she continued.

"In Central Park.  We went to the boat pond, but it was frozen." 
Taylor nodded and wondered about the second meeting.

"Did you agree to meet him there?"

"It was coincidence again.  His home is just outside the park, at the
level of the boat pond."

"Did you want to meet him there?"

"I never thought about it."  She looked straight at him, and she was
still trembling.

"Did you think about him?"

She nodded, her eyes boring holes in his.  She had thought about
nothing but since she'd seen him at Saint Patrick's.

"Don't you think that two coincidental meetings is a bit much to
believe after seven years?  You don't see him in seven years, and
suddenly there he is twice in two days.  Don't you think he was looking
for you on purpose?"

"Perhaps."  It was possible.  She had asked herself the same
questions.

"Did he want anything from you?"  Taylor's eyes searched everything
about her.

She hesitated, and then nodded.

"Yes ... he wanted to see me."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure ... to talk ... to talk about things that no longer
matter.  It's all over now ... it's gone ... it was a long time ago.

I've been married to Malcolm .  my husband .  for six years .  "

Her words drifted off as she looked sorrowfully at John Taylor.  He had
come into her life at a terrible time, and she barely saw him.  She saw
his face and heard his voice but she didn't know who he was, she didn't
know anything.  She felt numb, and desperately frightened every time
she thought of Teddy.

"When were you married to him?"  His voice droned on, gentle but ever
probing.

"In 1926 ... when I was eighteen ..."  She looked at him very hard
then, and decided that she had to tell him.

"My husband doesn't know about this.  Inspector.  He believes that I
'misbehaved' in Europe when I was eighteen.  I think my father implied
to all his friends that I had a 'serious flirtation with an
inappropriate suitor."  Nothing more.

My father was a dreamer.  The truth was, as my father well knew, that I
was married for five years, and we lived in Europe.  I tried to tell
Malcolm that when he asked me to marry him, but he didn't want to hear
it.  He said we each had a past, and it was better left untouched and
undisclosed.  What he had heard was the story my father had circulated
to save himself embarrassment, I don't think he ever admitted to any of
his friends that Charles and I were married.

We lived in France .  " There was a faraway look in her eyes ... " And
we were very happy.  " She looked even more beautiful as she said it.

"And what changed that?"  His voice was deep and husky as he asked,
trying not to be distracted by her.

"A number of things."  She was evading him and he immediately sensed
it.  Only one thing had happened to shatter their dream.  One thing.
One hideous afternoon, from which neither of them had ever recovered.

"Mrs.  Patterson ... Marielle ... I need to know what happened ... for
your sake ... for Teddy's."  What he said went straight to her heart,
and tears filled her eyes as she looked at him.

"I can't talk about it now.  I never have ..."  except with her doctor
at the clinic.

"You have to."  He was determined and powerful, but she continued to
resist him.

"I can't."  She got up and walked around the room, and for a long time
she stood and stared out the window.  There was darkness outside, and
somewhere out in that darkness, there was Teddy.  She turned to look at
the inspector then, and he had never seen so much pain in his life.
More than ever, he wanted to reach out and touch her.

"I'm sorry.  I hate doing this to you."  He had never said that to
anyone before, but he had never felt like this about any woman.  There
was a purity and a gentleness to her, and at the same time a fragility
that genuinely scared him.

"Marielle."  He allowed himself the use of her first name without even
asking her, but he had to do everything he could to bring her closer.

"You have to tell me."

"I have never told my husband ... perhaps if he knew ... if he had
known ..."  Perhaps there would never have been Teddy, or even a
marriage.

"You can tell me."  He wanted her to trust him.

"And then?  You tell the press?"  Her eyes bored into his, but he shook
his head slowly.

"I can't promise you anything.  But I give you my word.  I'll do my
damnedest to keep your secrets, unless they mean Teddy's safety.  Is
that a deal?"

She nodded in answer, and looked away again out into the garden.

"We had a son, Charles and I ... a little boy named Andre ..."  She
could feel her throat tighten as she said his name.

"He was born eleven months after we were married ... he had shining
black hair, and big blue eyes.  He was like a little angel ... a little
fat cherub, and we adored him.  We took him everywhere."  She turned to
look at John again, suddenly she had to tell him the story.

"He was so beautiful, and he was always laughing.

Wherever we went with him, people knew him.  " John was watching her as
she spoke, and he didn't like the look in her eyes, or the way she told
the story.

"Charles adored him ... and so did I ... and one year we went to
Switzerland for Christmas.  Andre was two and a half years old, and we
had a wonderful time, playing in the snow.  We even built a snowman."
There were tears beginning to slide down her cheeks, tears of pain, and
he didn't interrupt her.

"One afternoon, Charles wanted to go up the mountain to go skiing, but
I wanted to stay in Geneva.  So Andre and I took a walk around the
lake, we talked and we played, and the lake was frozen, and there was a
group of women and children, and we stopped and chatted.  And I was
talking to one of them, about little boys his age ..."  She could
barely speak now, but she still went on, fighting for air as she
struggled with each word.

"You know how women are, they love to talk about their children, so she
and I were talking about how mischievous two-year-old boys are, and as
we spoke ... as we spoke .. she touched her eyes with a trembling hand,
and without thinking, he reached out to her, as though to help her on,
and she clung to his fingers " while we were talking, he ran out on the
ice with some other children, and then suddenly, there was this
terrible .  terrible .  " She could barely go on, the room seemed so
airless, but John squeezed her hand as tightly as he could and she
continued.  She was unaware of him now, she was lost in a time that had
almost killed her.

"... There was a terrible crackling noise ... almost like thunder . and
the ice cracked ... three of the children fell in ... one of them was
Andre ... I rushed out on the ice, with the other women, and people
were shouting.  I was the first one to reach the hole ... I got both of
the little girls out ... I got them," she sobbed .  "I got them ... but
I couldn't get him ... I tried ... I tried so hard ... I tried
everything I could ... I even climbed into the water, but he had
slipped under the ice, and then I found him ..."  Her voice was
distorted by pain, and as he listened John Taylor was crying.  "He was
all blue, and he lay in my arms so tiny and cold and so still.  I tried
everything ... I tried to breathe for him, I tried to warm him the
ambulance came and we took him to the hospital, but .. " She looked up
at John, seeing him again then, and they were both crying for the
little boy who had died beneath the ice in Geneva.

"They couldn't save him.  He had died in my arms, they said, when I
first pulled him out ... but he wasn't even breathing then ... how
could they know when he died?"  And what did it matter?

"It was all my fault ... I should have been watching him, and I wasn't.
I was talking to those damn women ... about him ... and then he was
gone ... one moment of talking to them, and I killed him...."

"And Charles?"  He had asked the key words, and he had barely recovered
from what he'd just heard,

but he could see there was more from her face, still ravaged by the
story she had just told him.

"He blamed me of course.  They kept me in the hospital, and I wanted to
be there anyway ... with Andre ... they let me hold him for a long,
long time.  I held him so close to me, I kept thinking that if only I
could get him warm again, but of course ..."  She sounded a little mad,
as she went on with the story.

"What did Charles do when he got to the hospital?"  His voice was
gentle.  He had asked an important question, and she looked at John
Taylor without seeing him as she answered.

"He hit me ... hard ... again and again ... afterward ... they said I
thought ... it didn't matter ... they said that when I jumped into the
ice ..."

"What did he do to you, Marielle?"

"He tried to beat me ... he said I'd killed Andre, that it was all my
fault ... he hit me ... but I deserved it ... and ..."  She gulped on a
terrible sob, and made a sound that he had never heard another human
make, it was a keening of pain that was almost like baying.  "... I
lost the baby...."  She looked up at him again, and this time, he put
an arm around her and pulled her close to him to let her sob against
his shoulders.  He held her against his chest, and stroked her hair
without thinking.

"Oh my God."  He suddenly understood.  "... You were pregnant ..."

"Five months ... a little girl ... she died that night, on the same day
as Andre."  She sat then for a long time, in silence, crying quietly,
as John Taylor held her.

"I'm so sorry ... I'm so sorry for what happened to you ... and to put
you through this now."  But he had had to.  He had to know what she was
hiding.  He had seen it in her eyes, but he hadn't known it would be
like this.

"I'm all right," she said quietly, and in a way she was, but in another
way, she wasn't.  She had suddenly remembered that Teddy was gone . 
and that added to the others made it too much.  That was why John
Taylor had to find him.

"I wasn't all right then.  For a long time.  I guess ... I guess you'd
call it a nervous breakdown, or something more.  I suppose Charles went
more than a little mad too.

They had to tear him off me that night, and he collapsed at the
funeral, I was told.  I don't know .  they wouldn't let me go.  They
put me in a private clinic in Villars, and I was there for twenty-six
months.  Charles paid for it, but I never saw him.  They finally let
him come to see me before they let me go, and he asked me to come back,
but I couldn't.  I knew we both thought that I had killed our child, if
not both of them.  Not only had I let Andre drown, but I had jumped
into the icy water and killed the baby.  "

"And what were you supposed to do?  Let him drown?"

"No, I did what I had to do, but it took me two years to figure that
out, and it's taken me another six to live with it since then.  I think
that," she began to cry harder again, "I decided ... when Teddy was
born that God had decided to forgive me.

I had a terrible time getting pregnant with him, and I always thought I
was being punished.  "

"That's crazy.  You were punished enough.  What did you ever do to
deserve that?"

She smiled sadly at the man she had just shared her life with.

"I've spent most of my life trying to figure that out."  He touched her
hand again, and poured a small amount of brandy into the cup of tea
she'd been sipping.  He had helped himself to one of Malcolm's
decanters, and he still had a hard time believing she'd never told her
husband.  What a lonely burden she'd had to live with, no wonder she
suffered from migraines.

"And the meeting in the church?"  But he had figured that out now.

"It was the anniversary of ... the children's death.  I always go to
church and light candles for them, and my parents.  And suddenly there
was Charles, rather like a vision."  Taylor wondered if it was a
welcome one.  He was fascinated by her now, and all she had been
through, and yet she had survived it.  She was much stronger than she
looked, and much deeper.

"Are you still in love with him?"  He wanted to know now.

"Yes, I suppose part of me always will be."  She was so honest with
him, so open, there was something about her which seemed so fair.  It
made his skin crawl now when he thought of the chauffeur's accusation
that she had a "boyfriend."

"But that part of my life is over."  She sounded as though she meant
it.

"Is that what he wanted?  For you to come back to him?"

"I don't know.  I only saw him at Saint Patrick's for that little
while, and we were both upset.  He kept telling me it wasn't my fault,
but I know he always thought it was.  He accused me of murdering our
son, of being negligent...."  She looked away from John again, and this
time he forced her to take a sip of the brandy, "The truth is that I
was.  I was a twenty-one year-old girl, and I made a terrible mistake.
I talked to that woman for only a moment, and he was gone..  I'm
surprised Charles is willing to forgive me at all, given how he felt
about me then."

"Are you sure he has?"

She looked honestly at the inspector.  That was the big question.

"I

don't know.  I thought he had when I saw him at Saint Patrick's on
Friday.  I told him I was married again, and I think he was surprised,
and perhaps not pleased, but he seemed to accept it.  But the next day,
when we saw him at the park .  he was furious about Teddy, furious that
I have another child .  and he doesn't.  He said I didn't deserve it,
and I felt as though he were threatening me, but I think they were just
words.  He said he could take the child, in order to make me come with
him.  " John Taylor had just heard the music he wanted to hear, and he
was almost sure they had their man now.  All they had to do was find
him.  Thank God she had confided in him.  With any luck at all now
they'd find the boy, and they could lock her ex-husband up and forget
him.  As sorry as he felt for her, with all she'd been through, Taylor
felt far less sympathetic for Charles, who had beaten her up in the
hospital when she was pregnant, and instead of consoling her, had
accused her of murdering their children.  He had left her in a hospital
for two years, and had somehow let her carry the burden for the rest of
her life that it was her fault their son had died.  As far as John
Taylor was concerned, the guy deserved to be punished.

"Do you think he was serious when he said those things?"

"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 digniRed
and so land, 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
era2y.

"You should dress," he said quietly, letting himself down heavily into
a chair, "there are policemen everywhere, and the press are in throngs
outside.  For the next few days, if we go out, we'll have to try and
get out through the garden."  He looked at her even more somberly
then.

"The police say there's been no request for ransom.  I've already
called the bank, and they're ready with marked bills when we get a
call, or a note."  It was all they could do as they waited, and
suddenly Marielle was relieved that he was home.  He would take charge,
he would make the right things happen.  He would force them to bring
Teddy home.  She looked up at him then, feeling more than ever that she
had let him down, which was something he had never done to her.  He had
never let her down.  Never.  Not in all the years that they'd been
married.

"I'm so sorry, Malcolm ... I don't know what to say...."  He nodded,
not telling her that she wasn't to blame.  And Marielle knew then, as
she looked at him, that he did blame her.  He rose slowly, and walked
away, and as he stood looking into the garden where Teddy used to play,
she saw that he was crying.  She was almost afraid to comfort him, to
say anything, to reach out to him in his pain.  If he blamed her for
not guarding Teddy closely enough, what could she possibly say to
console him?  As she stood watching him helplessly, she felt the
familiar vise begin to crush her head, and for a moment she almost
fainted.  He turned and looked at her then, and he recognized the
symptoms.  She looked terrible, but he wasn't surprised.  He felt as
awful as she did.

"You look pale, Marielle.  Are you having a headache?"

"No," she lied.  She wouldn't allow anyone to see how weak she was now,
how afraid, how vulnerable, how broken.  She had to be strong, for him,
for the child, for all of them.  She tried to keep her balance as she
fought a familiar wave of nausea.

"I'm fine.  I'll get dressed."  She should have gone to bed, but she
knew she wouldn't sleep.  And she couldn't have borne the nightmares.

"I'm going to speak to the men from the FBI."  Malcolm had called some
of his connections in Washington and they had promised to call J. Edgar
Hoover.  The director had provided a police escort that had allowed
Malcolm to get home as fast as his Franldin Twelve would allow.  The
German ambassador had also called to express his shock and concern over
what had happened.

"They've been very kind," Marielle said in a barely audible whisper,
wondering now if Agent Taylor would tell Malcolm about Charles.  But if
it would help them find Teddy, she was willing to endure it.  Taylor
had promised her that he would keep her secrets if he could, but not if
it would harm the boy, and she had readily agreed to it.  She was
willing to sacrifice herself, her marriage, her life, for Teddy.

Malcolm looked at her long and hard then, and for a moment he felt
guilty.

"I don't mean to blame you, Marielle ... I know it's not your fault.  I
just don't understand how it could have happened."  He looked so
mournful, like a dying man.  He had lost the love of his life, but so
had she.  And yet she could not help him.

"I don't understand it either," she said quietly.  And then he left the
room, and she changed into a gray cashmere dress and gray silk
stockings.  She brushed her hair and washed her face, and put on black
alligator shoes, and prayed that she would be able to control the
headache.

She went to the kitchen after she dressed, and was planning to organize
the cook into providing meals for the police and the FBI working in the
house, but she discovered as soon as she arrived that Haverford had
already done that.  Sandwiches were being sent up on trays, with
platters of fruit, and cakes, and huge mugs of steaming coffee.  When
she went back upstairs, she discovered that there was a buffet set up
in the dining room, but it was barely touched, the men scarcely had
time to eat, they were still so busy.

"Is there anything I can do?"  she asked the sergeant in charge.

O'Connor had gone home hours before, and the shift had changed.  She
recognized none of the men from the night before, as they continued to
dust the house for fingerprints, and wait for calls requesting the
ransom.  Only she had not gone to bed.  And as she wandered past the
library, she saw that Malcolm was in deep conversation with two of the
FBI men.  He glanced briefly up at her, and then away, and for an
instant she wondered if they were talking about her.  The men looked at
her strangely as she stood there, and then she walked away.  What could
they have said?  What was there to say?  It wasn't her fault that Teddy
had been taken .  or was it?  Did they blame her because of Charles?

Were they right?  Were they telling Malcolm?

As she walked back to the front hall, she was startled to hear a
tremendous scuffle.  There were voices raised outside, and as the front
door opened only a few inches, suddenly there were half a dozen
shouting strangers standing near her, flashbulbs exploded in her face,
and a phalanx of police rose like a shield and pushed them back
outside, but only one small redheaded woman escaped them.  She was
pretty and young and very tiny, and she was wearing a ridiculous black
hat and a very ugly outfit.  She stood looking at Marielle as though
she knew her, and before Marielle could realize what was happening, the
little redhead was asking her questions.

"How do you feel, Mrs.  Patterson?  Are you all right?  Is there any
news?  Have you heard anything from little Teddy?  What does it feel
like?  Are you afraid?  Do you think he could be dead?"  And all the
while, there were lights exploding in the distance, blinding her with
the light and pain, almost like part of her headache.  And as she
struggled to get away, a powerful voice roared next to her, and a
strong pair of hands moved Marielle away by the shoulders.  It was John
Taylor.

"Get that woman out of here!"  And suddenly the redhead was gone, the
front door was closed again, and the noise was far, far in the
distance.  And she realized that John Taylor was supporting her arm,
and leading her to a chair in the hallway.  As he had come back into
the house, the press had forced their way in with him.

"Damn scum.

Next time, I'll come in through the kitchen.  " He was looking down at
her with obvious concern, and he looked very tired.  But she looked
worse, and as he handed her a glass of water he had signaled one of his
men to get, she took a small sip and tried to smile, but she couldn't
fight back the tears this time.  The headache was too much, Malcolm's
anger, her terror over Teddy and just sheer exhaustion.  And the
redheaded woman had asked such awful questions.  What if he was dead?
What if they had killed him?  And yes, she was afraid.

Desperately.  And Malcolm had seemed so heart 9

broken, and so angry when he returned.  She looked at John Taylor and
sighed, embarrassed at having lost her composure.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?  Being human?  Those bastards make me sick."  And then he
lowered his voice as he looked at her.  He had just been to see Charles
Delauney.

"Is there somewhere we can speak alone?  The library again?"

She shook her head.

"My husband is there, speaking to two of your men."  And then she
thought for a moment.

"I know."  She led the way to a small music room they never used.  It
was filled with old books and instruments, and some of Malcolm's files.
Once in a great while, Brigitte used it as an office.  There was a
desk, and two chairs, and a small settee, where he settled her, and
then he pulled up one of the chairs, and looked at her for a long
moment.  He had only known her since the night before, but he was
willing to believe every word she said and stake his reputation on it.
He had never met another human being like her.  She was like someone in
a book, or a dream, with the kind of inner strength and ideals that
real people didn't have, or not the ones he knew.  And yet at the same
time she was a powerfully attractive young woman.  And she'd had
nothing but raw deals, from two men, neither of whom he had much use
for.  Delauney had struck him as a spoiled rich boy, drunk,
self-indulged, and deluded in his political ideals, and still whining
about what had happened to him almost ten years before, and the fact
that she hadn't been willing to come back to him again after he'd
almost killed her.  Taylor felt that, given the opportunity, he could
be impetuous and crazy, possibly even dangerous, and he could have done
it for revenge.  And Taylor had no use for Malcolm either.  So far, he
only knew him from the press, and he had always appeared to be very
cold and pompous.

"Is something wrong?"  More wrong than it already was?  Was that
possible, she wondered.

"Have you heard anything?"  She looked at him with huge eyes, suddenly
frightened, but he was quick to shake his head, and reassure her.

"Not about Teddy."  He felt as though they had shared the secrets of a
lifetime the night before.  And he wanted to do anything he could to
protect her now.  She'd been through enough, she had trusted him, and
he didn't want to betray that.  But he also didn't want to endanger the
child, and John Taylor was worried.

"I've just spent three hours with Charles Delauney."  Marielle watched
him with anxious eyes, wondering what Charles had said.

"Did you tell him I told you everything?"

"Yes.  He blames himself, or so he says, for being crazed after it
happened and reacting very badly.  But he also claims that when he saw
you in the park with Teddy the other day, he was still drunk from the
night before, and he says he's not sure what he said, but he's willing
to admit it was probably pretty out of line,

But he insists he meant no harm, and he would never do anything to hurt
Teddy.  "

"Do you believe him?"  She searched his eyes, needing to know the
truth, and willing to believe him.  She trusted him.  There was
something about him that seemed innately fair, and she sensed correctly
that he would not betray her.  She remembered how he had held her hand
the night before, and taken her in his arms as she cried for Andre.

"That's the problem."  He looked back at her, and then shook his head
as he leaned back in the chair.

"I don't.  I don't think he'd hurt him, not like the Lindbergh case or
anything like that.  But I think he's a spoiled young man.  I think
he'd do almost anything to get what he wants--threats, coercion, maybe
worse.  Maybe he would take Teddy to bring you closer to him.  Maybe in
his mind that's an all-right way to do it.  I'm not sure.  I don't even
know what I think.  But I can tell you that I don't think I believe
him.  Telling me he was drunk, and trying to excuse the threats he made
didn't wash with me when I listened."  His eyes had been wild, and his
black hair uncombed, he'd been unshaven, and there was the smell of
booze in the air.  He looked like a wild dissolute type whose life had
not gone well, and maybe he was capable of some pretty frightening
things, all in the name of justice.  He was involved in a war, after
all, that wasn't his, just for the sheer pleasure of killing, or at
least that was how John Taylor saw it.  He didn't understand political
causes, or noble wars, or running with the bulls in Spain, or beating
his pregnant wife up when they had just lost their little boy.  He
didn't understand any of these people.  The only one he understood or
cared about, God only knew why, was Marielle, and he wanted to help
her.

"I'm worried about him, and I want you to know it.  It means we're
going to watch him, and I'd like to go back and search the house.  But
it also means that I may not be able to keep your secret, and I wanted
to warn you.  You may want to tell your husband some of this before it
gets to him some other way."

She nodded, grateful for the warning, at least he was allowing her to
tell him herself.  He was every bit as decent as she had suspected, and
she tried to smile at him, but her head hurt so badly she couldn't.

She winced in sudden pain, and he saw it.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."  They were words that no longer meant anything, but they
were expected.

"You'd better get some sleep at some point.  Or you're going to fall
apart when we really need you."  She nodded, but she couldn't imagine
ever sleeping again .  not until Teddy was returned.  How was she going
to live without him?  She couldn't touch him or hold him or know where
he was, or if he was safe, or decently cared for .  she suddenly longed
for the powdery smell of his neck and his hair .  his laughter .  the
chubby little arms around her neck, or the way he looked at her that
told her just how much he loved her.  How was she going to survive
without him until they found him?  As she thought of it, she almost
swooned, and then she felt a firm hand on her arm, as though pulling
her back from her own terrors.

"Marielle, hang on ... we're going to find him."  She nodded and stood
up, realizing that she had some very difficult things to say to
Malcolm.

"Are you going to say anything to my husband about Charles?"  She
looked concerned, but not really worried.  If she had to tell him, she
would.  It was as simple as that.  This was no time to hide anything,
if it could hurt Teddy.

"I'm going to tell him that, like many people at this point, Charles
Delauney is a possible suspect.  I'm not really sure he would do
anything.  But I can tell you right now, I don't like him.  I don't
like the threats he made, or the idea that he's so angry you have a
child again, and he doesn't.  I think in his own crazy way, he still
loves you.  He says he wants you back.  And in his mind that's enough
reason for you to come running back to him, because he says so."  He
didn't tell her what Charles had said about her marriage to Malcolm,
that it was all a fraud and a sham, and everyone in town knew that he
had other women, that people said she lived like a nun, and Malcolm
didn't give a damn about her.  Charles Delauney seemed to feel that
that was all reason enough for her to leave him.  He had also said that
he didn't think Marielle loved Malcolm, and that she had married him
for all the wrong reasons, because she had no one in her life at the
time and she was afraid and shaky after her release from the clinic in
Switzerland.  He said she'd been looking for a father and not a
husband.  But seeing Delauney with his wild looks, and crazed airs, it
was easy to see why she would have.  Taylor could see the appeal of a
man like Malcolm Patterson and yet he could also understand why a girl
of eighteen would have been drawn to Delauney.  He was colorful and
handsome and wild and full of romance, but men like that were dangerous
too .  men like that did foolish things .  like beat their wives or
make terrible threats and accusations.  But did they kidnap other
people's children?  Was that part of it?  That was the question. 
Taylor didn't know the answer to that one.  But one thing was certain,
if he had done it, he hadn't done it for the money.  And perhaps that
was why there was no request for ransom.  He would have just hired
people to take the boy away from her, and conceal him.  But what would
he do with him once he had him?

John Taylor stood up then and walked her slowly out of the room, and
she thanked him again for the warning about what he was going to have
to tell Malcolm.  She turned and looked at John Taylor for a last
moment, with a worried frown.  It was all so confusing.

"Do you really think he'd do a thing like that?  Charles, I mean."  It
was hard to believe.  He had always been wild and uncontrolled but not
like this .  she couldn't believe he would really take Teddy.

Did he hate her that much then?  It was hard to imagine.

"I don't know."  Taylor was honest with her.

"I wish I knew the answer."

She nodded, and went back to the chaos in the main living room.

Malcolm was standing there, looking grim, with an FBI man on either
side, and she introduced him to John Taylor.

"I've been waiting to see you," Malcolm growled, seemingly unimpressed
by Taylor.

"I've been out talking to some people about the case."  His eyes never
looked once at Marielle.  He knew better than that.  But he also wasn't
sure, as he watched Malcolm, that he disagreed with Delauney.  There
seemed to be no warmth toward Marielle, no visible support, only
Malcolm's own concern, and his grief at losing his only son.  Instead
of asking for John's help, he demanded that he find him.

"We're all set for a possible ransom request, sir," John Taylor said
with a respect he didn't feel.  In fact, he had already decided, he
didn't like him.

"So am I," Malcolm said.

"The U.S. Treasury Department is sending us marked notes this
morning."

"We'll have to be very careful how that's handled."  It had been a
disaster in the Lindbergh case, and John didn't want anything going
wrong this time.

"I'd like to speak to you this afternoon, if you have time."  John
wanted to know if there was anyone he suspected, or was afraid of.  And
as he had with Marielle, he wanted to see him alone, but he also wanted
to give Marielle time to tell him about Charles De- launey.

"I'll see you now," Malcolm said with a frown.  He had slept in the car
coming up from Washington, and he was more rested than either Marielle
or John Taylor.

"I'm afraid I have some other matters to attend to first."  If nothing
else, he wanted to get back to his office and shower and shave, have
another stiff cup of coffee, and take some time to think about what
they were doing.  The truth was, they had no leads at all.  All they
had was Charles, and the fact that the driver had admitted that morning
that someone had called him a few weeks before and offered him a
hundred dollars if he'd choose that particular night to go out with
Edith.  He had figured the joke was on them anyway, because they'd been
planning for ages to go to the Irish Christmas dance in the Bronx, so
it was no effort for him.  But the hundred had arrived in a plain
envelope at the back door the week before, and he'd thrown the envelope
away and spent the cash, and never given it another thought.

He said he hadn't recognized the voice on the phone, except that they'd
had an accent, what kind of accent he wasn't sure, maybe English, maybe
German.  He insisted he couldn't remember.  But even if Delauney had
taken the child, he wouldn't have done it himself.  And supposedly the
week before, he hadn't seen Marielle, and didn't know she had a child
or did he?  Was it all a clever plan?  Had he been watching her for
weeks?  Months?  Had he been getting news of her while he was in
Europe?

Had he planned his revenge for years?  It was hard to make sense of it,
there was so little to go on, and it was still way too early.  But why
hadn't the driver been suspicious of the call?  It could have meant a
robbery was being planned or an attack on Malcolm or Marielle.  But it
was clear to John Taylor that the driver didn't care about his
employers.

Malcolm looked annoyed that Taylor wasn't ready to speak to him just
then, and just so he understood who he was dealing with, he mentioned
his trip to Washington again.  But Taylor understood perfectly.  The
message was, do it right, do it now, do it my way, or you're going to
regret it.  The trouble was, Taylor wasn't that kind of man.  And he
wasn't about to take any pressure from Malcolm.

"I'll see you this afternoon, sir.  Say around four?"

"That'll be fine.  I assume your men know how to find you, if a call
comes in before that?"  It was a very gentle slap in the face, an
inference that he was "disappearing."

"Of course."

"Very well.  Is there anything you can do with those vultures on our
front doorstep, by the way?"

"I'm afraid not.  They all think they're out there defending the First
Amendment.  We can back them up a little bit though, get them away from
the house.  I'll have my men see to it."

"See that you do," Malcolm said with a stern look,

instead of "thank you."  Taylor left them then, as Malcolm looked down
at his wife and muttered, "I don't like him."

"He's a nice man.  He was very kind to us last night."  She didn't tell
him how kind, but it had made a lasting impression on her, in the
absence of her husband.

"I'd be more impressed if he found your son.  You might keep that in
mind, Marielle."  As though she could forget it.  She wondered why he
was being so cruel to her, except that she knew he was upset, and
somehow he seemed to feel that it was all her fault.  Or was she just
imagining it?  Was she feeling responsible again, as she had for Andre
and her baby girl?  Was everything always going to be her fault?  It
was that that usually set off the headaches, that and the terrible
helplessness she always felt when things went wrong and she couldn't
change them.  But she couldn't allow herself to think of that now,
couldn't allow herself to think of what might be happening to Teddy.

She had to be strong.  And she knew that before John Taylor returned
that afternoon, she had to tell Malcolm.

"Could we go upstairs for a little while?"  She looked nervously at her
husband, and he glanced at her with a strange expression, as though she
had propositioned him and he couldn't believe it.

"I have to talk to you."

"This isn't the time."  He tried to brush her off, he wanted to return
the German ambassador's call.  He was touched that he had called him.

"Yes, it is.  Malcolm, it's important."

"Can't it wait?"  But he could see from the look in her eyes that she
meant it.  She was surprising him actually.  For a woman who seemed to
go weak at the knees whenever life became even slightly difficult, she
seemed to be holding up remarkably well in this crisis.  She looked
tired, of course, and pale, but she seemed calm and reasonable, and
other than the pathetically trembling hands he had noticed at once, she
seemed to be controlling her emotions.  What he hadn't seen was the
terrible scene in the boy's room only that morning, the crying that
seemed to have no end as she held his teddy bear to her and felt terror
rise in her throat every time she thought of her son.  But she was
fighting it, because she knew she had to.  If she didn't, she would
panic and collapse completely.

"Malcolm, will you come upstairs with me?"  She was insistent.

"All right, all right.  I'll be there in a moment."  She waited for him
in her dressing room, because she didn't know where else to be, and she
paced the small room while she waited.  She didn't know where to start,
or what to say, and she wished she had forced him to listen before she
married him, but he hadn't wanted to hear it then, and now he had to.

He came up half an hour later, just as she was ready to go downstairs
looking for him.  But finally he appeared, and he seemed huge in the
small, room, as he took a chair, and looked at her with obvious
irritation.

"All right, Marielle, I don't know what you can possibly want to talk
about now.  I hope it's important, and has something to do with
Teddy."

"It might.  I hope it doesn't," she said quietly, sitting on a small
settee across from him.  It was odd how far away from him she felt, how
distant they were, even in this crisis.  In fact, suddenly, it seemed
worse than ever.

"It has to do with me.  And I think it's important.

Years ago, when we were getting married, I told you that there were
things about me you might not like, and you said that everyone had a
past and it wasn't important.  You felt it was best left untouched, but
I felt I owed it to you to tell you.  " She sighed and had to fight for
air again.  All of this was so difficult that she always seemed to have
trouble breathing.  But she knew she had to tell him.  And this time he
had to listen.

"Do you remember?"  she asked him softly, and for a moment, his eyes
gentled.  Maybe he was only in pain, she told herself.

Perhaps the shock of losing Teddy was so great that he could offer
Marielle no comfort, just as she and Charles had been unable to comfort
each other nine years before.  Sometimes when the common agony is too
great one can only struggle alone.  She wondered if that was what was
happening now, and it wasn't that he held her responsible after all.
But she had to go on now.

"I do remember," he answered her.

"But what does that have to do with what is happening now?  Or with
Teddy?"  There was a look of accusation on his face and she forced
herself to ignore it.

"I don't know.  I'm not sure.  But I must tell you what I do know." 
She took a breath and went on, unaware of how beautiful she was.

"My father told his closest friends that I had had a youthful
flirtation and gone a little mad when I was eighteen and we were on the
Grand Tour.  And then he told everyone that I'd decided to stay on and
study in Paris.  Well, some of that was true but very little.  I had
much more than a flirtation.  I ran away, I eloped, with Charles
Delauney.  I'm sure you must know his father."  Malcolm nodded.  He had
known him, better than he had known her own.  He was a crusty old man,
but a smart one, with a huge fortune.  But he had never met the son.
They said he was a renegade of the worst sort, a writer.  And he'd run
off to the war when he was fourteen or fifteen, and after that he'd
stayed in Europe.  Old man Delauney said he was no good, and that was
all he'd heard, but now he looked stunned at Marielle's confession.

"I married him when I was eighteen, and by the time we came back from
our honeymoon and my parents wanted to have the marriage annulled, I
was pregnant.  So they went home, and I stayed.  The marriage was never
annulled.  And we had a little boy ..."  She had to fight back tears as
she said it.  After all these years, to tell the story twice in one day
was almost more than she could bear.  But she knew she had to tell him.
Teddy's disappearance made it all different.

"His name was Andre," she gulped again, "and he looked a little like
Teddy, except that he had very black hair, instead of blond hair like
you."  She tried to smile, but Malcolm said nothing.  He was not
finding the recital amusing.  And she knew that, for Malcolm, she had
to keep it to the facts.  He didn't have to know how much she loved
him, or how desperately she had loved Charles, or how terrible it had
been when Andre died.  He just had to know that he did, and that
Charles had seen Teddy and gone crazy.  He had to hear this from her so
he didn't think she was protecting Charles.  The only one she wanted to
protect now was Teddy.  And Malcolm had to hear everything if they were
going to find him.

"He died when he was two ... in Switzerland.  I was pregnant with
another child, and that baby died too."

Malcolm looked desperately uncomfortable for a moment.

"How did they die?"

"Andre drowned."  She squeezed her eyes shut and fought for composure,
but unlike John Taylor, the night before, Malcolm Patterson did not
approach her.

"He ran onto the lake ... it was frozen ... and he fell through ...
with two little girls.  I saved them."  Her voice was almost a monotone
as she went on, trying not to see his face again, trying not to feel
his icy face next to her own as she tried to blow life into him, trying
not to smell the same powdery flesh she had loved so much .  just like
Teddy .  and if Teddy died too .  how would she survive it?  She fought
to go on as Malcolm watched her.

"I couldn't reach him.  He was under the ice."  It was a breathless
whisper, and then her voice grew stronger again.  It was like climbing
a mountain just telling him and the air seemed to be getting thinner
and thinner and thinner.

"Charles always held me responsible for it.  He felt it was my fault,
because I wasn't watching him.  I was, but I was talking to someone ..
the mother of the two little girls ... she said it wasn't my fault, but
I suppose it was.

And Charles thought so too.  He was siding that day, and when he came
back, he tried to kill me .  or maybe not .  maybe he was just so out
of his mind with pain .  anyway, I lost the baby.  I probably would
have anyway, because of the icy water.  I had jumped in to get Andre. 
" Malcolm nodded, mesmerized by the horror of her words, and in spite
of himself, his face had gone pale as he listened.

"Charles always felt that I had killed both of them, that it was my
fault that we lost them.  And I ... I ..."  Her voice trembled and she
couldn't go on as she bowed her head, and then looked at him, her face
filled with anguish, her eyes filled with a horror he could never know
and no one would ever take from her.

"I suppose you could say I had a nervous breakdown.  I was in a
hospital ... a clinic ... a sanatorium ... for more than two years.  I
was twenty-one when it happened, and I tried to kill myself several
times."  She had decided to tell him all of it.  He had a right to know
now, and there could be no more secrets.

"I didn't want to live, without Charles and my babies.  I did
everything I could to die, and they did everything they could to save
me.  I never saw Charles during that time ... or actually I only saw
him once during that first year.  He came to tell me my father had
died, a few months after Andre.  They say the shock of the Crash killed
him, and I suppose it did ... they didn't tell me that my mother killed
herself six months later.  I suppose without Daddy, and without me ..."
Her voice trailed off, and Malcolm understood her meaning.

"They didn't tell me that for another year, and by then, I suppose I
was better.  They said I had to go finally, that I had to go back out
in the world and live with what had happened.  That it wasn't my fault,
that I wasn't responsible, and if Charles still felt it was, then it
was something that he had to work out for himself."  She took another
breath and seemed a little calmer as she looked unseeingly out the
window.

"He came to see me once at the end before I left, and he told me how
sorry he was, that he had been out of his mind with pain, that it
wasn't my fault, and he hadn't meant it.  But I could see in his eyes
that he did mean it, that he still believed I had killed his children.
I still loved him."  She looked back at Malcolm honestly.

"I

always had, but I knew that if I stayed with him, I would always feel
guilty.  It would always be between us.  I couldn't go back to him.  I
had to be alone.  So I left the hospital, and came back to the States,
and that was the last time I saw him.  And then I met you," she sighed,
" and you were so good to me.  You gave me a job, and you did so many
things for me.  You took care of me, and you were always so kind to
me.

And we got married.  I never really wanted to get married again.  I
didn't think it would have been fair to anyone .  I had so much on my
conscience.  But you seemed not to mind .  and .  " She felt suddenly
guilty.

"I had no one ... and I was so frightened sometimes.  And you made me
feel safe ... I thought I could be good to you too ... and maybe make
you happy."  She lowered her eyes then, thinking of when Teddy had been
born, and the tears began to slide down her face again.  She had given
him a lot to absorb in a single moment.

"I was so happy when Teddy was born."

"So was I."  His voice was a croak in the small room.

"He's all I lived for.  I always thought there was some small mystery
in your past, Marielle.  But I never suspected it was quite so ugly."
She was filled with shame as he said it.

"I know," she nodded, "that was why I thought you should know.  I
thought you should hear it before you decided to marry me, but you
wouldn't listen."  He nodded his agreement, and she went on.

"I never saw Charles again when I came back to the States.  I never saw
him again until last Friday.  I met him at Saint Patrick's Cathedral,
by chance.  I went to light a candle for the children and my parents.
It was the anniversary of our children's death," she forced herself to
say the words she hated, "and he was there.  He said he was in New York
to see his father."

"And what did he say?"  Malcolm was interested in this part.

"He wanted to see me again, and I said I couldn't."

"Why not?"  He was probing with his words, and she was hurt that he
would ask her.

"Because I love you, because we're married.  Because of Teddy."

"And he was angry?"  Malcolm almost looked hopeful.

"No, not then ... we were both so upset.  It's a terrible day every
year."

"And did he call you?"

"No, I ran into him in the park the next day with Teddy, at the boat
pond.  I think he'd been drinking, or was still drunk from the night
before.  He was wild-eyed, and he was shocked to realize we had a child
a little boy ... and he was very angry," she admitted.

This was the point of the whole story.

"What did he say?  Did he hurt the child?"  Malcolm looked terrified by
what she was saying.

"Of course not.  I don't think he's capable of it, and I'd never let
him."  She took a quick breath.

"But he was very angry.  He threatened me, I suppose.  He said I didn't
deserve to have another chance.  And," she took a deep breath before
she told him, "he talked some nonsense about taking Teddy in order to
make me come back to him.  But Malcolm, I'm sure he didn't mean it. But
nevertheless, I felt you had to know.  The police asked if anyone had
threatened me, or had reason to be angry with me, and for Teddy's sake,
I told them."  It surprised Malcolm that she hadn't been more anxious
to protect Charles Delauney, and he could see from the look in her eyes
when she talked about him that she still cared deeply about him.

"You told this to the police?  All of it?"

"Yes."  She nodded slowly.  She wasn't ashamed anymore.  It was
painful, but it was not her fault.  She had finally come to accept
that.

"That's a lovely tale to tell.  I imagine that will make interesting
reading in the papers."

"Mr.  Taylor promised me he would do everything he could to keep it
confidential.  But he's already been to see Charles."

"You seem to know a great deal about the investigation."

She didn't answer him at first.

"I wanted to tell you this myself.  I felt you had a right to know." 
He nodded and stood up, still looking deeply troubled, and then he
looked at her, and for a moment she wondered if he was angry.

"It would seem that your contact with Delauney may well have endangered
our child, Marielle.  Have you thought of that?"  Guilt again .  and
responsibility .  why was it always her fault?  Why did her life, or
her failings, or her stupidity, always cause pain to others?

"I have.  But I didn't plan to meet him.  It just happened."

"Are you so sure of that?  Are you sure Delauney hasn't been following
you and wasn't waiting for you at the church?"

"He was as surprised as I was.  And the boat pond is just into the park
from his father's house."

"Then you shouldn't have gone there."  Malcolm's voice was stern, he
was accusing her.  And it was clear now that he did reproach her.

"You shouldn't have done anything to risk my son," not their child, but
his son, "and given your history, I'm surprised that you would take him
to the boat pond at all, particularly in this weather."  It was the
crudest thing he could have said.  It had taken her years to be able to
do something like that, and she hadn't let him near the water.

"How can you say that?"  She was shocked.  His words hit her like a
blow, but he didn't care now.  He was too worried.

He began to pace the room as he spoke to her.

"How can you tell me this story and expect me to forgive you?  You were
involved with this terrible man, who you admit yourself tried to kill
you, and may well have killed your unborn child, and you expose my son
to him, you admit to me that he threatened you, that he threatened to
take him, for whatever reason ... and what do you expect from me,
Marielle?

Sympathy for your children who died?  Or for my child who's been
kidnapped?  You brought this man into my life, you brought him right to
my doors,

you took my son to the park where they could meet, you exposed Teddy to
him, and provoked this lunatic until he took our child, and what do you
expect from me now with all this .  for^ivene/is?  " There were tears
in his eyes and rage in his voice as Marielle stood in front of him,
helplessly weeping.

"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 '21'.  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.

"Now!  Do you understand?"

"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.  Mister Taylor, that you'd best go out
looking for some evidence, hadn't you?"

"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 lives 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."

"Maybe Charles Delauney isn't either."  He felt he had to say something
to defend her.

"I don't care who it is.  Inspector.  I just want my child back."  It
was eleven days before Christmas.

"I understand, Mr.  Patterson.  We all do.  And we're going to do
everything we can to make that happen."

"Go back and talk to Delauney."  Taylor did not like taking orders from
civilians, but he nodded as he stood up and thanked Malcolm for his
patience.  Taylor noticed that he looked tired and worn, but for a man
his age, he looked fairly healthy and composed, considering what had
happened.  And inquiries about Marielle before he left told him she had
been felled by a migraine.

From her room, just above it, she heard the front door close as he
left, and the shouts of the press as he made his way through them.  And
a little while later, the police cordoned off the front of the house to
keep them at a distance.  But to Marielle, it was just noise, as she
lay in the dark in blinding pain, silently praying for Teddy.

The next day Taylor returned, and there was still no news of Teddy.

The kidnappers had said not a word, made no calls, sent no letters, and
there was still no request for a ransom.  And the press was having a
field day.  Old photographs of Malcolm and Marielle were splashed all
over the papers.  Patrick, the driver, had given an interview, and
intimated that there was a man involved with Marielle, and there was a
photo graph of him with Edith, wearing Marielle's white Madame Gres
dress from Paris.  It had been taken the night of the kidnapping when
they were at the Irish Christmas dance in the Bronx, and they looked
very grand as they posed for it.  And in the afternoon paper the day
before, there was a photograph of Marielle looking frightened and
disoriented when the press had forced their way into the house, and
another of her in her nightgown, which they'd taken through the library
windows.

But although Patrick had hinted there might be a man in her life, there
was no actual mention of Charles Delauney.

"It's a pleasant piece to read," Malcolm said acidly over breakfast the
day after his return.

"I don't enjoy reading about my wife consorting with other men."  He
hadn't seen her since he had left her with her headache the day before,
and she still looked wan, but she said she was better.

"I told you what happened."  She looked crushed by what he was
saying.

"Maybe you should have explained it to Patrick."

She looked up at him with a snap then, and for a moment she almost lost
control of herself.  But even that effort almost're sparked her
headache.

"Maybe you should have your spies report a little more accurately to
you, Malcolm."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  He looked at her coolly.

"Exactly what it sounds like.  None of your servants have been civil to
me since the day I arrived in this house, and you know it."

"Perhaps you don't know how to take command, Marielle.  Or perhaps they
know something I don't."

"How dare you!"  She had been so faithful to him, so loyal, so
decent.

And now, because of Charles, he blamed her for everything.  He had
changed overnight.  It was so unfair, she left the dining room with
tears in her eyes, and collided with John Taylor.

"Good morning, Mrs.  Patterson."  He looked at her face and knew that
the strain was taking a toll on her.  He had been to see Delauney
again, and warned him not to leave town, but they still had no
evidence, and his alibi was solid.  So far there were no leads to
people he may have employed to kidnap Teddy.  But the FBI was
frantically trying to build a case, assuming too that Teddy might well
have been taken out of state to New Jersey.  And so far, Charles
Delauney was their best suspect.  The people who had paid Patrick a
hundred dollars to spend the night out had vanished without a trace,
and so far that was all they had.  And Betty and Miss Griffin had seen
and heard nothing and couldn't help them.

"Feeling better today?"

Taylor asked calmly.

She nodded.  How much better could she feel with Teddy still gone?

"Is there any news at all?"

"Not yet.  But we're working on it, and we're waiting.  Sooner or
later, we're going to get a call for ransom, and then we can move
ahead.  I want to speak to some of your staff members again today to
see if anyone remembers anything they might have forgotten initially in
the excitement."  She nodded, it sounded sensible.  And he also wanted
to speak to Malcolm.

She went back up to the nursery then, and she was surprised when she
ran into her husband.  He was standing in Teddy's room, looking
stricken as he touched the child's toys, and let a hand drift across
his pillow.  It brought tears to Marielle's eyes again when she saw
him.  She felt guilty for their sharp exchange downstairs.  They were
both under a terrible strain.  As she looked around the room, it tore
at her heart again.  She remembered stroking his little cheek as he lay
there in the red pajamas Miss Griffin had made, with the embroidery on
the collar.  There were tiny little trains sewn all around in Miss
Griffin's careful blue stitching.

"It's impossible to believe that a child can just vanish into thin air,
isn't it?"  Malcolm said mournfully, and she nodded.  He looked at her
so sorrowfully, and he sounded gentler than he had an hour before.

Here, in this room, you could be sad, but not angry.  He sank slowly
into the rocking chair near the bed, and stared at where his son had
lain for the last time before they took him.

"I keep thinking of the train downstairs, waiting for him."  There were
tears in his eyes when he spoke, and Marielle turned away so he
wouldn't see her own, and then he reached out and touched her hand.

"I'm sorry about this morning.  I'm afraid I was overwrought.  And
yesterday too ... it's just such a nightmare all this, Marielle.  What
are we going to do?"  It was the first time she had ever seen him at a
loss, and suddenly she felt sorry for him.  He seemed suddenly so
broken.

"We're going to pray that he comes home soon."  She tried to say it
calmly as she squeezed his hand.  And a few minutes later, Haverford
came to find him to tell him that Brigitte was waiting for him in his
office at the house.  He was still struggling to maintain his work
load, and Brigitte had been enormously helpful and deeply sympathetic.
She had cried for hours when she heard the news, and she still couldn't
believe it.

Marielle followed him downstairs when he left for his office and then
went back to her bedroom.  At least they had made peace, after a
fashion.  She exchanged a few words with Brigitte, when she saw her.

Both women cried, and Brigitte hugged her warmly, unable to speak for a
moment, before she went off to work with Malcolm.  Marielle had always
known how Brigitte adored Teddy.

It was late that afternoon when John Taylor finished interviewing the
help for the second time, and asked to see Malcolm.  He wasn't
surprised by what he'd heard till then, because she'd warned him, but
he still didn't like it.  They painted a portrait of a woman who was
different from the one he'd seen the night of the kidnapping.  A woman
who was weak and indulged and frightened and always hiding.  Miss
Griffin had said that Mrs.  Patterson was too nervous, too anxious, and
that it wasn't healthy for the boy.  In fact, she was so nervous
sometimes, she didn't even want to see him, and it had taken her quite
a long time to adjust to him in the beginning.  At first, she had
hardly shown any interest in him at all, as though she wasn't even sure
if she wanted him.  And it was only lately that she'd been spending
time with him, "in between her headaches."

And when he'd last spoken to Edith she had called her a spoiled brat,
and intimated that she could have said worse, that she spent so much on
clothes it was a wonder she didn't ruin her husband.  She said she
spent all her time napping or resting, and didn't spend any time
running the house, which was just as well, because no one would have
listened.  They all worked for Mister Patterson, she made very clear,
and had since before "she'd" been there.  And she even blamed the loss
of her job now on Marielle and not Malcolm.

The housekeeper said almost nothing, and said she knew very little of
Mrs.  Patterson's habits.  She made it equally clear that Mrs.
Patterson herself was of no interest.  Only Mister Patterson
mattered.

Only Betty had a few kind things to say.  And Haverford seemed to feel
sorry for her, although he wouldn't say why, and he refused to open up
to John Taylor.  And of course, when they last interviewed him, Patrick
the driver continued his tale about her "boyfriend," which Taylor
suggested he keep to himself, as there was more to it than he knew and
he could very easily find himself a material witness, which, for a
moment at least, seemed to frighten him into silence.

But the picture Taylor got was one of a woman who was universally
disliked for reasons he couldn't fathom.  She was the outcast she had
described herself to be, in her own house, and very few of the people
who supposedly worked for her seemed to know or like her.  He got the
feeling that she was withdrawn from all of them, and he suspected cor
l rectly that she was very lonely.  It was still puzzling him when he
walked into the library to see Malcolm, and he mentioned it while
Haverford brought them each a cup of coffee.

"Why is it," he put a spoonful of sugar in and left it black as he
glanced up at Malcolm, "that so many of your servants seem to dislike
her?"  He saw Haverford watching him, but the old butler said
nothing.

Malcolm let out a long sigh and stared out the window.

"She's not a strong person, you know ... she's weak, and frightened,
and perhaps they sense it.  She's had," he seemed to hesitate, "ahh ..
mental problems, shall we say ... in the past ... and she still suffers
from terrible headaches."

"That's no reason to hate her."  They all seemed to have so little
regard for Marielle as a person, as though she didn't count, as though
she didn't exist, as though they worked for him and not for her and
wanted everyone to know it.  And John Taylor couldn't help wondering if
Malcolm had set it up that way, to keep her powerless in her own house.
She seemed to have absolutely no control over anyone, not her child, or
her staff, and certainly not her husband.  Even Miss Griffin had
admitted that she'd never followed Mrs.  Patterson's orders.  She took
her orders, as she put it, from the boy's father.  But when he asked
her why, she couldn't explain it, except to say that Marielle was weak
and didn't know her own mind, but that didn't make sense to him.  She
didn't seem weak when he talked to her.  She made sense,

she was intelligent, and polite, and even if she had headaches, that
didn't make her crazy.  But that was the feeling he was getting now,
that they all thought she was a little "off," as though her mind and
her judgment couldn't be trusted.  And he couldn't help wondering what
had made them think that.

"I don't think anyone hates her here.  What a terrible thing to say."

Malcolm smiled benignly, but then he looked at him almost sadly.

"She's not a strong girl, and she's had terrible problems.  Who's to
say that she will even be able to endure the shock of all this?  This
could be the last straw in an already very tenuous picture."

"Is that what you think?"  Taylor knew he was onto something, but he
wasn't sure what.  And there was something else.  he wanted to know.
But he was saving that for later.

"Is that what you're telling me?"  Taylor pressed.

"That she's crazy?"

"Of course not."  Malcolm looked outraged at the insult to his wife.

"I'm telling you she's fragile."

"Isn't that the same thing?  Aren't you telling me she could crack
because Teddy's been kidnapped?  Has that been the implication in this
house for all these years, that she's 'fragile," as you put it, and not
someone to take seriously?  Have you told them that, or have they just
guessed it?  "

"I've told them that they should deal with me, and not trouble her."

He looked annoyed.

"But I see absolutely no connection between that and my son's
kidnapping," he snapped.

"Sometimes the whole picture is very important."

"The whole picture here is that she's a delicate girl with a terrible
history, as you know yourself, and I just found out.  Two years in a
mental hospital, and nine years of imaginary headaches."  He sounded
hard as nails and Taylor didn't like what he was saying.  It was as
though he was trying to discard her as a person, and somehow he had
conveyed it to everyone who worked near them.  Taylor suspected that
only Haverford felt differently about her.

"Are you saying her headaches are imaginary?"

"I'm saying that she's neurotic."  He had gone further than he wanted
to and was suddenly very irritated at John Taylor.

"Neurotic enough to be involved with Charles De- launey in the
kidnapping of her own child?"

Malcolm looked shocked but for a long moment he didn't answer.

"I

never thought of it.  But I suppose it's possible.  Maybe anything is.
I don't know.  Have you asked her?  "

"I'm asking you.  Do you think she would do a thing like that?  Do you
think she's still in love with him?"  Taylor was wondering how far
Malcolm would go in condemning his own wife, and he didn't like the
answer.

"I have no idea, Inspector.  You'll have to discover that for
yourself."

John Taylor nodded.

"And you, Mr.  Patterson, how involved are you with Miss Brigitte
Sanders?"  It was a question he'd been saving for him, and to which he
wanted an answer.  And he loved the expression on Malcolm's face when
he asked him.

"I beg your pardon."  Malcolm looked outraged.

"Miss Sanders has been my secretary for the past six years, as I'm sure
you know, and I'm not in the habit of becoming involved with my
secretarial assistants."

John Taylor looked amused at that.

"I believe you married your last one."

Malcolm flushed a deep purple and did not look amused.

"Miss Sanders has a character of the highest order."

"That's impressive certainly."  Taylor looked un flustered and was
secretly amused.  In fact, he loved it.

"But the two of you travel together a great deal, even to Europe.  And
I notice that even on the ships you take, your cabins are always
adjacent to each other."  He had researched it carefully, even with
deck plans.

"That is perfectly normal, if I expect the woman to work with me.

Since you've done your research so well, I'm sure that you're aware I
frequently take my other secretary as well, Mrs.  Higgins.  She's in
her late fifties, and I'm sure she'd be extremely flattered by your
suggestions.  " But it wasn't the older woman who interested John, it
was Brigitte.  And he also knew that Mrs.  Higgins hadn't traveled with
him in well over two years, but he didn't say that to Malcolm.

"I apologize if the question seems impertinent, sir.  But just as we
had to delve into your wife's history, it's important that we are aware
of yours as well.  Angry lovers can do some very nasty things."

"Miss Sanders is neither angry, nor my lover, I can assure you."  His
face was still red from Taylor's suggestions.  They went on talking for
a short time about Malcolm's involvements in Germany, his business
dealings in the States, and any people he could have angered with deals
he had made.  But there seemed to be nothing worth mentioning.

All Taylor could figure out by the end of it was that Teddy had been
taken either for money or for revenge.  If it was money, they'd hear
something soon.  If it was revenge, it had to be Charles, and John just
prayed that De- launey wouldn't hurt the boy.

They talked about Delauney again, and Taylor reiterated that there was
no evidence against the man, there was nothing to link him to the child
or the crime, except the foolish things he had said to Marielle.

And you couldn't put a man in jail for being stupid.  He had an alibi,
there was no evidence, and even if he had a motive, it was all still
pretty shaky.

"I still think he's our man," Malcolm said solemnly as he walked John
to the front door, and the inspector nodded.

"Unfortunately, so do I. And if he is, let's just hope we get him."

Malcolm left him at the front door, and Taylor pushed his way through
the throng of press outside.  Finally, two hours later, as Malcolm and
Marielle sat down to dinner in the dining room, the call came.

Two policemen took the call, pretending to be servants, the recording
machine was set in operation instantly, and by the time Malcolm came on
the line seemingly innocently, everything was rolling.

They had asked for him in an accent that screamed of South Bronx or
East Jersey.

"Yes, this is Mr.  Patterson."  Four policemen, and Marielle, were
holding on at various extensions.

"Who is this?"

"I've got a friend here ... a little guy in red pajamas."  Marielle
felt dizzy as she held her hand over the phone and listened.  They had
taken him exactly forty-six hours before, and as she held the phone in
her trembling hand, she was crying.

"How is he?"  Malcolm closed his eyes as he listened.

"He's fine.  Kinda cold, I think.  We need some money to buy the little
guy a blanket."

"May I speak to him?"  Malcolm said calmly, but the policeman watching
him saw that his hand was trembling.

"Nah ... he's sleeping.  Let's talk about the money first."

"How much do you need?"

"Oh ... I'd say about two hundred thousand dollars would buy a nice
blanket."  It was four times what the Lindberghs had paid and well
worth it.

"In unmarked bills, Mr.  Smart Guy.  In a locker at Grand Central
Station.  You leave it there.  No cops.  No marked bills.  No funny
stuff.  You leave it there as long as it takes for us to pick it up.
And when we're ready, you get your kid back."

"How do I know he's all right now?"

"You don't."  The voice was hard and ugly.

"But you screw me around, you tell the cops, you do anything ... we
kill him."  Marielle felt the room reel as she listened, and
perspiration was pouring down Malcolm's face when he hung up.  He had
written down all the instructions, and in any case, the call had been
recorded.

John Taylor arrived at the house less than half an hour later, Malcolm
was still looking gray, and Marielle was shaking.  They hadn't let them
speak to the child, and he reminded them that there was no way of
knowing if the call was for real, or from some crank, or someone who
wanted to make some easy money.  People were cruel, and sometimes they
wanted to get in on the excitement.  But at least it was a hope,
something to cling to, and when Taylor left the room, Malcolm dropped
his face in his hands and sobbed.  It was their only hope of seeing
Teddy.

The money was organized by midnight that night.  The Intelligence Unit
of the Treasury Department had placed half a million dollars in marked
bills in Malcolm's account the day before, and Taylor called the
president of the bank and asked him to release two hundred thousand of
it.  A small black alligator bag was filled and by two a. m. "
everything was in place in a locker in Grand Central Station.  They'd
been told to place an ad in the Daily Mirror when the bag was in
place, and by the next morning, the ad was where it should be, and
hundreds of plainclothes cops were swarming all over Grand Central
Station, walking back and forth, sleeping on benches, eating hot dogs,
reading magazines, looking like anyone else, and waiting for someone to
pick up the ransom.  But after three days, it was clear that no one was
going to take it.  The call was a cruel prank, and as hope waned,
Marielle couldn't even make herself get out of bed.  By Saturday, she
looked gray, and Malcolm looked even worse than she did.  The strain
was telling on both of them, and somehow it all seemed worse because it
was only six days till Christmas.  The prospect of spending Christmas
without him made it an added agony, as Malcolm stared at Marielle
across their uneaten dinner.

"Why?  Why didn't they come for it?"  She was haunted by the call, and
the threat to kill him if anything went wrong.  What if they had?  What
if they'd panicked and killed him?

"Taylor says it was a prank, you know that."  He was being sharp with
her again.  But he couldn't stand the strain anymore either.

"I still think it was Delauney."

"Then why don't they find something, dammit?  Why in God's name can't
they find who did it!"  She went back upstairs again then, unable to
sit there any longer.  Even the now familiar sight of John Taylor was
no longer reassuring, and the next day Malcolm begged him to search
Delauney's house again, and Taylor promised to do it.

It was Sunday afternoon, almost exactly one week after the kidnapping
when they found it.  It was in the basement of the Delauney mansion, in
the wine cellar, hidden behind some old cases.  One of the police found
what he thought was a rag at first, it didn't look like much more than
that, but when he moved the case aside he saw it, and he held it up
with a look of astonishment, and then he knew he'd found what they had
come for.  It was a pair of red child's pajamas, with little blue
embroideries on the collar.  He walked upstairs as fast as he could,
and asked to speak to Inspector Taylor, and then he showed him what
he'd found.  Taylor stood and looked at it for a long moment, and then
wondered where the child had gone, what Delauney had done with him.

There was a lot they had to find out now.  He went back to where
Delauney sat and told him what they'd found as Charles dropped his face
into his hands and swore he hadn't done it.

"My own son died years ago."  He looked up at John imploringly.

"I know what it's like ... why would I do that to someone else?"  It
didn't make sense, and in John's heart he hoped Charles hadn't done
it.

John Taylor snapped handcuffs on him, and moments later he was
downtown, the red pajamas carefully sealed in an envelope in Taylor's
hand, and Charles Delauney was booked for kidnapping.

John called Malcolm and Marielle, and she cried when she heard they had
found Teddy's pajamas.

"But where is he?"  That was all that mattered.

"We don't know yet.  We're going to question Delauney now.  But I
wanted to bring him downtown to do it.  We can be rougher here."  They
both knew John Taylor meant business.

"I'll call you as soon as we know anything."  But this explained why
there had been no real requests for ransom.  Charles had done it for
revenge, or out of anger, or to get Marielle and he certainly didn't
need any money from them.  He had the only thing he wanted: the boy.
But the real question was, what had he done with him after he took
him?

And where was he now?  And worst of all .  was he still living?

Marielle looked heartbroken when John Taylor hung up, and she couldn't
help wondering what Malcolm was thinking.  He said not a single word to
her.  He simply walked upstairs, and silently closed the door to his
bedroom.

When news of Charles Delauney's arrest leaked out, the press went
wild, and there were ten times as many reporters outside the Patterson
home the next morning.  Malcolm only went out under heavy police
escort.  The reporters hounded John Taylor now too, and the chief of
police.  They wanted to know every thing.  This was big news and they
wanted the story.  The heir to one of the most important fortunes in
the country had been arrested for kidnapping .  more than that, it was
a crime of passion, a saga of revenge .  the accused had been married
to another scion's wife, and held her responsible for the death of
their child.  Despite all of John's efforts, word had leaked out, and
the scandal was full-blown and out of control by Christmas.

By then, Charles had been in custody at Federal Detention Headquarters
for five days, and still there was no news of Teddy.  Delauney still
swore he had no idea where he was and had had nothing to do with it,
which led John Taylor to fear that he had killed him.  Much to his own
chagrin, he told Marielle and Malcolm that on Christmas night.  But he
felt certain now that Delauney's stubbornness about the crime meant
that he had done it as revenge, and Taylor thought it more than likely
that he had killed him.

"Oh my God."  Malcolm's whole body swayed when Taylor told him, but
this time Marielle held firm, and put an arm around him as though to
soothe him.  She hadn't had a headache in days, and her whole life
centered around waiting for news of Teddy.

"I can't believe that," she said quietly in answer to Taylor's news.

"I can't believe we'll never see him again.  No matter what Charles
did, I can't believe he would have killed him."

"Come to your senses!"  Malcolm shouted at her in front of John
Taylor.

"When are you going to understand that the man took him as revenge for
his own child?  His child is dead and so is mine...."  And somehow the
way he said it told her in no uncertain terms that he blamed her.

John Taylor heard the implication too, but there was nothing he could
say to help her.  He wanted to whisper to her, "Be strong," or hold her
for a moment before he left the room.  But he could say nothing.  He
only squeezed her hand, imperceptibly, and then he left her with

Christmas didn't even exist for them this year, there was no exchange
of gifts, of warm thoughts or feelings.  There were no decorations put
up anywhere, and Teddy's room was like a little altar to all they'd
lost.  They both seemed to go there constantly, to renew their hope and
spirit.  Marielle couldn't believe she'd never hold him in her arms
again, couldn't believe he was gone .  it wasn't possible .  Charles
just couldn't do it.

She lay awake all that night after John had gone, and she knew what she
had to do.  The next morning when Malcolm went out, to attend to some
business, she ordered the car brought around and she asked one of the
policemen to drive her downtown.  They seemed a little startled at
first, but after consulting with the sergeant in charge, they agreed to
do it.  They spirited her out the servants' door, in a black dress and
hat and an old fur coat of her mother's, and the car plowed through the
reporters outside the house, and headed downtown as Marielle sat
shaking between two policemen in the backseat.  She hadn't been out of
the house since the kidnapping, and it was terrifying pressing through
crowds, and being driven to a police station by four policemen.  But
she knew that this was something she had to do.  No matter what they
said, she had to see him.

He was being held at Federal Detention Headquarters and he had been
there for six days.  Formal charges had been made almost immediately,
for kidnapping.  Taylor was still hoping to get a confession out of
him, or at least learn the whereabouts of the child, if they could
force that out of him.  But so far, he had given up nothing.

There was a handful of reporters on the front steps when she arrived,
and as soon as they got a glimpse of her, they went wild, but her
escort forced their way through, and a moment later she was inside,
breathless and shaking.  She explained whom she had come to see, and
there were whispered conferences and murmurings.  It wasn't a visiting
day, and this was highly irregular, but she told them who she was and
that she had to see him.

Finally one of the sergeants in charge took her in, and left her in a
small bare room, and ten minutes later, they brought him to her.  He
was wearing rough pants, one of his own shirts, what looked like combat
boots, and he had a week-old beard, and an expression in his eyes she
hadn't seen in years, an expression of pain and sorrow that told her
what she had come to learn even before she asked him any questions.  He
began to cry the moment he saw her, and the guard left them alone in
the room as he took her in his arms and held her.

"I didn't do it, Marielle ... I swear ... I would never do that ... I
was era2y ... I was drunk that day ... I don't know ... just seeing you
there with him ... it reminded me of Andre...."

"I know ... I know ... shhh ... I had to talk to you."  She pulled away
from him so she could see him, and she was glad she had come.  She had
needed to hear from him just what had happened.  Slowly, he sat down,
and she sat down across from him, and looked at him.  How far they had
come, and how much pain there still was between them.

"What happened?"

"I don't know.  They said they found his pajamas in my basement.  My
God, Marielle ... tell me yon don't believe it's true...."

"How did they get there?"

"I don't know.  I swear to God, I don't ... I'm a fool ... I was
terrible to you ... I was wrong ... I was crazy ... but I've spent the
rest of my life trying to atone for it, I've never hurt anyone .. I've
fought for my friends, I was willing to die for their causes because I
have nothing more to lose ... why would I hurt him?  Why would I hurt
you?  I've done enough to you, and by God ..."  He sobbed as she held
his hands.

"I still love you."

"I know," she whispered, she still loved him too.  But she loved Teddy
more.  He was her baby.

"But where is he?"

"I swear, I don't know."  He looked up at her then, his eyes clear and
deep and true, and she believed him.

"I swear, Marielle, even if they kill me.  I promise you, I know
nothing of the boy's kidnapping.  I hope you find him, for your sake.
In spite of everything I said so stupidly, you deserve to."

She nodded.

"Thank you."  How had they gotten into this?  How had it happened?

The guard came back to them then, and he said she had to leave.  She
nodded and stood up, and Charles looked at her long and hard before he
left her.

"Believe me" was all he said, and she nodded.  It sounded like the
truth.  But if he hadn't taken the boy, who had?  She was no closer to
knowing anything than she'd been before she'd come.  But at least she
knew Charles Delauney hadn't done it.  And as she left the tiny room,
she was startled to see John Taylor coming toward her.  He was FBI and
not police and he had no business here, although she assumed he had
come to see Charles, but he looked very stern as he led her to a
private office.

"What are you doing here?"  He seemed angry at her, almost the way
Malcolm would have been, but she was glad she'd come anyway.  It had
been worth it.

"I had to see him."

"You're a fool."

She shook her head and knew she wasn't.

"He says he didn't do it.  And I believe him."  She had had to know,
had to ask, had to see him.

"And what do you think he's going to say to you?  That he killed
him?"

She flinched as he said the words, but he was angry at her for coming
to see him.

"He's not going to tell you the truth.  His neck is in the noose and
right now he's going to do anything he can to save it."

"Why would he lie to me?"

"Why would he tell you the truth?  There's too much at stake for him.

Marielle, listen to me, stay away from here.  Stay away from him.  If
we can, we'll find your son for you, but this man can do nothing for
you.

He's brought you nothing but pain .  leave him alone.  It was not his
place to say, but he knew she was being duped.  He knew too much about
Delauney now.  The wildness in Spain, the crazed furies he indulged
from time to time, the wild drunks, the rage .  the fact that he had
hit her when he had .  the fact that he still loved her.  He wasn't
even sure he was sane.  That was going to be looked into too.  But he
didn't want her any more hurt than she had been.  And when the press
got wind of this, they were going to have a field day.

"Come on, I'll take you home."  She nodded, willing to go now.

"And next time you want to do something like this, call me."

"And what will you say?"  She smiled as he led her away.  He had the
policeman start the car, and all they had to do was make a wild dash
for it, with the photographers blazing.  Later, there was one picture
of her swinging into the car with John Taylorjust behind her.

"What would you have said if I'd asked you to bring me down here?"  she
asked as they settled back in the car, and he frowned.

"I'd have said no."  In no uncertain terms.

"That's why I didn't call you."  She smiled.  But she was feeling
relieved.  She believed Charles.  Maybe it wasn't all her fault.  And
John Taylor sat watching her, thinking that she was a terrific woman
and how much he liked her.  Much more than he should have.

"I'll take you out for a drive and give you a nice stern lecture next
time you get an idea like that," he said as though scolding a child.

"That's what I was afraid of," she said quietly, and then said nothing
more on the drive home.

As he watched her as they drove uptown, he felt distinctly sorry for
her.  He knew how desperate she was to find the child, and he was
beginning to think they weren't going to.  He had begun to feel that
way in the Lindbergh case too, and he had wanted so badly to be wrong,
but in the end he wasn't.

They ran in through the kitchen once she was home, and she thanked him
for bringing her back.  But Malcolm was far less grateful to him the
following morning.  The papers were smeared with Marielle's visit to
Charles in jail, with photographs of her everywhere, and one of John
with his arm around her as she got into the car.

When Malcolm came home he was livid.

"What was that about, Marielle?"

"He was shielding me from the press," she said quietly.  And he'd been
right.  The photographers had had a field day.

"He seems to be enjoying it.  Was it his idea to take you to see
Delauney?"

"No, mine.  I ran into him there.  And Malcolm .  I'm sorry.  I just
had to see him ... I wanted to hear what he'd say."

"And did he tell you how he killed your son?  Did he tell you that?  Or
did he cry about his own son?"  Malcolm was raging.

"Malcolm, please ..."

"Please what ... your lover ... your ex-husband, your whatever you want
to call him takes my son and you want me to feel sorry for him?

Is that what you did?  Go to tell him how sorry you are for him?  You
know who I'm sorry for?  I'm sorry for Teddy .  our little boy who is
probably dead somewhere, who may have been kicked or stabbed or broken
or hurt .  " She was screaming as she listened, her hands over her
ears, unable to bear it a moment longer.

"Stop!  Stop!  Stop!"  She ran shrieking from the dining room and went
to her own bedroom.  It was too much to bear.  Too much was happening.
And everyone seemed to blame her.  It was her fault for knowing
Charles, for having been married to him, for not having been able to
save her own child, Charles blamed her for that too, and now Malcolm
blamed her for Teddy's kidnapping.

John Taylor came back to see her that afternoon, and was kind enough
not to mention the furor in the press, but he didn't have any other
news either.  They were going to search Charles's house again, just in
case.  And this time when they did, they found one of

Teddy's toys, it was a little teddy bear, concealed right in Charles's
own bedroom.  There was no longer any doubt at all.  And this time,
even Marielle believed them.

 e was still no news of Teddy.  It had been three and a half weeks
since he'd been gone, and Malcolm had gone back to Washington for a few
days to attend a joint secret session of the House and Senate
Committees on Military Affairs, and to see America's ambassador to
Germany, Hugh Wilson, who was home for a brief visit.

Marielle was alone in New York, in the house surrounded by guards, and
it had been almost a week since she'd seen John Taylor.

She was going through some papers one afternoon, trying to keep her
mind off Teddy, and stay out of his room.  She couldn't bear listening
to the radio any more.  Either it was news of the trial, which rattled
her, or she heard Teddy's favorite broadcasts, like The

Lone Ranker, which made her cry and depressed her.  And Marielle had
come to hate the sight of Shirley Temple because she reminded her of
Teddy.  They had finally sent Miss Griffin off for a brief vacation to
see her sister in New Jersey.  She too was almost hysterical by then.

And it was a relief not to have to look at her when Marielle went
upstairs.  Now she could be alone in his room, with his clothes, his
toys, the little things he'd used, like his hairbrush.  Sometimes, she
just stood there for hours, and touched them, or sat in his favorite
chair, or lay on his bed, trying not to think of his last night
there.

Haverford appeared in the library that day, as she put away the last of
her papers.  His eyes were gentle and kind.  He felt desperately sorry
for her, although he would never have said it.

"There's someone here to see you.  A Miss Ritter.  She says she has an
appointment."

"I don't know anyone by that name."

"Yes, you do."  At the sound of the words, Marielle turned, and saw a
young woman enter the room where she was working.  She was small and
had red hair and was about Marielle's age, and she looked familiar but
Marielle couldn't place her.  And for an instant, she found herself
praying that this would be some kind of threat, or extortion request,
someone who could lead her to him, but those hopes were almost dead
now.  The ransom had never been picked up, and was still sitting in the
locker in Grand Central Station.

"Who are you?"  Marielle looked puzzled, and Haverford stood ready to
defend her.  And then suddenly Marielle knew.  She recognized her as
the reporter who had forced her way into the house early on, and the
girl looked suddenly frightened as she glanced at the butler.

"May I talk to you alone?"

"No ... I'm sorry ... you can't."  Marielle sounded far braver than she
felt.  The girl seemed very bold and sure, and Marielle was being very
careful.

"It's important, please ..."  the young woman begged.  She was wearing
another of her incongruous outfits.

"I don't think so.  How did you get in here?"

"We made an appointment for this afternoon."  She tried to brazen it
out but Marielle knew better.  She hadn't had an appointment of any
kind in over a month, except with investigators and policemen.

"I'm sorry.  Miss ..."

"Ritter.  Beatrice Ritter.  Bea."  She smiled, trying to find some hook
into Marielle, something that would catch Marielle's interest enough to
ask her to stay, but Marielle knew better.

"... you'll have to leave...."  For an instant, the girl looked
bitterly disappointed, and then she nodded.

"I understand.  I just wanted to speak to you about Charles."  The
sound of his name was like an electric current in the room and Marielle
stared at her.

"Why?"

"Because he needs you."  It was all much too complicated to discuss
with a stranger.

"Madam?  ..."  Haverford looked at her inquiringly, and she didn't know
why, but she decided to let the girl stay, if only for a moment.

She nodded, and he left the room, but he alerted two policemen as he
left and Marielle saw them near the doorway.

"I don't understand why you're here.  Did Charles send you to see
me?"

She had heard nothing from him since her visit to the jail, not since
they found the bear that had finally convinced her he was guilty.

But Bea Ritter wanted to be honest with her, and realized she had to
make her point quickly, before she was asked to leave.  Charles had
told her himself that Marielle would never see her.

"I'm with AP.  And I don't think he did it.  I want to see if I can
help find out who did.

I want to know if you'll help me.  " It was as clear and concise as she
could make it.

"I'm afraid I don't agree with you.  Miss ... Ritter."  She groped for
her name.

"I didn't think he did it either, but two things have been found now to
link him to my son, the pajamas my son was wearing when he left, and
his favorite teddy bear.  And no one else has come forward."  Marielle
had no doubts now.

"Maybe the real kidnappers are afraid to, or have good reason not to.

There has to be some reason.  " She was so convinced of Charles's
innocence.  She had spent hours with him, and she could not believe him
capable of the crime.  But Marielle no longer l believed in his
innocence.  She stood up quietly, wanting the girl to leave her.

"I'm afraid I can't help yon."  Her eyes were too full of pain, her
heart too heavy.  She didn't want to listen to this girl plead for
Charles.  All she wanted was her son back.

"Do you believe he's capable of it?"  She had to know.  She wanted to
know if Marielle believed him.  But Marielle was afraid of what this
girl would put in the papers.

"I do believe he's capable of it.  There's simply no other answer.  And
he threatened to do it."  She was finally convinced, even if this young
woman wasn't.  After all these years, her heart had finally hardened to
Charles Delauney.

"He was drunk."  It was obvious that she'd talked to him, and Marielle
was annoyed that she was so persistent.  She was bright and strong and
incredibly determined.  She wore her hair in a short bob, and she was
wearing a cheap navy blue coat and dress, and a ridiculous hat with a
red flower, but in an odd, perky way, she was pretty.

"Being drunk is no excuse.  I'm sorry ..."  She walked to the door and
Bea Ritter didn't move.

"Mrs.  Patterson, he loves you...."  The words stopped her in her
tracks, and Marielle turned to stare at her in anger.

"Did he say that to you?"

"It's obvious."

"It hasn't been obvious to me in years, and I don't want to hear it."
She was finally very, very angry at him, and mortally wounded by what
he'd done.  But Bea Bitter refused to share Marielle's point of view.

"He's innocent."  She was so determined, so sure, that it almost
haunted Marielle as she listened, but she didn't want to be haunted by
Charles again.  He had taken her baby.

"How dare you say he's innocent!  If he is, where's my child?"

"He doesn't know.  He swears."  Her eyes never left Marielle's face.

"If Charles knew, he'd tell us."

"You don't even know him."  But she knew him better than Marielle
thought.  She had spent hours with him, in the jail, after bribing two
policemen.  At first it was just a story, an interview, but for some
odd reason, she believed him.  She was sure he was telling the truth,
and she had promised herself that she would do everything she could to
help him.  In fact, she had gone to Tom Armour, at his request, and
begged him to represent Charles.  The two were acquaintances from years
past, but until that point.  Armour had refused all of Charles's
letters and phone calls.  It was Bea who turned the tide, who begged on
his behalf, who convinced the young criminal attorney that Charles was
in fact innocent, in spite of how grim things looked against him.  And
she had reminded Tom that if he didn't take the case, and Charles lost,
he would be put to death .  an innocent man.  She insisted that Tom
could make all the difference.  Thanks to Bea Ritter, Tom Armour had
finally agreed to represent him.

"Will you help me?"  Her eyes begged and Marielle didn't want to hear
her, just as Tom Armour hadn't wanted to, but he had.  Bea Ritter was
uncomfortably convincing.

"Find my son and I'll believe you," Marielle said coldly.

"I'll try."  Bea Ritter finally stood up.

"May I call you if anything comes up?"  Marielle hesitated, and then in
spite of herself, she nodded.

"Thank you."  Bea stood for a moment, looking at Marielle, as though
wondering about all she'd heard, and then she thanked her again and
left, as Marielle watched her.

Marielle was still sitting at her desk, thinking about her unhappily,
when John Taylor arrived with the U.

S.

Attorney.  He was a tall, thin, spare, somewhat frightening-looking
man, who seemed absolutely certain that Charles Delauney had kidnapped
her child, and what's more, he was certain he had killed him.  Marielle
flinched as she heard the words, and John Taylor ached as he watched
her.  It was a far cry from Bea Ritter's plea to help him.

The U.

S.

Attorney told her they had scheduled the case for March, and he
explained to her that they expected a guilty verdict, and hoped for
every possible cooperation from her and her husband.

"What does that mean, Mr.  Palmer?"

"It means that I expect you to be at the trial, to sit there and make
the jury care.  We want them to know what losing your boy has meant to
you, so they convict Mr.  Delauney.

And if we're lucky, and can prove or even imply that he crossed state
lines with the boy, we'll get the death penalty, Mrs.  Patterson, and
nothing less!  " The way he said it made her shiver.  He also made her
feel that he was going to try to convict Charles on the emotions of the
case, more than the evidence.  And it worried her to be put " on
display" during the trial.  Taylor didn't like it either, but he
understood it.  William Palmer was a highly respected prosecutor, but
not much of a human being.

"Of course, if we find your son by then, we'd like to see him in court
too, but only briefly."  Marielle sat there thinking that she would
have loved that.  If only they would find him and he could be there.

"Anything else?"  She was being flip with him because what he was
saying was so awful, but he didn't seem to get the point as he stood up
and prepared to leave her.

"We'll let you know."  He readjusted his glasses, stared at her as
though evaluating how good a witness she'd make, and picked up his
briefcase.

"I'd like to see your husband when he gets back from Washington, if
you'd let him know."

"I'll tell him."  He left and Taylor stayed on, and she sighed as they
sat down on the couch.  It had been an endless month, a hideous time,
and they still had no idea what had happened to Teddy.  There had been
no calls, no tips, only a few bum leads, and a handful of crackpot
sightings from New Hampshire to New Jersey.  "He's sweet."  She was
referring to the U.

S.

Attorney, and Taylor laughed as he lit a cigarette and watched her. 
She was a good sport, among other things, when life wasn't crushing her
to extinction.

"He's better in court than in the drawing room."

"Lucky for him."  And then she looked inquiringly at John.  In an odd
way, they had become friends.  Sometimes she felt as though he was her
only ally.

"I imagine the trial will be really awful."

"It'll be rough.  And they'll bring out things you won't like ... at
least the defense will, maybe your time in the hospital, or something
like that.  They have to do what they can to discredit you."

"Why?  I'm not accusing Charles."  Although most of the time she now
believed he did it.  It was only now and then that she had doubts about
Charles's guilt.  She told him then about Bea Ritter.

"Stay out of it.  You'll only get hurt.  Whatever the press gets hold
of, they're going to twist and use to stab you in the back with."  She
agreed.  But what if the girl in the funny hats was right?  She was so
smart and so intense and so earnest.

"I don't know what to think sometimes," she admitted to John
dejectedly.

"And what difference does it make anymore?  Teddy's gone.  The rest is
all so unimportant."  Her eyes were so big and sad as she said it.  She
had lost three children in one short lifetime.

"It isn't unimportant to Charles.  His life is at stake.  He's going to
be clutching at straws for his survival."

"Who's his lawyer?"

"He picked a good one.  A man named Tom Armour.  Smart, young, he can
be brutal in court, but if anyone can save Delauney's neck, he will."

"I don't know if I'm glad or not.  I don't know what I think anymore.

Malcolm says he did it.  And when they found the bear .  " Her eyes
Riled with tears and she blinked them away.

"But I don't know ... when I went to see Charles, I believed him when
he said he didn't.  But if he didn't, where is Teddy?"  It was the one
question no one could answer, and as he watched her, he felt so drawn
to her, he could hardly listen to her questions.  He had never felt
like that about anyone, not even his wife, and certainly not the women
he usually dealt with in investigations, but there was something about
her that just drove him to distraction.  Something so vulnerable and
soft that all he wanted to do when he was near her was reach out and
touch her.

"I wish I knew the answer to that," he finally said, but his eyes
caressed her as they sat on the couch and it grew dark.  It was another
cold night, and she was alone, as usual.  Malcolm was away, and in
spite of the police everywhere, the house seemed so empty and lonely.

He wished that he could take her to dinner somewhere, somewhere where
there was noise and laughter and smoke and music.  He wished he could
take her away from it all, from men who beat her and broke her heart,
and others who ignored her.  He knew more about Malcolm Patterson now
than he cared to know, and one thing he knew for sure was that Marielle
was getting less than she deserved from everyone.  And John Taylor
wished that he could make things different.

"I wish I could make all of this go away for you, Marielle."  It was an
unprofessional thing for him to say, but it really touched her.

"That's sweet of you.  So do I, I guess.... I used to believe that
difficult things happened for a reason.  I'm not sure I believe that
anymore.  Too much has happened to me."  It was impossible to believe
that through totally unforeseeable and hideous circumstances, the woman
had lost three children.

"Do you have children?"  She knew so little about him, and yet she had
known for a month now that she liked him.

"Two.  A girl fourteen and a boy eleven."  And then, suddenly he was
sorry he'd said it, but she seemed peaceful as she nodded.

"Andre would have been eleven" and the little girl eight .  the baby
who died without ever taking a breath, and with no name .  just baby
girl Delauney.

"Jennifer and Matthew."  He filled in to distract her.

"Do they look like you?"  She was smiling, enjoying just talking to him
about normal things, not kidnapping and murder.

"I don't know.  People say he does.  It's hard to tell.

What about you?  What do you like to do when life is normal?  "

She smiled at the question.

"I like to swim, and go for long walks, and ride ... I like music ... I
used to paint years ago, but I haven't in years ..."  Not since the
hospital, but she didn't say that.

"I like all the silly things I used to do with Teddy."  Everything
always came back to that, in the end.  it was all she could think of.

"We saw Snow White, the day ... the day he ..."

"I know," he said softly.  He remembered.  She nodded then, feeling
sad, and he put a hand on hers, and she looked at him wondering why he
cared, why he was so nice, but she was grateful that he was there.  He
always seemed to be there when it mattered.

"Marielle ..."  He spoke her name softly, and the air seemed not to
move between them, and then without saying anything, he leaned toward
her and kissed her.  She felt her whole body melt close to him as he
took her in his arms and held her close, and all she could think of was
the power of him, the excitement and the strength, and the kindness.
She didn't know what to say to him when he pulled away from her and
they both looked surprised, but it was obvious from her face that she
was happy.

"I'm not sure what to say now ... except that you mean a lot to me .
and I'm not sure I could have survived all this without you."

"I want to be there for you ..."  He wanted to give her more than that,
but he didn't know how to say it.  He pulled away slowly, and sat back
against the couch, wondering at what he had done, and why, except he
knew he'd had to do it.  He could never have given her any of the
things she had.  All he could give her was the one thing he knew she
didn't have, and hadn't in years: love.  And one thing he was sure of,
Malcolm Patterson didn't deserve her.  She was looking at John quietly,
and she looked more peaceful than she had in a long time, as she
touched his hand and then kissed it.

"Do you love your wife?"  She wanted to know, more out of curiosity
than anything else.  She wanted to know him better.  And he could never
be anything less than honest with her.  He hesitated and then nodded.

"She's very lucky."  But he didn't want to talk about his wife with
her.

"I haven't been able to think about anyone but you since the night I
met you.  All I wanted to do that night was put my arms around you."

They exchanged a long intense look, and then each knew what the other
was feeling.  They didn't even need the words.  All they needed was
each other.  And they both knew he could lose his job over what he was
doing .  and his wife .  but the truth was, he didn't care now.  All he
wanted was to be with her, to take care of her, and protect her as no
one else had.  Marielle was drawn to him too, but she couldn't imagine
what would happen.  They were both married, whether happily or not, and
however angry Malcolm was at her now, she couldn't leave him after
losing Teddy.

"What's going to happen to us?"  she asked softly.

"What do you want to happen, Marielle?"  His voice was deep and
gentle.

"I'm not sure."  She looked worried.  She didn't want to hurt anyone,
not John, or his wife, or even Malcolm.

John touched the silky cinnamon-colored hair.  And the truth was that
he was ready to leave Debbie for her, but he knew that if he told
Marielle that, it would frighten her and make her feel guilty.  He
didn't want to make promises he couldn't keep, yet he wanted her so
badly.  He wanted to be with her, to help her, to hold her, to give her
everything she'd never had before.  He wanted all of her .  her soul
her life .  and her body.  "You haven't had a hell of a lot of lucky
breaks, my friend."  He said it with a rueful smile, and more kindness
in his eyes than she had seen in a lifetime.

"No, I guess you could say that ... Teddy was one of them ... and now
you ... maybe that's all you get ... maybe all you get out of anything
worth having is a few years, a few days ... a few moments .. " She had
had Andre for a brief two years.  Charles for three .  Teddy for four .
maybe that was it .  maybe that was all.  Maybe there was no forever.

"You don't ask for much."

"I haven't had much choice."  She looked him in the eye and he leaned
toward her and kissed her again.  This time it took their breath away,
and he wasn't sure he could restrain himself much longer.

"I want you to be happy ..."  he whispered heatedly, but she looked at
him sadly.  Even though he had given her so much joy in these few
precious moments, she didn't expect more, and she wanted him to know
that.  And all she wanted right now was to find Teddy.

"This has been such an awful time ..."  she said softly.

"I know."  He took her hand in his own, wishing he could solve all her
problems.  Maybe in time .  but he shuddered to think what would happen
to her if they never found the boy, or they only found his body.

"You have to be very strong, Marielle."  He knew she was already.

"I'm here to help you."  And then he had a thought, because in truth,
she asked so little of him.

"Why do you ask so little of everyone?  Why are you so decent?" 
Therein he knew he had found the key.  That was why they all hated her.
Because she expected nothing of them, because she gave without wanting
anything in return, and it all made them feel so terribly lacking.  She
was too good, too land, too pure, and too willing to endure the pain
they gave her.

"Don't be so good ... even to me, Marielle ... don't ..."  He kissed
her again, and she kissed him hard this time, and finally she stopped
and pulled away with a small smile that made his heart turn over as he
watched her.  With all her dignity and gentleness, she still exuded an
aura of passion, and she was driving him crazy.

"If we don't stop soon, we're going to have a serious problem."  She
looked at him knowingly as she said it.

"I'm not so sure that isn't what I want," he answered hoarsely.  And
she was sure it was what she wanted.  She hadn't made love to a man in
three years, and the sinews beneath his shirt looked powerfully
appealing, but they also didn't need that land of complication at the
moment, and they both knew it.

"When this is all over, you and I are going to have a serious talk,
Mrs.  Patterson.  I don't know what's going to happen.  But I do know
I'm not going to let you off the hook so easily then."  He had never
felt like this about anyone, not even his wife, and he wasn't willing
to give that up now.  The moment he had met Marielle, he had known his
life was about to change forever.  But he also knew that what he owed
her now was to find her son, and if he couldn't do that, to at least
help her through the trial and see Charles De- launey convicted.

"Would you like something to eat before you go?"  she offered, but he
shook his head.

"I have to get back to the office," he said reluctantly, hating to
leave her.  He seldom went home before ten o'clock.  Because he really
didn't want to.  He had told Marielle he loved his wife and he did . 
he had .  he used to .  But the truth was, he loved his kids more, and
that and their religion kept them together.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he whispered to Marielle, wondering if she'd
regret what they'd done, what they'd said, and if she'd be embarrassed,
but there was a look of contentment in her eyes when she stood up, and
she looked at him strangely.

"I know I should feel guilty, but I don't.  I just feel peaceful."  As
though something very special had happened.  And he felt it too.

Something right.  Something good.  Something they both needed and
wanted.  But would they ever be allowed to have it?  It was still too
soon to know the answer to that question.

"Good night, Mrs.  Patterson," he said softly, brushing her lips with
his own before they left the room and were under the scrutiny of the
policemen still assigned to her home night and day.

"Good night, Marielle ..."  he whispered.  She smiled as she walked him
to the front door, and a few minutes later, she walked quietly upstairs
to her own room.  It was the first time in a month she had smiled,
it-was so wonderful to feel loved and wanted again, even if only for a
moment.

-OSi^ Bill Palmer, the U.

S.

Attorney, became a frequent visitor to their home, while he was
preparing his case, and for long periods of time he would stay closeted
with Malcolm.  He spoke to various members of the staff, and he had had
several conversations with the no longer employed Edith and Patrick.
And finally, in early March, he spoke to Marielle again, this time
alone, with neither John Taylor, nor her husband.

"I want you to be sure, Mrs.  Patterson, before you take the stand,
that you're perfectly clear on what you believe happened.  Do you
understand me?"  She was sure she did, and he was one of those people
who spoke in a deliberate voice, and there was absolutely nothing
endearing about him.  His hair was slicked down, and his face was
pale.

He was probably John Taylor's age, a man in his very early forties.  He
was given to pin-striped suits and dark ties, he wore hornrimmed
glasses, and it was obvious that he was extremely impressed with
Malcolm.

"I understand," she said quietly.  But there was still very little to
tell.  She had heard a noise late that night, and at midnight she had
gone upstairs to check on Teddy, just to kiss him, she explained for
the hundredth time, but the attorney looked untouched by her recital.

He was only interested in convicting De- launey.  He hated men like
him, a socialist lurking in the robes of a rich man, as he viewed it.

A spoiled playboy who thought he could do anything he wanted.

"I found Betty, and Miss Griffin, bound and gagged.  Miss Griffin had a
pillowcase over her head as well, and she'd been chloroformed.  And
Teddy was gone ... that's all there was really ... he had vanished."

And there had been nothing since then, except the false alarm over the
ransom left in Grand Central Station.  It had never been picked up and
they'd never called again, which convinced the police and the FBI that
the call had been made by cranks in the first place.

"And the pajama suit found at Delauney's home, was that your son's?"

She felt as though she were already on the stand as he paced the room
and watched her.

"I believe so," she said softly.

"You're not sure."  He stopped pacing and stared, as though in fury.

"I'm sure, but ..."

"But what, Mrs.  Patterson?"  Malcolm had warned him that she was never
sure, never certain, never brave enough to stand up for herself or have
her own convictions.

"I don't know how it got there."  Malcolm had said, unfairly, that you
couldn't really trust her emotions.

"Delauney left it there of course.  How else would it get to his house,
along with the boy's teddy bear?  Do you not believe Charles Delauney
kidnapped your son?"  There was a long pause as she pondered it
again.

She had asked herself the same question a thousand times in the past
two and a half months, and she thought he had, the evidence was there,
yet sometimes she was unsure, when she let herself think of Charles as
a person.  And everyone said he still maintained that he hadn't.  But
the evidence .  the evidence .  the pajamas .  the bear .  "Yes, I
think so."  She looked pained as she said it.

"But you're not sure?"  He bit off.  each word as though it hurt him.

"Is there anyone else you think might have kidnapped your son?"  She
shook her head.  She felt as though she were shrinking while she
listened.

"I don't know.  I don't think anyone knows, or we would have found
him."

William Palmer looked shocked.

"Don't you want justice, Mrs.

Patterson?  Don't you want to see the man who took your son punished?

That's what your husband wants, isn't that what you want?  " He made it
sound un-American of her not to want to see Charles executed.  But in
truth that was not what she wanted.

"All I want is for my son to come home."

"Do you accept the possibility that he may have killed him?"  She
closed her eyes as she nodded, and then opened them again, wondering
how she was going to survive the trial.  The past two and a half months
had been a nightmare.  The newspapers were hounding them night and day,
and almost every day there were photographs of them, or Teddy, or
Charles, on the front pages.  She couldn't even listen to the radio
anymore without hearing tales about herself, or Charles, or Malcolm,
most of them untrue, and many of them filled with imaginary scandal.

She was supposedly seen dancing everywhere, Malcolm was divorcing her,
Charles had escaped, Teddy had been seen.  It was endless and totally
untrue, and perfectly awful.  And William Palmer was part of the
nightmare.

"You understand that this man may have killed your son, yet you're not
certain that you believe he is guilty.  Is that correct?"

"Yes," she finally spat at him, "yes, that's correct.... No ..."

She changed her mind again, "I think he did it."  Palmer looked deeply
annoyed as she turned and stood up and walked across the room,
struggling with her own feelings.

"I am not entirely sure that Charles Delauney kidnapped, and possibly
even killed, my son.  But I believe it is possible because of the
pajamas and the teddy bear."

He smiled a small wintry smile at her.

"That's my job, isn't it?  Why don't you have a little faith in me,
Mrs.  Patterson, and let yourself be convinced.  Your husband believes
Mr.  Delauney is guilty, you know."  He was trying to soothe her.  But
she already knew what Malcolm thought, and why.  He also thought it was
all her fault, and that wasn't true either.

"He doesn't know him as well as I do."

"I suppose not.  But Mr.  Delauney beat you when you were pregnant,
didn't he?"

She didn't answer for a long moment, as she stared out at the garden,
wishing that she would see her son there.

"More or less.  I'm not sure I'd call it that.  He hit me ... but he
was beside himself with grief...."

"And didn't he kill your unborn child as a result?"

"I don't know.  But he's not going on trial for murdering my baby."

"No, but perhaps for murdering your son.  And if he could do it once,
perhaps he could do it again."

"That's ridiculous.  The two cases are entirely different."

"Are you defending him, Mrs.  Patterson?  Will you defend him at the
trial?"  That was what he wanted to know.  He wanted to know just where
she stood before she hurt his case, and he was already more than a
little worried.

"That's not my job, Mr.  Palmer.  I'm not here to defend anyone.  All I
care about is my son."

"And all I care about is justice."

"Then justice will be served."  She looked at him long and hard, and he
was serious and unhappy when he left her.  Patterson was right, she was
unpredictable and unreliable, emotional, and he was beginning to wonder
if the chauffeur was right after all.  Maybe she still was in love with
Charles Delauney.  Maybe they'd been having an affair.  Maybe there was
more to this than met the eye.  But his investigators had turned up
absolutely nothing unsavory about her.  The worst thing anyone could
say about her was that she spent too much money on clothes, but
Patterson didn't seem to mind that.

When Palmer left that afternoon, John Taylor had arrived only moments
later.  Visiting her had become part of his daily routine now.  He
enjoyed talking to her, or sometimes they just sat quietly over a cup
of coffee.  He liked just being there, somewhere near her.  Sometimes
he'd spend hours at the house pretending to keep an eye on his men,
just so he could be around when she came downstairs.  It was like being
a kid again, but they'd smile at each other, or steal a look, or she'd
bring him a sandwich, and he'd put a hand out quickly and touch her.

He loved the smell of her, and the softness of her skin, and if he was
very lucky, and no one was around, he might even have the chance to
kiss her.  He was dying to go outside with her, to go for long walks in
the spring, or just go to the movies with her and eat popcorn.  But
they couldn't go anywhere.  The moment she opened her front door, she
was like fresh meat in a pool of sharks.  They had to stay inside, and
hide, and talk.  And it always intrigued him how seldom he saw Malcolm
when he was at the house.  The man was never there, but that suited
John Taylor to perfection.

"How's it going?"  he whispered as he took off his coat.  He had seen
Bill Palmer leave in a cab when he got there.

"Palmer treating you okay?"

"I think he's disappointed I don't want to see Charles electrocuted.

Or at least I'm not enthusiastic enough about it.  "

"I worry about that too," John said to her, touching her arm as they
walked to the library.

"What can I say to convince you?"

"Show me evidence ... show me my child ..."

"I wish I could.  But are you really convinced he's innocent?"

"No," she admitted to him.

"The trouble is I'm not a thousand percent convinced he's guilty
either.  I think he did it, but I'm not totally sure."  She agonized
about it sometimes, glad she couldn't be on the jury.

"Once we found the pajamas, it was open and shut, and you know it."

But he also knew she didn't want to believe the child was dead, and not
finding him suggested that, as they all knew.  Maybe denying Charles's
guilt meant believing Teddy was still alive.  Maybe she couldn't afford
to believe the truth.  And sometimes John wondered if they'd ever find
him.  He had hated finding the Lindbergh child, hated telling them,
hated what it must have done to them.  Having children of his own, it
didn't even bear thinking.  And now maybe Marielle would have to face
that too.  All he could hope for her was that it had been quick and
painless.

"The trial's going to be awful, isn't it, John?"  she asked him over
the coffee that Haverford had brought them.  Even the old butler had
grown fond of him.  He was nice to Marielle, and it was comforting
having him around.  It made everyone feel safe to have him at the
house.  And only a couple of cops suspected that his interest in
Marielle was something other than business.  But they were smart enough
to keep their mouths shut.  So far, their secret was safe, but their
feelings for each other seemed to be growing.  They were still trying
to live from day to day, concentrating on Teddy and the trial, but they
each knew that the time would come when they'd have to face each other
and their future.  But for the moment, neither of them had to make any
decisions.  Instead, they continued to focus their attention on the
trial which lay before them.

"I think it'll be rough, to be honest with you.  I think they're going
to drag out a lot of history that could be very painful," John told her
quietly, over his coffee.

"I can hardly wait."  She knew what he meant, and she also knew that
Malcolm had treated her like a criminal ever since they had arrested
Charles De- launey.  It was as though he believed she had been in
league with him, or that somehow she had provoked him into kidnapping
Teddy.  There was no getting close to him again, no reaching out to
him, he had cast her adrift in a sea of loneliness and terror.

"Have you heard from Bea Ritter again, by the way?"  She was the
spirited young redheaded girl who had championed Charles's cause, and
she was driving them all insane.  She had mounted a campaign in the
press to defend him.  She called John Taylor every few days, his
defense attorney, the investigators, the U.

S.

Attorney, and she knew Bea had called her several times, but she no
longer took the calls.

She had nothing more to say to her, and talking to her always made
Marielle nervous.

"I think she called yesterday."  And then, suddenly, she looked at John
in amusement.

"Is she in love with him?"  She was actually a very pretty girl, and
she was about Marielle's age, but she had enough energy and fight for
ten men and John found her exhausting.

"I wondered that myself, to tell you the truth.  But you know, there
are a lot of crazy broads who go nuts over guys like him, guys accused
of some really ugly crime, and they become obsessed with the accused's
innocence.  She might be one of those, or maybe just another nosy
reporter."

"She certainly seems to care about him.  Whenever I've talked to her,
she seems so determined to convince me.

"I know."  John shook his head, finishing his coffee.

"He could do a lot worse.  He needs all the help he can get, and a
little positive press won't hurt him.  I just hope it doesn't hurt us,
Marielle."  He looked at her soberly as he stood up.

"Be careful you don't unwittingly cooperate with the defense.  No
matter what you believe or don't believe, you don't want to help them."
She wanted to ask him why not, but she already knew the answer.  What
they wanted was the truth, about what had happened to Teddy.  A little
while later, he left, and she was alone again.  She went back upstairs
to Teddy's room, to touch his things, and fold some of his clothes
again, and arrange his teddy bears differently.  She could never stay
out of his room.  But poor Malcolm could no longer even bear to go up
there.

It was the following day when Thomas Armour, the attorney for the
defense, arrived, shortly after noon.  He had called and asked to see
her earlier that morning.  She had called John and asked him if it was
something she wasn't supposed to do, and he told her honestly that he
thought it unwise, but it was not illegal.  But she was curious about
the man, and she wanted a little warning of what she would be facing.

Malcolm had gone to Boston for a few days, and she was alone when she
met him.  She was wearing a black dress, which was all she seemed to
wear these days, as though she were already in some kind of mourning.

He was wearing a dark blue suit, and he had dark blond hair which must
have been even lighter in his childhood.  He had warm brown eyes that,
at first, seemed very gentle.  But his tone was not gentle when he
spoke to her.  He was polite and firm,

and he didn't pull any punches.  And his eyes seemed to bore into her,
looking for answers.

Haverford brought him into the library, and after the initial niceties,
he looked her straight in the eye and asked her a very pointed
question.

"I'd like to have some idea, before the trial, of what you're going to
say about my client."  He hadn't wanted the case, he had expected
Charles to be a spoiled brat at first.  But he'd grown to like him and
now that he'd taken it all his loyalties were with Charles Delauney.

"What exactly do you mean, Mr.  Armour?"  She knew from the newspapers
that he had gone to Harvard, was the youngest partner of a very
important firm, and was somewhere in his late thirties.  Charles had
hired the best, and he had every right to.  But more than just his
reputation, there was something very quiet and compelling about Tom
Armour.  He was handsome but it wasn't something Marielle noticed about
him.  She was more impressed by the intelligence in his face and an
aura of determination.

"Mr.  Delauney gave me some idea of what happened ... several years
ago.  I think we both know of what I'm speaking."  He meant when Andre
died, but she appreciated the fact that he didn't just say it.

"He admits that he behaved abominably, and that his behavior could be
badly misconstrued now.  You're the only person now who can testify as
to exactly what he did, and why.  Just how exactly do you view it?"

"I think he went mad with grief.  So did I. We both did foolish
things.

It was a long time ago.  " She looked sad as she thought of it, and he
watched her.  She was a beautiful woman, but he thought she had the
saddest eyes he'd ever seen, and she intrigued him.  It had been clear
to him all along that Charles Delauney was still in love with her, and
he wondered just how much his sentiments were reciprocated, but
Delauney had insisted ardently that they hadn't been involved before
the kidnapping.  In fact, because of Malcolm, she had refused to see
him.  Tom Armour was mildly impressed by that, but it was going to take
a lot more than that to seriously impress him.

"Do you think my client is a dangerous man?"  That was a loaded
question, and she thought about it for a long time.

"No.  I think he's foolish.  Impetuous.  Even stupid sometimes."  She
smiled but Tom Armour did not smile back.

"But I don't think he's dangerous."

"Do you think he took your child?"

She hesitated for a long, long time, trying to be truthful.

"I don't know."  She looked him squarely in' the eye, and she liked
what she saw there.  He looked like an honest man, someone you could
trust.  And had she met him in other circumstances, she knew that she
would have liked him.  And she thought that Charles was very lucky to
have him as an attorney.

"I don't know.  I think he did.  The evidence was there.  But when I
think of him, as he was ... as I knew him ... I don't see how he could
do it."

"Do you think that if he took your child, he would harm him?"

"Somehow ..."  She thought about it and then looked at him again.  ".
Somehow I just can't let myself believe that."  Because if she did it
would destroy her.

"Why do you think he might have taken him?  Out of revenge for the
child you lost?  Anger at you because you wouldn't see him?  ...
because he still loves you?"

"I'm not sure."  She wished herself that she had the answers.

"Do you think someone could have framed him?"  It was what Charles had
insisted to him from the beginning.  And Tom Armour had finally come to
believe it.

"Possibly.  But who?  And how would he have gotten Teddy's pajamas and
bear, if he'd never had him?"  The defense had thought of that too, and
they were difficult questions to answer, unless the people who had
actually taken the child had framed Charles, but that was a long
shot.

And how would they even know him?  It was the weakest spot in their
case.  But the strongest one was that the child's mother herself wasn't
totally convinced that Charles Delauney would do it.  Armour had a
feeling she could be swayed either way, which was dangerous for
Charles.

He asked her a few more questions then, made a few notes, and thanked
her for her time, as he snapped shut his briefcase.  And as she stood
up, she looked at him, and decided to be honest.

"I was told that I shouldn't speak to you today.

That it was 'unwise, but not illegal.  "

" She quoted John, and she knew that Malcolm and the U.S. Attorney
would have been livid.

"Then why did you?"  He was fascinated by her, not by her looks as much
as her quiet ways, and her inner peace.  This did not appear to be a
woman who had ever been in a mental hospital or gone crazy.  Maybe she
had just given up and wanted to die, as Charles had explained.  But now
she was definitely back again, and beneath the cool surface, there was
a lot of fire, and a sharp brain.  He had enjoyed talking to her.

"Mr.  Armour, all I want is the truth.  That's all I want.  Even more
than justice.  If Teddy is dead, I want to know it ... and yes, I want
to know who killed him, and why ... but if he's alive, I want him
found.... I just want to know where he is, so he can come home."

Tom Armour nodded.  He understood.  And for his own reasons, he wanted
that too.

"I hope we find out, Mrs.  Patterson ... for his sake as much as yours
and Mr.  Delauney's."

"Thank you."

Haverford saw him out, and Marielle watched as he went down the stairs.
He looked like a man who was in control of everything he touched.  And
she envied him his confidence.  But beneath the confident air, she had
sensed something more.  Something warm and strong and very caring.  And
as she walked back to the library, she realized again how fortunate
Charles was to have him as an attorney.

trial opened on a bleak wintry afternoon in March, with a bitter wind
and a chill rain that went right to the bone, as the jurors, the
public, and the press filed into the courtroom.  It was the same week
that Hitler swept into Prague, and announced to the world that
Czechoslovakia was his now.  But even Malcolm was less concerned with
world news than usual.  All they could think of was The U.

S.

v. Charles Delauney.

The trial was being held at the U.

S.

District Courthouse and at exactly one o'clock, Malcolm and Marielle
arrived in the Fierce-Arrow limousine, driven by two policemen and
accompanied by four FBI men, among them John Taylor.  He was glad he
could be there to give her strength.  She felt his presence close to
her, and it made her feel braver.  Malcolm had said not a single word
to her since they left the house.  His silent accusations had begun to
wear her down in the past months.  She looked as gray as her dress when
they got out of the car, and Malcolm assisted her silently up the steps
of the courthouse.  She was wearing a pale gray coat and matching hat,
and the wind nearly swept it off, just as the press descended on them
in a wave, and the FBI men had to fight to make a path for them.  And
as they entered the courtroom, Marielle realized again how painful this
was all going to be, and how pointless.  At the end of it, they would
not get Teddy back.  What purpose did it serve?  He was gone, and after
three months their hopes of having him returned alive had grown dim
now.  All this was was an exercise in accusation.

The Pattersons took their seats in the front row behind the U.

S.

Attorney.  John Taylor sat next to Marielle, and one of his assistants
was next to Malcolm.  There were two more FBI men just behind them, and
two uniformed policemen on either side of them, and just ahead, so they
were surrounded by more than adequate protection.  And Brigitte was
already in the courtroom waiting for them when they arrived.  She
glanced warmly at Marielle, and nodded politely at Malcolm.  A few
moments later the bailiff appeared and demanded that all rise as the
judge entered in his black robes, and gazed around the courtroom.  He
was a tall man with a rugged face, and a shock of white hair, not
unlike Malcolm's.  In fact, the two men were vague friends, but he was
known to be a harsh judge, and Malcolm had made no objection when he'd
been selected.

Judge Abraham Morrison took his seat, and scowled at everyone as he
looked around his courtroom.  There was a long silence and people began
to squirm in their seats, particularly the press, whom he seemed to
scrutinize, and then the jurors, the Pattersons, the defendant, and the
attorneys.

"My name is Abraham Morrison."  His words rang out sonorously.

"And I'm not going to tolerate any nonsense in this courtroom.  If
anyone here misbehaves, I'm going to throw you out of here so fast your
head will spin.  Any contempt of court, I'll put you in jail.  Any
press gets out of hand, you're banned from here, for good.  Anyone
attempt to coerce a juror, unduly influence a juror, or even talk to a
juror, I'll prosecute.  Is that clear to everyone in this room?"  There
were nodding heads and a murmur of voices.

"We're here for a serious matter.  A capital offense.  A man's life is
at stake, and a child's life may have been taken.  These are not
matters I take lightly."  He looked straight at the press section
then.

"And if you hound anyone here, either the jurors, the defendant, or the
witnesses," he looked pointedly at the Pattersons, "you'll be out the
door faster than my bailiff can throw you.  Does everyone understand
the rules here?"  There was a long silence as everyone sat in awe of
him.

"Do you?"  His voice boomed again, and there was a chorus of "Yes,
sirs."

"Good.  Then maybe we can get started.  I won't tolerate a circus in my
court.  Let's get that clear right from the beginning."  More nodded
heads, and he put on his glasses and carefully perused some papers.

Marielle looked over at the defendant's table then, and she noticed
that Charles was looking thinner and pale, and the hair at his temples
seemed to have become grayer than when she last saw him.  He was
wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt and dark tie, and he looked
more respectable than most people in the room, but that wasn't the
issue.  Tom Armour looked extremely serious too, in a pin-striped suit
with a vest.  And he seemed suddenly younger than he had when she had
seen him in her own home.  She had never told Malcolm about the
meeting.

Judge Morrison looked back up at the courtroom again, and his gaze
swept the room.

"I think we all know why we're here today.  This is a kidnapping case.
The kidnapping of Theodore Whitman Patterson, a four-year-old boy.  His
parents are here today."  He waved vaguely in the direction of Marielle
and Malcolm, and she could feel her heart pound.  It was difficult to
believe that, after three months of constant press, there was a person
alive who didn't know who they were, but it was as though Judge
Morrison wanted to introduce them.  He liked a great deal of decorum
and respect, but he also liked a personal touch in his courtroom.

"The defendant is a man named Charles Delauney.  And the theory, ladies
and gentlemen, and I am addressing prospective jurors here, is that
Mr.

launey is innocent until proven guilty.  The burden of proof is on the
prosecution.  The prosecutor, Mr.  William Palmer," he waved at him
then, " must convince you, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Mr. 
Delauney is guilty.  It is then up to Mr.  Armour," he waved at Tom, "
to convince you that he is not guilty.  If Mr.  Palmer does not make a
convincing case, if you are unconvinced, if you do not believe beyond a
reasonable doubt that Mr.  Delauney kidnapped this child, then you must
acquit him.  You must listen very carefully, and you must take your
responsibility seriously.  And I will tell you now that I am going to
sequester this jury.  You will be put up in a hotel, at the
government's expense, for the duration of this trial.  And you will not
be able to speak to anyone except your fellow jurors.  You cannot call
your children, chat with your husband, visit with a friend, go out to a
movie.  You must stay with the other jurors, in the hotel, until your
duty is done, without prejudice or distraction.  The press won't make
that easy for you, newspapers, radio, it's all very tempting, and very
confusing.  But you must make every effort to keep yourself pure of all
that until this is over.  And if there is anyone here to whom being
sequestered would present an undue hardship for the next several weeks,
for reasons of health or family responsibility, please speak up when
your name is called.  We are going to need twelve jurors and two
alternates.  And ladies and gentlemen, we thank you for your
assistance.  " He turned to the bailiff then and told him to call the
names of the prospective jurors.

The first woman was so frightened she almost tripped on the way to her
seat, and she was shaking so hard Marielle could see it as she watched
her.

The second juror was a woman too, an elderly black woman who had a hard
time getting to her seat, she was so old and crippled.  Then there were
two men, both middle-aged, and a man about forty with one leg, a
Chinese girl with incredibly long hair in braids, a good-looking young
black man, two pretty young girls, and a middle-aged woman who kept
staring at Malcolm and Marielle, two more men, and then two
nondescript-looking women as alternates.

And as soon as they were seated.  Judge Morrison introduced the
attorney for the United States government, William Palmer, to the room.
He turned, looked around the courtroom, and then turned again to smile
at the jury.

"Hello, my name is William Palmer.  I am the attorney for the United
States government in this case, and I am here to represent the People.
I represent you in this case, and I will need your help to convict this
man," he waved vaguely at Charles, "whom we believe kidnapped a
four-year- old boy, Teddy Patterson, twelve days before Christmas."  As
though that somehow made it worse, but actually it had, for his
parents.

"If any of you know this man, or me, or the defendant's attorney, Mr.
Armour, or the judge, or anyone associated with us, you must speak up
now, or it will prejudice the case,

and you will be excused.  Just tell the judge, when he calls on you and
asks your name and occupation.  " He then sat down abruptly and Tom
Armour stood up and introduced himself, and Marielle saw immediately
that he had a far more winning way with the jury.  He didn't talk down
to them the way Bill Palmer had, and his manner was smooth, instead of
grating, like the U.S. Attorney's.  He explained that the case against
Mr.  Delauney was purely circumstantial, and there were two objects
which connected his client to the case, but there was no proof that he
had actually kidnapped the child, or had anything to do with it at all.
And as he spoke, Marielle saw that several of the jurors nodded.

He sat down again then, after thanking them for their help, with a warm
smile that made the two young girls giggle, and the judge frowned as he
watched them.

"May I remind you, ladies," he barked down at them, "this is not a
social event, or an amusing matter.  Now," he looked over the rest of
them, "does anyone here have a health problem that would hinder them
from being sequestered?"  The elderly black woman held up a hand, and
Morrison looked down at her with a warm smile.

"Yes?  Your name please, ma'am?"

"Ruby Freeman."

"Yes, Mrs.  Freeman?"

"It's my legs.  I got terrible arthritis.  It hurts me all the time."

She looked up at him sadly.

"I can see that."  He nodded sympathetically.

"Some nights, I can't hardly move.  And my daughter ... she takes care
of me.... I help watch her baby while she works."  The woman started to
cry as she said it .  "If I don't go home to her ... she can't go to
work ... we won't eat ... her husband was killed at the factory where
he worked ..."  The saga of despair seemed to go on forever.

"We understand.  Perhaps your daughter could find someone else to help
her for a short time.  But Mrs.  Freeman, do you feel you might be in
too much pain to do the trial justice?"

"I think so.  Your Honor.  You don't know what a terrible suffering
arthritis is until you have it.  I'm eighty-two years old, and I've had
it for twenty years, and it's almost killed me."

"I'm very sorry to hear that.  And you may be excused.  Thank you for
coming here today," he said courteously.  No one else raised their
hand, so he con- Is tinued.  But the first juror was so nervous, she.

asked to be excused too.  She said she had gallstones and her English
wasn't so good, and her husband was very sick, and he needed her.  She
and her husband were citizens, but they were both German.  And before
she could tell him any more.  Judge Morrison excused her.  The Chinese
girl with the braids spoke no English at all, and she was excused
too.

And the two young girls giggled through most of it, and the judge
admonished them again.  But then Bill Palmer stood up and began
questioning the jurors, and after him

Tom, and very quickly, the jurors began falling by the wayside.

The two middle-aged men were both businessmen and they stayed.  Both
were married and had grandchildren of roughly the same age as Teddy.

The man with only one leg said he was forty-two, had lost his leg in
the Great War, and he sold insurance now for Travelers Insurance.  The
young black man worked for the post office in the day, and played
trombone at Small's Paradise at night, and said he didn't have time to
get married, and everyone laughed.  And the two young girls were
excused because the judge said they couldn't behave.  Both were
twenty-two, neither one was married and they seemed to think it was a
game, and their removal served as a warning to the others.  The
middle-aged woman who kept staring at Malcolm and Marielle was a
secretary and had never been married either.  She lived in Queens, and
it was impossible to read if she was sympathetic to Charles or not.

All she could seem to do was stare at the Pattersons, and once the
judge had to remind her to keep her attention on the proceedings.  As a
result, the defense excused her in the end, as well as the two men
who'd come after her.  But both sides kept the two alternate women.

Which left them eight seats to fill, and it took the next four days to
fill them.  And in the end, it was a very interestingly mixed jury. 
The two middle-aged men with young grandchildren were still on,
although Marielle had been sure that Tom would want to get rid of them,
because they might be too sympathetic to the prosecution.  It had
become | fascinating to second-guess the attorneys.  And had it been a
trial about anything else, it might actually have intrigued her.  Both
the veteran with one leg, and the young black musician were kept on. 
And the last man was of Chinese origin and a professor of economics at
Columbia University.

The rest of the jurors, as well as the two alternates, were all
women.

| The youngest of them was older than Marielle, and | had three
children of her own, but all of them were | much older than Teddy.
There was a woman who had | been a nun for thirty years and had
recently're ling- I quished her vows to come home and take care of her
;

dying mother.  And when her mother had died, she had decided not to go
back to the convent again, but she was not married.  There were two
women who were friends and were on the same jury by coincidence, both
were schoolteachers in the same school, and neither was married, and
then there were three women who seemed very plain, were married, Tiad
no children at all, and were all either secretaries or employees of
large corporations.  One had worked for an attorney for a brief time,
but she said she had no special knowledge of the law, and neither
attorney objected.  It was, for all intents and purposes, a jury of
Charles's peers, and a group of supposedly normal, decent, fair
people.

It was Friday, just before noon by then, and the judge ordered the jury
to go home, tie up their affairs, and enjoy their last weekend, because
starting on Monday they would be sequestered.  He ordered them not to
read any newspaper stories about the case, or listen to the radio over
the weekend.

He recessed the court then until Monday morning, and Marielle was
surprised by how exhausted she was, just by the process of five days of
jury selection.  It had seemed endless, listening to people's tales and
watching the lawyers decide to bounce or keep them.  As she and Malcolm
stood up, Charles was led away to spend another weekend in jail, and
Tom Armour walked past her with no sign of recognition.

The FBI men took them home, and Bill Palmer came to see Malcolm that
afternoon.  They spent a long time in the library, but they never
included Marielle, and she had coffee in the living room with John
Taylor.  There was no news at his end, but at least it was a relief to
talk to someone sympathetic after the difficult week it had been.

Every time Marielle had moved an inch out of the courtroom, Bea Ritter
had pounced on her and begged her to see her.  She called later that
afternoon, and Marielle didn't take the call.  She was too drained to
deal with her or listen to her pleas on Charles's behalf.  And Marielle
did not want to help her.

"She's quite a girl," Taylor remarked.

"She must be crazy about him."

"Some people feel that way about him."  Marielle smiled.  She had no
secrets from this man.

"I did once.  But then again, I was eighteen then."

"And now?"  John Taylor looked worried, but not about the case, as
Marielle smiled.

"I'm a lot smarter now."  But that didn't mean she wished the death
penalty on him either, if he didn't deserve it.  She was still having a
hard time with that, and the FBI had been able to shed no new light on
the case.  There had been a sighting in Connecticut earlier that week,
a little boy who supposedly looked just like Teddy.  But like all the
other leads they had had, when it was checked out, it turned out to be
bogus.

"You look tired."  Taylor spoke softly as she poured him a second cup
of coffee.

"It's been a rough week."

"Not nearly as rough as next week's going to be, and the week after."

He knew what was coming, he knew the people involved.  The U.

S.

Attorney was a tough son of a bitch and he wanted to win this case.  He
knew the whole world was watching, even FDR, and he wasn't going to let
the defense win, no matter what it cost him.  And Armour was tough too,
but in a cleaner, crisper way, he went right for the gut, and then he
destroyed you.  And the kinds of things they were going to drag up and
remind her of, weren't going to be pretty.

"Are you ready for it?"  He worried about her, as resilient as she was,
she was frail too, and he hated to see her go through that kind of
pain.  He remembered what it had been like when she told him about
Andre.  But she was holding up fairly well, considering the fact that
she had gone three months without Teddy.

"Whatever happens," he tried to warn her now, "don't let them frighten
yon ... don't let them make you feel it's your fault."  He knew that
was the ghost that haunted her most, and had for years.

"You know it isn't."  He tried to reassure her.

"I wish Malcolm felt that way too.  He still blames me for
everything.

For bringing Charles back in our lives, and costing us Teddy.  "

"You didn't want that any more than he did."  What a fool the man was,
and he didn't like him any better when he swept through the hall a
little while later with Bill Palmer.  John was talking to one of his
men and Malcolm snapped his fingers at him like a dog, which didn't sit
well with John Taylor.

"The U.S. Attorney is going to need some help from you, Mr.  Taylor,"
he said.  He had very little respect for him.  He certainly hadn't been
very effective in finding Teddy.

"We need some information."

"About Delauney?"  Palmer nodded.

"Why don't we go talk somewhere?"  the attorney suggested, but when
they did, Taylor didn't like what he heard.  It was smear campaign
stuff, ugly business about the past that had nothing to do with Teddy,
and Taylor objected.  The attorney wanted him to help dig up facts
about Marielle and Charles that he knew would be painful to her.

"What does that have to do with this?"

"It's character stuff for chrissake, man.  Don't get prissy on me
now.

We're talking about winning.  "

"Winning what?  The conviction of an innocent man, or actually nailing
the guy who did it?  If he's guilty, you don't need this kind of shit.
Palmer."

"If you don't get it for me, someone else will."

"Is that what this case is about now?  Get him at all costs?  And what
about her?  What are you going to do to her with this?"  It had to do
with Andre's death in Geneva and her time in the sanatorium afterward
and Taylor knew, as Palmer did, that if Charles was guilty, they didn't
need it.

"Mrs.  Patterson is not my problem, Taylor.  And her own husband wants
it.  Look, if it's no good to us anyway, we won't use it."

"How nice," Taylor said sarcastically, thinking to himself that he
liked Tom Armour's tactics better.  He was a lot cleaner.  And he
couldn't believe that Patterson was willing to sacrifice her just to
nail Delauney.  But Malcolm was convinced Delauney had kidnapped and
killed his son, and he was willing to do anything to get Charles
convicted.  Maybe in some ways, Taylor told himself as he started
making the calls, you couldn't blame him.  At least if he got the
information himself, he could figure out Palmer's next move and he
could warn her what was coming.  But what he didn't know was that
Malcolm was making calls too, and he was going after the big stuff.

The weekend passed too quickly for her.  And on Monday morning, they
were back in court, and the trial began in earnest.

The following week, the opening statements seemed very dry, compared to
their friendlier remarks previously to the jury.  But some of the ugly
things the two attorneys said were also very effective.

In his opening statement, the U.

S.

Attorney assured the jury and the courtroom at large that what they
were dealing with here was very certainly a kidnapper, maybe even a
baby killer, a man who had assaulted women in the past, killed men
without batting an eye, a liar, a Communist, and a threat to all
Americans.  He told them that little Teddy Patterson had been torn from
his parents' home in the middle of the night, in the dark, and the
people who cared for him had been chloroformed and bound and gagged and
might easily have been killed as well, and the child had disappeared
without a trace, never to be seen again, and was probably dead, buried
somewhere in a ditch, in a field, but for those who loved him, gone
forever.

Marielle clutched her chair as she listened to the words, and he seemed
to drone on for hours about what an evil man Charles had always been,
what a sweet man Teddy would have become, and how we had all been
robbed because this one child had died, and for nothing.  And if it was
true, if he was never to return, then Marielle had to agree with him.
But it was still so painful to believe him gone for a lifetime.

Tom Armour's statement to them was only slightly more reassuring.  He
told them that Charles De- launey was a decent, honest, in some ways
deeply troubled man, who had lost his own son nine years before, in
fact his unborn daughter too, his entire family, and knowing how great
the pain of that had been, he would never have hurt any child, or taken
any man's children from him.  He had fought honestly in the Great War
and in the fight in Spain since then.  He was no Communist.  He was a
man who believed in freedom.  Educated, intelligent, decent, yet
heartbroken by the shattering of his youthful dreams, he was admittedly
misguided in some of his behavior, or even his words, but this was not
a man who could kidnap anyone's son.  And the defense was going to
prove that he hadn't.  Furthermore, he reminded everyone, Mr.

Delauney was on trial for kidnapping here, and not for murder.  And if
the jurors listened to the evidence carefully, he was sure they would
acquit him.  As he spoke to them, Tom Armour walked slowly before the
jury, looking each one in the eye, speaking directly to them, not in a
condescending way, but as equals, as friends, making sure they
understood and believed him.  He was masterful at what he did, and it
was fascinating to watch him.  He also explained to them that the

U.

S.

Attorney would be presenting his case first, from beginning to end, and
Tom would be cross-examining his witnesses, of course, but he would not
present his case until the prosecution had completed theirs.

And he reminded them again that it was up to the prosecution to prove,
beyond a reasonable doubt, that Charles Delauney had kidnapped the
Patterson boy, and if the prosecution could not convince them of that,
whether they liked Charles or not as a man, they had to acquit him.

But Tom assured them that by the time he finished his case, they would
understand that he had been wronged by these charges.

There was a long silence when they were both through, and Judge
Morrison instructed the U.

S.

Attorney to call his first witness, and Marielle was stunned when she
heard her name.  She had no idea he was intending to call her as his
first witness.  She raised an eyebrow as she walked past John, and he
tried to look reassuring, but he was worried about what Palmer was
going to do.  He knew what had turned up in the calls he made, and none
of it was very damaging.  But he had no idea what Palmer and Malcolm
had dug up without him.

She took the stand, and carefully smoothed down the plain black dress
she had worn.  She nervously crossed her legs as she glanced around the
courtroom, and then uncrossed them again.  And all the while.  Bill
Palmer strutted around the courtroom and watched her.  He watched her
as though there were something strange about her, as though he were
suspicious of her, and more than once he glanced from her to the
defendant, as though there was something he didn't understand about
them.  It was as though he was trying to convey something unpleasant or
unsavory to the jury.  And what he was doing was making Marielle very
nervous.  She glanced at the judge, then at Malcolm, who looked away,
and at John, who looked serious as he watched her, and she waited for
Palmer's first question.

"Please state your name."

"Marielle Patterson."

"Your full name please."

"Marielle Johnson Patterson.  Marielle Anne Johnson Patterson," she
smiled, but he did not smile in answer.

"Is there more?"

"No, sir."  Two women on the jury smiled, and Marielle felt a little
better.  But her hands were shaking terribly as she held them in her
lap where no one could see them.

"Have you ever had another name, Mrs.  Patterson?"  And then she knew
what he was asking.

"Yes."  Why was he doing this?  What would it help?  She didn't
understand.

"Would you please tell us that name?"  He boomed out the words as
though to frighten her, and she couldn't see Malcolm's eyes.

"Delauney," she said quietly.

"Could you say that a little louder please, so the jurors can hear
you."

She flushed bright red and said it louder for all to hear while Charles
watched her in sympathy.

"Delauney."  He felt sorry for her suddenly.  Sorrier even than John
Taylor, because he suspected what was coming.  Palmer was smarter than
they had thought.  He was going to discredit her early on, so anything
she said later would be worth nothing.  He wasn't going to take the
chance she would question Charles's guilt in public, and weaken his
case in front of the jury.

"Are you related to the defendant in any way?"

"I was married to him."

"When was that?"

"In 1926, in Paris.  I was eighteen years old."

"And what kind of marriage was it?"  He pretended to be friendly to
her, he even smiled.  But she knew now that he was going to destroy
her.

"Was it a big wedding?  A small one?"

"We eloped."

"I see...."  He looked disturbed, as though somehow she had done
something wrong, and he was sorry.

"And how long were you married?"

"For five years actually.  Until 1931."

"And how did the marriage end?  In divorce?"

"Yes, that's correct."  There was a thin film of perspiration covering
her forehead, and she prayed that she wouldn't faint or vomit.

"Would you mind telling us why, Mrs.  Delauney ... sorry, Patterson . "
He pretended to slip but she knew he had done it on purpose, just to
emphasize her having been married to Charles, and yes she did mind
telling him why, but she knew she had no choice.

"Would you mind telling us the reason for the divorce?"

"I ... we ... we lost our son.  And neither of us ever recovered from
the shock."  She said it very quietly, and very calmly, and John Taylor
was proud of her and so was Charles.  Both of them felt their hearts
torn in half, watching her, but she didn't know that.

"I suppose you could say it destroyed the marriage."

"Is that the only reason why you divorced Mr.  Delauney?"

"Yes.  We were very happy before that."

"I see."  He nodded again sympathetically and she began to hate him.

"And where were you when you got the divorce?"

She misunderstood his question, but Taylor didn't.

"In Switzerland."

"Were you there for any particular reason?"  And then she knew.  He was
trying to discredit her completely.  But he couldn't.  If losing three
children hadn't killed her yet, she knew nothing would.  Not this man,
not this court, and not these proceedings.  She held her head high and
looked directly at him.

"Yes, I was in a hospital there."

"You were ill?"  She wasn't going to give him more than she had to. 
And he knew just what he wanted, and why, but so did she now.

"I had a nervous breakdown when our son died."

"Was there any particular reason for that?  Was his death unusually
traumatic?  A long illness ... a terrible disease?"  Her eyes filled
with tears as she listened to him, but she wouldn't give in to them.

She brushed them away and spoke through trembling lips as everyone in
the courtroom waited.

"He drowned."  That was it.  That was all she had to say.  That was
what it said on the death certificate.  Andre Charles Delauney, two
years five months, death by drowning.

"And were you responsible for this ... accident ..."  He accentuated
the word almost as though she had planned it, and Charles was
frantically whispering something to Tom, who shot to his feet
immediately, with an objection.

"Objection, Your Honor.  Counsel is leading the witness, and implying
that the child's death was her fault.  That is not for us to decide
here.  Mrs.  Patterson is not on trial here, my client is."

Judge Morrison raised an eyebrow at both men, surprised at Tom Armour's
kindness.

"Objection sustained.  A little less zeal please.

Counsel.  "

"Sorry, Your Honor.  I'll rephrase my question.  Did you feel
responsible for the child's death?"  But that was worse, because now
they would never know if it actually was her fault or not and there was
no way to save it.

"Yes, I did."

"And that was why you had the nervous breakdown?"

"I believe so."

"You were in a mental hospital there?"

"Yes."  Her voice was growing softer and Charles felt sick, but so did
John Taylor.  Malcolm Patterson looked straight ahead, with an
inscrutable expression.

"You were in effect mentally ill, is that right?"

"I suppose so.  I was very upset."

"For a long time?"

"Yes."

"How long were you there?"

"Two years."

"More than two years?"

"A little."  But Tom Armour was on his feet again.

"May I remind the court again that Mrs.  Patterson is not on trial
here."

"Sustained.  Mr.  Palmer, where are we going with this?  It's going to
take us six months if we try every witness."

"If you'll bear with me.  Your Honor, for just a moment, I'll show
you."

"All right, Counsel, speed it up."

"Yes, sir.  Now, Mrs.  Patterson."  He turned to Marr ielle again.

"You were in a mental hospital for something more than two years,
correct?"

"Correct."  Palmer nodded at her, and for once he looked almost happy
with her.

"Did you ever try to commit suicide during that time?"  For a moment,
she looked sick while he asked her.

"Yes, I did."

"More than once?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

She thought for a moment, and unwittingly glanced at her left wrist,
but you could no longer see the scars thanks to a very artful plastic
surgeon.

"Seven or eight times."  She kept her eyes down this time, it was not
something she was proud of.  And she could have told him she didn't
remember.

"Because you felt responsible for the death of your child?"

"Yes," she almost shouted.

"And Mr.  Delauney, where was he during this time?"

"I don't know.  I didn't see him for several years."

"Was he as distraught as you?"

Tom Armour objected again, but even he couldn't save her.

"You're asking the witness to guess my client's state of mind.  Why not
save it for later?"

"Sustained.  Counsel, be warned please."  Morrison was starting to look
annoyed and Palmer apologized again, but you could see he wasn't
sorry.

"Was Mr.  Delauney with you when the child drowned?"

"No.  I was alone with him."  Charles was siding.

"And did he blame you for the child's death?"

"Objection!"  Tom shouted.

"You're guessing at my client's state of mind again."

"Overruled, Mr.  Armour," the judge intoned, "this could be
important.

Objection overruled.  "

"I repeat, Mrs.  Patterson," he got her name right this time, "did the
defendant blame you for the death of his child?"

"I believed so at the time ... we were both terribly upset."

"Was he very angry?"

"Yes."

"How angry?  Did he hit you?"  She hesitated in answer to the
question.

"Did he beat you?"

"I ..."

"Mrs.  Patterson, you're under oath.  Please answer the question.  Did
he beat you?"

"I believe he slapped me."

"Your Honor."  William Palmer held out a telegram to the judge, and
then handed it to Tom Armour for inspection.

"This telegram is from the administrator of the Sainte Vierge Hospital
in Geneva, which states that according to their records, Mrs.  Marielle
Delauney was 'beaten," they use the word battue, which translates to
'beaten," by her husband on the premises of the hospital at the time of
her child's death.  She suffered extensive injuries, and a miscarriage
later that night."  There was a gasp from the courtroom, and then
Palmer turned to her again as she grew paler by the moment.

"Would you say this account is correct, Mrs.  Patterson?"

"Yes."  She couldn't say more.  She could hardly speak now.

"Did Mr.  Delauney beat you on any other occasion?"

"No, he did not."

"And had you ever suffered mental illness before the incident of your
son's death?"

"No, I hadn't."

"Would you say you have recovered fully now?"

"Yes, I would."

There was a brief pause as Palmer consulted some notes and then went
on, "Mrs.  Patterson, do you suffer from severe headaches?"

"Yes, I do."

"And when did they start?"

"At ... after ... during my stay in Switzerland."

"But you've had them since then?"

"Yes."

"Recently?"

"Yes."

"How recently?"

She almost smiled but she couldn't.

"This weekend."

"How many would you say you've had in the past month?"

"Maybe four or I've a week."

"As many as that?"  He looked sympathetic.

"And before your son's kidnapping?  Just as many?"

"Maybe two or three a week."

"Do you have other recurring problems from the past, Mrs.  Patterson?

Are you unusually shy or withdrawn, are you afraid of people sometimes?
Are you afraid of responsibility .  of being blamed for things?  "

Tom Armour stood up again in an attempt to stop what was becoming a
slaughter.

"My colleague is not a psychiatrist.  If he feels he needs one, he
should call an expert witness."

"Your Honor."  Bill Palmer approached the bench again, and then waved
another piece of paper at Tom Armour.

"This telegram is from Mrs.

Patterson's doctor at the Clinique Verbeuf in Villars, confirming that
she was indeed incarcerated there.  "

"Objection!"  Tom looked furious now, and she wasn't even his client.

"Mrs.  Patterson wasn't in " prison!  "

"Sustained.  Mr.  Palmer, please watch your language."

"Sorry, Your Honor.  She was hospitalized there for two years and two
months for a nervous breakdown and severe depression.  She apparently
attempted suicide repeatedly and suffered from severe migraines.  That
was the official diagnosis.  Dr.  Verbeuf goes on to add that he is
aware that her migraines have persisted and that at times of great
stress like the present one, her mental health could be considered
extremely fragile."  Without meaning to, the good doctor had killed
her.  And no matter what she said now, they would think her disturbed,
and an unreliable witness.

But Palmer wasn't through yet.

After the telegram from Dr.  Verbeuf was admitted as Exhibit B, he went
on with his questions.

"Have you had an affair with the defendant since your divorce?"

"No, I have not."

"Have you seen him in the past several months, or rather before your
son was kidnapped?"

"Yes, I ran into him in church on the anniversary of our son's death.

And the following day in the park.  "

"Was your son with you on either occasion?"

"Yes, the second one."

"And what was Mr.  Delauney's reaction?  Was he pleased to meet him?"

"No."  She lowered her eyes so she didn't have to look at him.

"He was upset."

"Would you say he was angry?"

She hesitated and then nodded.

"Yes."

"Did he threaten you in any way?"

"Yes, but I don't know if he really meant it."

"And when was your son kidnapped, Mrs.  Patterson?"  If nothing else,
he was making her out to be extremely stupid.

"The next day."

"Do you believe that there's a connection between

Mr.  Delauney's threats, and your son's disappearance?  "

"I don't know."

And then he switched tacks again.

"Have you kissed Mr.  Delauney since your divorce from him, Mrs.
Patterson?"  She hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.

"Please answer my question."

"Yes."

"And when was that?"

"When I saw him in church.  I hadn't seen him in almost seven years and
he kissed me."

"Was it just a peck on the cheek, or a kiss on the lips, like in the
movies?"  The audience tittered but Marielle didn't even smile.  And
John Taylor knew that Palmer had been talking to their driver, with his
asinine tales about her "boyfriend."

"It was a kiss on the lips."

"And have you visited him in jail?"

"Yes.  Once."

"Mrs.  Patterson, are you still in love with Mr.  Delauney?"  From then
on, anything she said about him would be useless.

She hesitated again, and then she shook her head.

"I don't believe so."

"Do you believe he kidnapped your child?"

"I don't know.  Perhaps.  I'm not sure."

"And do you feel responsible for that kidnapping in any way?"

"I'm not sure ..."  Her voice cracked as she said the words, and
everyone in the courtroom was re

minded of what the Swiss doctor had said, that under stress her mental
health could be extremely fragile.  Palmer had done exactly what he
wanted to do with her.  He had discredited her completely.  She sounded
mixed up and confused, unsure about Delauney's guilt, or her own, a
woman who had tried to commit suicide several times, suffered from
migraines and was probably responsible for her first child drowning.

And if the defense wanted to use her now, she wouldn't do them any
good, and Palmer knew it.  It was exactly what he had set out to do,
but he had wiped the floor with her in the process and John Taylor knew
exactly who had helped him.  It was Malcolm.  And Taylor himself felt
guilty for every call he'd made.  But his had all been harmless.

"Thank you, Mrs.  Patterson," Bill Palmer said coolly, and then turned
to Tom Armour.

"Your witness."

"The defense would like to call Mrs.  Patterson at a later time.  Your
Honor."  He wanted to give everyone time to cool down, especially
Marielle, who looked as though she'd died as she walked off the stand,
and the judge called a recess until after lunch at two o'clock that
afternoon.  But as she tried to leave the courtroom with Malcolm and
the FBI surrounding her, she was mobbed by the press at the door to the
courtroom.  Charles had tried to catch her eye as she left but she was
too sick to even look at him, and the press physically tried to pull at
her clothes and shout questions at her as she fled the courthouse.

"Tell us about the hospital ... the suicides ... your little boy.. Tell
us everything ... come on, Marielle, give us a break!"

Their voices were still ringing in her ears as they drove uptown, and
John Taylor looked stonily out the window.  Only Malcolm dared speak to
her in a whisper, and she was startled by what he said.

"That was disgusting."  She looked at him, not sure what he meant,
certain he meant the way Palmer had treated her, but she could see from
the look on his face that he meant what he'd heard about her.  He said
not another word, and tears filled her eyes as they rode home.

Once in the library, alone with him, she asked him what he meant, but
he could only look at her with disdain now.

"Marielle, how could you?"

"How could I what?  Tell him the truth?  What choice did I have?  He
knew it all anyway.  You heard the letters from the two doctors."

"My God ... the suicides ... the migraines ... two years in a mental
hospital ..."

"I told you all that in December."  And she had, right after Teddy was
kidnapped.  In fact, the next morning.

"It didn't sound quite like that then."  He looked genuinely aghast,
and suddenly she was deeply embarrassed.  She stared at the man she
thought she knew, and ran upstairs to her own room, and locked the
door.  But a few moments later, she saw a slip of paper slide under the
door.  All it said was "Call your doctor."  She thought it was someone
being wicked at first, and then she recognized John Taylor's
handwriting, and she wondered why he wanted her to call her doctor. 
And then she knew.  Somewhere deep inside of her, she knew.  She ran to
her address book, picked up the phone, and asked the operator to call
the number.  It was nine o'clock in Villars, but she knew that he was
there round the clock because he lived there.  And he was in, of
course, and startled to hear from her.

"What is going on there?"

She told him about the kidnapping, but assumed he knew, and he told her
he had already answered many questions.  She didn't tell him he'd
ruined her with his telegram, she knew how upset he'd be to have his
words misused.  At one time in her life, the man had saved her.

"Are you all right?"  he asked, with deep concern for her.

"I think so."

"Les migraines?"

"Better sometimes.  Not right now.  It's difficult with Teddy gone ..

and Malcolm .  my husband .  I had to tell him about Charles, and Andre
and the clinique.  He never wanted me to tell him anything before we
were married.  "

"But he knew."  Docteur Verbeuf sounded surprised that she didn't know
that.

"He called me before you were married in ... oh ... when was it?  .
1932?  Yes, that was it.  It was the same year you left here.  You left
in February, and he must have called in October."

They were married three months after that, in January, on New Year's
Day.

"He called you?"  She was confused.

"But why?"

"He wanted to know if there was anything he could do for you ... for
the migraines ... to make your life a little happier ... I told him you
should have lots of children."  But he was sad for her now that tragedy
had found her again.  She was such a nice girl, and she hadn't been
very lucky.

"Is there any news of the child?"

"Not yet."

"Let me know."

"I will."  She wondered if he even knew what purpose his telegram had
served, and as she hung up, she wondered at Malcolm's motive.  He had
known for all these years, and yet, when she'd told him he'd been
shocked, and he had even let Bill Palmer use the information.

But there was no time to ask him anything as they sped back to the
courthouse before two.  And she said nothing to John all that
afternoon.  She was lost deep in her own thoughts and she had too many
questions.

The U.

S.

Attorney put Patrick Reilly on the stand that afternoon, and he
described what he'd seen at Saint Patrick's, and the look on Delauney's
face in the park the following afternoon.  He said he'd been furious
and Patrick said he'd seen Charles grab her and try to shake her.

And it seemed hours to her until she could con 5

front Malcolm.  They rode home in silence again that afternoon, and at
last they were alone, and she found him in his dressing room.  He was
dressing for a quiet dinner at his club.  He said he needed to get out
and clear his head for an evening.

"You lied to me."

"About what?"  He turned to her with obvious disinterest.

"You let me tell you the whole story after Teddy disappeared.  And you
knew.  You knew everything ... about Andre ... about Charles ... about
the clinic.  Why didn't you tell me?"

"Did you really think I would marry you without knowing where you came
from?"  He looked at her with derision.  She had made a fool of herself
on the stand that day, as far as he was concerned, and a fool of him .
kissing Charles Delauney in church.  It was disgusting.

"You lied to me."

"And you endangered my son.  You brought that bastard into our life,
and because of you, he took him."  It looked as if he didn't care what
they said about her fragile state of mind, as far as he was concerned,
she had cost him everything he cared for.

"And it's none of your business what I knew about you.  That's my
affair."

"How could you tell Bill Palmer?"

"Because if he didn't discredit you, you might support that fool that
you were married to ... that son of a bitch ... that killer ... but
you, with your bleeding heart, you're still not sure he's guilty."

"So you did that to me?  So I couldn't help him?"  She didn't
understand him anymore, and wondered if she had ever really known
him.

"If he goes to the chair for Teddy's death, it'll be too good for
him."

"Is that what all this is?  A game of revenge between the two of you?

He takes Teddy and you kill him?  What's wrong with all of you?  " She
suddenly felt sick looking at him.

"Get out of my room, Marielle.  I have nothing to say to you
tonight."

She stared at him in disbelief.  He had calculatingly ruined her, in
order to destroy Charles.

"I don't know who you are anymore."

"It's no longer important."

"What are you saying to me?"  She was shrieking at him, but it had been
a hideous day and she could no longer stand it.

"I think you understand me."

"It's over, isn't it?"  If it ever had existed in the first place. 
What had they ever had in common, except Teddy?

"It ended the day Delauney took my son out of here.  Now you can go
back to him when it's over, and you can both cry over what you've done.
I'll tell you one thing.  I'll never forgive you."  And she knew he
meant it.

"Do you want me to leave now, Malcolm?"  She was ready to.  She would
have gone to a hotel that night if he had wanted.

"Are you so anxious for more scandal?  You could at least have the
decency to wait until the spotlight is off us after the trial."

She nodded, and a moment later, she went back to her own room.  There
was nothing left that could surprise her now.  She was married to a
stranger, a man who hated her for losing their son.  Another one.  Life
had been cruel to her.  And whatever happened next, whether they found
Teddy or not, she knew the marriage was over.

 next morning, Marielle took breakfast in her room, and all she had
was a cup of tea and piece of toast, as she glanced at the paper.  It
was all there, the horror of yesterday.  The humiliation and the
destruction she had suffered at the hands of William Palmer.  The first
article she read said that she had been a mental patient for years and
she had had to be carried off the stand, screaming.  It was so unfair
what they were doing to her, and she still couldn't bring herself to
believe that Malcolm had helped them do it.  And then she turned to the
last page, and saw the article written by Bea Ritter.

She wasn't going to read it at first, but as her eyes glanced down the
page, she stopped and began again, and tears filled her eyes as she
read it.

"Aristocratic, elegant, dignified, Marielle Patterson took the stand
yesterday, and never lost her dignity or her composure as the
prosecution ravaged her for several hours and attempted to discredit
her completely.  Attempted but did not succeed, to the admiration of
all who saw her.  She endured the pain of recounting the circumstances
of the deaths of two previous children in a tragic accident nearly ten
years ago, which left everyone in the courtroom breathless.  And she
went on to explain her subsequent divorce from Charles Delauney.  Her
experience in a sanatorium in Switzerland was heard not with compassion
or sympathy but instead with ridicule, and used to discredit her as a
witness...."  The article went on for half a page, and concluded with
the words, "One thing is certain after seeing the victim's mother on
the stand, Marielle Patterson is through and through a lady.  She left
the courtroom with her head held high, and as every mother knew, her
heart must have been breaking."  It was followed then by Bea Ritter's
byline.

Marielle wiped her eyes with her napkin then, and stood up to put her
hat on.  Bea Ritter's words had been land, but it didn't change the
fact that her own husband and the U.

S.

Attorney had set out to damage her so she could not help Charles
Delauney.  She'd had no intention of helping him anyway.  But her
uncertainty about his guilt clearly had them worried.

John Taylor and the other men were already waiting for her in the car
when she got downstairs.  She was wearing yet another black hat and
black dress and a dark beaver coat as she climbed into the
Fierce-Arrow.  Nothing was said in the car on the way downtown.  She
spoke not a word to Malcolm or John, and Malcolm spent the entire trip
staring out the window.  Even John wasn't able to say much to her.  He
touched her hand briefly once as they sat down, but he didn't dare let
his feelings show here.  All he wanted was to offer her support, but it
was difficult to do it in the courtroom.

Judge Morrison reminded everyone again that they were expected to
behave with decorum.  And with a pointed glance at the press, he
reminded them that it was irresponsible to report things which did not
actually happen.  It had annoyed him to read the account of Marielle
allegedly being carried from his courtroom.

And after that, the slaughter of the day before continued.  Bill Palmer
had apparently decided that it was not enough to have Marielle's
testimony but he would have others also take the stand to help
discredit her.  Then, with no sympathy for the child's mother, only
Malcolm's voice would be heard, and Malcolm never doubted Delauney's
guilt for an instant.

Patrick Reilly, the driver, took the stand again, and Edith, and even
Miss Griffin.  And together they painted a portrait, with Bill Palmer's
help, of a nervous, hysterical unstable woman, who was unable to run
her own home, take care of her child, or be of any real use to her
husband.

"Would you say that Mrs.  Patterson is a responsible person?"  Bill
Palmer asked the governess, as Tom Armour jumped to his feet for what
seemed to be the thousandth time and objected.

"This woman is not an expert witness.  And Mrs.  Patterson's competence
is not on trial here.  Call a psychiatrist if you want that kind of
testimony.  Counsel, not a maid for chrissake!"

"I'll cite you for contempt if you don't watch your language, Mr.

Armour!  " the judge roared.

"Sorry."

"Overruled."  And the massacre went on, with no one to support her.

John Taylor and Charles De- launey knew it wasn't true, but there was
nothing they could do to put in a kind word, they were helpless.  And
even her husband had turned against her.

"Would you say she was a good mother?"  William Palmer finally asked
Miss Griffin, and the little woman hesitated for only a moment.  But it
was long enough to hurt Marielle deeply.

"Not really."  Everyone gasped, and for a moment Marielle almost
fainted.  She seemed to pitch forward in her chair, and John Taylor
pushed her swiftly back with a firm hand before the press could see
it.

"Would you care to tell us why not?"

"She's too sickly to be of any use to anyone, and much too nervous.

Children need stability around them, people who are strong.  Like Mr.

Patterson.  " She seemed proud of herself, and Marielle wondered again
what she had done to make these people hate her.

"Your Honor."  Thomas Armour stood up again, with a weary look.

"This is not a custody trial.  Mrs.  Patterson's abilities as a mother
are not the issue here.  This is a kidnapping case, and I've yet to
hear anyone so much as mention my client.  In fact, these people don't
even know him."  They barely even knew Marielle, but Palmer had wanted
to be sure that Marielle was totally ruined before he moved on.  He
wanted her discredited without a single doubt, so that if she was
called by the defense later on, she would be useless.  Who would listen
to a woman who had been in a mental institution for years and was not
even considered a good mother by her own staff?  Palmer had done his
job to perfection.  And that afternoon, he completed the picture.

Malcolm Patterson took the stand immediately after lunch, for the
prosecution.

"Were you aware of your wife's history, Mr.  Patterson?"

"No."  Malcolm's cold blue eyes looked straight ahead at William
Palmer, and not for an instant did he allow Marielle into his Reld of
vision.

"You had no idea that she had been in a mental hospital, is that
correct?"

"Yes, it is, or I would never have married her."  Marielle knew now
that it was a lie.  The only thing she didn't know was why Malcolm
would want to destroy her.  She sat very straight and tall, looking at
spot above him, somewhere on the wall, and thinking of happier moments
with little Teddy.  She felt totally helpless now to defend herself, or
expose Malcolm's deceit.  And that was his intention.

"Did you know she had been married to Charles Delauney?"

"No.  I did not.  She never told me.  I knew there had been some brief
youthful interlude.  I'd heard that she had a romance in Paris as a
girl, but nothing more than that.  She concealed the marriage from
me."

William Palmer nodded, sad for him that he had been so badly duped by
this woman.

"Do you know anything about Mr.  Delauney, sir?"

"Only his reputation.  His father has kept him out of the country for
many years.

"Objection!"  Tom was on his feet again.

"We would have to put Mr.

Delauney Senior on the stand to tell us that, there is no evidence
whatsoever that my client's family ever wanted him out of the
country.

In fact, quite the contrary.  They wanted him to come home.  "

"Sustained.  Hearsay.  You may continue, Mr.  Palmer."

"Have you ever seen Mr.  Delauney?"

"Not until this trial."

"Has he ever called you, threatened you, harassed you, or any member of
your immediate family?"

"Objection!"

"Overruled!"

Malcolm went on.

"He threatened my wife and son.  He told her he would kidnap him if she
didn't go back to him."

"And when was that?"

Malcolm bowed his head for a moment before he answered and then he
looked full into the courtroom.

"The day before my son was taken."

"Have you ever seen your son since that day?"

Malcolm shook his head, unable to speak.

"Would you speak up for the record, please, sir."  He spoke with all
the gentleness he should have used on Marielle and hadn't.

"I'm sorry ... no ... I have not...."

"And how long ago was that?"

"Almost three months ago, to the day.  My little boy was taken from us
on December eleventh ... shortly after his fourth birthday."

"Have there been any calls, or requests for ransom?"

"Only one, and it was a prank.  The money was never collected."  The
implication was obvious.  De- launey hadn't asked for ransom because
what he wanted was revenge, and in any case, he certainly didn't need
the money.

"Do you believe that your son is still alive?"

He shook his head again, but forced himself to speak this time.

"No, I do not.  I think if he were, he would have been returned to us
by now.

The FBI has searched for him across every state.  If he were still
alive, they would have found him.  "

"Do you believe that Mr.  Delauney is the kidnapper?"

"I believe he hired people to take him, and probably kill him."

"What convinced you of that?"

"They found Teddy's ... my boy's pajamas in his home ... and a teddy
bear the boy loved ... he was wearing those same pajamas when he was
taken."  In spite of himself, he began to cry, and you could feel all
the sympathy in the courtroom rush to him.  The prosecutor waited
politely while he regained his composure.  And in her seat, Brigitte
dabbed at her eyes with a lace hankie.

"Do you believe that your wife is still in love with Charles Delauney?"
He had wanted to say "involved," but his investigators had been able to
turn up absolutely nothing to support the fact that she was sleeping
with him, and he decided to play it safe and not use anything that
could be disproven.

"Yes, I do.  I understand from my driver that two days before the
kidnapping, they met in a church and she kissed him repeatedly.  I
suppose she's always been in love with him, during the entire time she
was married to me.  Perhaps that's why she's been so ill."  They made
her sound like an invalid, instead of a young woman with a troubled
life, who suffered from headaches, a woman who had suffered tragedy and
still managed to survive it.

"Do you think it's your wife's fault that your son was kidnapped?"  He
asked the question as though he expected a verdict, and Malcolm waited
just long enough to answer so that everyone thought he was giving
one.

"I think it is her fault that Charles Delauney kidnapped him.  It is
her fault that he holds her responsible for his own son's death, and
wanted revenge with mine.  It is her fault for bringing him into our
lives."  He looked woefully into the courtroom, and at her, but she did
not look at him.

"Mr.  Patterson, although you feel that to some degree Mrs.  Patterson
is responsible for ... this tragedy, could you ever imagine yourself
taking revenge on her in any way?  Punishing her, or hurting someone
she loved?  Hurting her?"  He already had, Marielle knew too well. 
With everything he had done in the past few days, and the way he'd
behaved since Teddy was taken, and what he had just said on the stand. 
It was bad enough to lose her child, but then to be attacked by her
husband could have destroyed her as well, but for the moment she was
still struggling not to let it.

"Could you ever see yourself taking revenge on her, or anyone?" 
William Palmer repeated, and Malcolm said a single word, as he sat
there sounding like God, as his voice rang out in the courtroom.

"Never."

"Thank you, Mr.  Patterson."  He turned to Tom.

"Mr.  Armour, your witness."

Tom stood up and said not a word for an interminable moment, and then
slowly he began to walk around the courtroom.  He walked in front of
the jury, and smiled at some of them, almost as though to relax them.
And then, finally, he went to stand in front of Malcolm, but he was no
longer smiling.

"Good afternoon, Mr.  Patterson."

"Good afternoon, Mr.  Armour."  Malcolm looked unusually solemn, but
Tom Armour seemed extremely relaxed, as the world watched him.  It was
an intriguing tactic.

"Would you say ..."  He seemed to draw the words out.

"That your marriage to Mrs.  Patterson has been a happy one?"

"I'd say so, yes."

"In spite of her illness ... her unreliability ... her headaches?"

For a moment, Malcolm wasn't quite sure what to say, but he regained
his energy quickly.

"They certainly didn't make it easy, but I think I've been happy."

"Very happy?"

"Very happy."  Malcolm looked annoyed, he couldn't see where the
defense attorney was going.

"Have you been married before?"

Malcolm growled and stuck out his chin almost visibly.

"Yes.  Twice.

It's well known.  "

"Is Mrs.  Patterson aware of that?"

"Of course."

"Would you say it's hindered your current marriage in any way?"

"Of course not."

"Would it have bothered you, had you known that Mrs.  Patterson was
previously married?"

This time he hesitated.

"Probably not.  But I would have preferred it if she had been honest
with me."

"Of course."  Tom readily agreed with him.

"Mr.  Patterson, have you ever had any other children?"

"No.  Theodore is ... was ... my only child."

"You say ... was ... you no longer believe him to be alive?"  Tom
looked surprised, as though that seemed unlikely.

"No ... I no longer believe him to be alive.  I think Mr.  Delauney
killed him."  He said it to inflame Tom, but it didn't.

"I understand that.  But if he is dead ... and all of us here certainly
hope that's not the case ... but if he is ... how would you describe
that event in your life?"

"Excuse me ... I don't understand."

Tom Armour moved closer to him and looked him straight in the eye.

"If your son is dead, Mr.  Patterson, how will you feel?  What will it
do to your life?"  The tone of Tom's voice was relentless.

But without hesitation, Malcolm looked back at Tom and answered, "It
will finish me ... my life will never be the same again."

"Mr.  Patterson, would you say it would destroy you?"

Malcolm hung his head, and nodded before he looked at Tom again.

"Of course ... he's my only

Tom nodded sympathetically and then moved in a little closer.

"It would destroy you, wouldn't it ... then why are you so shocked that
Mrs.  Patterson was almost destroyed by the death of her previous
children?  Would you expect that to be any different?"

"No, I ..."  He looked uncomfortable for a moment and John Taylor
tightened his lips, but Marielle was forcing herself not to listen.

"I

imagine that must have been very difficult.  "

"She was twenty-one at the time ... and five months pregnant ... her
little boy dies ... her father dies a few months later ... her own
mother commits suicide six months after that ... her husband has turned
on her, distraught with his own pain over the child's death.

What would you do, Mr.  Patterson?  How would you feel?  How well would
you hold up?  "

"I ... I ..."

He couldn't answer, and the jury looked interested in what Tom was
saying.

"Is Mrs.  Patterson in the courtroom today?"

"Yes ... of course...."

"Would you point her out to me?"

"Your Honor," William Palmer got to his feet, ready to object to the
question, "is this charade necessary?"

"Be patient.  Counsellor.  Mr.  Armour, proceed, but not too much
nonsense please, we have a great deal of testimony to hear, and our
friends on the jury don't want to stay at a hotel at the taxpayers'
expense forever."  There was a titter of laughter in the courtroom and
Tom Armour smiled.  Compared to what Marielle had seen of him before,
he suddenly looked surprisingly easygoing.  But that appearance was
deceptive.  Inside him was a coil of incredibly well controlled
tension.

"Mr.  Patterson, will you please point out your wife to us."  Malcolm
did so.

"She is here today, and yesterday certainly could not have been easy
for her, talking about the death of her children, and the kidnapping of
your son, or her time in the clinic in Switzerland ... or her marriage
to Mr.  Delauney.... But she's here.  She looks sane to me and in good
control of herself."  Marielle looked calm as she sat beside John
Taylor.  Malcolm was furious but he was trying hard to conceal it.

"Would you agree with me, sir?  She looks quite normal to me, and
probably to everyone else here.  Would you say she's holding up, in
spite of everything?"

"I suppose so," he conceded halfheartedly.

"Would you say her previous problems are a thing of the past?"

"I don't know," he snapped.

"I'm not a doctor."

"How long have you been married?"

"More than six years."

"Has she ever been in a hospital, for mental problems, during that
time?"

"No, she hasn't."

"Would you say that she has ever done anything to endanger your
child?"

"Yes."  He almost shouted at Tom, and this time the '

defense attorney looked startled, and he wanted to clear it up quickly
now, before he damaged her further.  But Malcolm's answer had surprised
him.

"What did she do that endangered your child?"

"She consorted with Charles Delauney.  She even took him to the park
and exposed him to that man!  And then he took Teddy!"  He was shouting
and waving a hand, and Tom was relieved.

"Mrs.  Patterson says the meeting was unplanned, that she ran into
Mr.

Delauney by accident.  "

"I don't believe her."

"Has she ever lied to you before?"

"Yes, about her mental history and her marriage to Delauney."  Tom knew
that was a lie but chose not to challenge him at this moment.

"If that's true, Mr.  Patterson, has she lied to you at any other
time?"

"I don't know."

"All right, other than that meeting in the park the day before Teddy
was kidnapped, has she ever done anything to endanger the child?  Taken
him somewhere dangerous ... left him somewhere unattended ... even
alone in the bathtub?"

"I don't know."

"Wouldn't you remember it if she endangered your child?"

"Of course!"  Malcolm was slowly burying himself and John Taylor loved
it.

"Do you believe your wife was faithful to you, sir?"

"I don't know."

"Did you ever have reason to suspect her of infidelity?"

"Not really."  He shrugged, almost as though he didn't care.

"You travel a great deal, don't you, sir?"

"I have to.  For business."

"Of course.  And what does Mrs.  Patterson do when you travel?"

"She stays at home."  He blazed.

"With a headache."  A few people in the courtroom laughed, but the jury
looked serious.  They were trying to follow everything he was saying.

"Does she ever travel with you, Mr.  Patterson?"

"Rarely."

"And why is that?  Did you prefer not to have her along?"

"No.  She preferred to stay at home with our son."

"I see."  The bad-mother portrait was slowly crumbling at Tom's hands
and in spite of the fact that as an FBI agent he was part of the
prosecution, John Taylor was relieved, for her sake.

"And you, sir, do you travel alone?"

"Of course."

"You take no one with you?"

"Of course not."  He looked highly irritated at the impertinence.

"Not even a secretary?"

"Of course I take a secretary.  I can't do my work alone."

"I see.  Do you take the same one, or different ones?"

"Sometimes I take both of my secretaries."

"And if you only take one, is there a preference?"

"I frequently take Miss Sanders.  She has been with me for many
years."

Something about the way he said it suggested that she was a hundred
years old, but Tom Armour had done his homework and he knew better.

"How long has she been with you, sir?"

"For six and a half years."

"And are you involved with her, Mr.  Patterson?"

"Of course not!"  he roared.

"I never get involved with my secretaries!"

"And who was your last secretary before Miss Sanders?"  He was done for
and he knew it.

"My wife."

"Mrs.  Patterson was your secretary?"  Tom Armour's eyes grew wide in
surprise, as though he hadn't known, and the judge looked amused by the
question.

"Only for a few months until we were married."

"Is that how you met her?"

"I suppose so, although I vaguely knew her father."

"Do you know Miss Sanders's father too, Mr.  Patterson?"

"Hardly."  He looked superciliously at Tom Armour.

"He's a baker in Frankfurt."

"I see.  And where does Miss Sanders live?"

"I have no idea."  But even Marielle was intrigued now.

"You've never been to her home?"

"Perhaps a few times ... for meetings ..."

"And you can't remember where she lives?"

"All right, all right.  I remember.  On Fifty-fourth and Park."

"That sounds like a very nice neighborhood.  Is it a nice apartment?"

"Very pleasant."

"Is it large?"

"It's big enough."

"Is it eight rooms, with a dining room, an ofBce for you, two bedrooms,
two dressing rooms, two baths, a very large living room, and a
terrace?"

"Probably.  I don't know."  But his face was bright red now, to
Marielle's amazement.

"Do you pay the rent for Miss Sanders's apartment, Mr.  Patterson?"

Marielle was staring at him in disbelief.  Fool that she was she had
never suspected.  - Brigitte had always been so pleasant to her, and so
land, and so generous with Teddy.  And now, finally, Marielle
understood it, and deep inside she felt angry.  Brigitte and Malcolm
had both taken her for a fool, and indeed she had been.

"I do not pay for Miss Sanders's apartment," Malcolm said sternly.

"How much salary does Miss Sanders make?"

"Forty dollars a week."

"That's a reasonable wage.  But not very adequate to pay for an
apartment that costs six hundred dollars a month.  How do you suppose
she pays the rent, Mr.  Patterson?"

"That's none of my affair."

"You mentioned that her father is a baker."

"Your Honor."  William Palmer stood up, feigning boredom.

"Where is all this going?"

"This is all going," Tom Armour said, no longer amused, "to show that
despite Mr.  Patterson's poor memory, his bank statements, his checks,
and his records show that he pays for that apartment."  Tom's
investigators had done well for him.

"And even if he does, so what?"

"Seamus O'Flannerty, the doorman there, will take the stand to tell us
that Mr.  Patterson goes there after the ofBce every evening, and
frequently spends the night there.  When they travel, they frequently
share the same bedroom.  Miss Sanders wears a mink coat to the office,
and this Christmas, two weeks after the kidnapping of his son, he gave
Brigitte Sanders a diamond necklace from Cartier.  It is clear to me.

Your Honor, that Mr.  Patterson has been lying.  "

"Objection overruled, Mr.  Palmer," the judge said gently, all too
aware of who Malcolm was.

"I'd like to remind you again, Mr.

Patterson, that you are under oath.  Perhaps Mr.  Armour would like to
rephrase the question.  "

"Certainly, Your Honor."  Tom was happy to oblige him.

"Mr.  Patterson, allow me to ask you again, are you, or are you not,
having an affair with Brigitte

Sanders?  " For a moment, there seemed to be no sound in the
courtroom.

But before he could answer, the prosecutor was on his feet again.

"That's immaterial to this case.  Your Honor."

"I don't think so," Tom Armour stated coolly.

"The prosecution has totally discredited Mrs.  Patterson as a witness,
and claimed that she was having an affair with my client, which is not
the case.  My client has been out of the country for the past eighteen
years until just before the kidnapping.  But the presumption is that as
a rejected lover, or wounded ex-husband, Mr.  Delauney would seek
revenge.  If, indeed, Mr.  Patterson is having a long-standing affair
with Miss Sanders, it is equally possible that she might seek
revenge."

"Revenge for a diamond necklace?"  Palmer asked, and this time the
whole courtroom roared with laughter.

"Answer the question, Mr.  Patterson," the judge said regretfully.

"Are you having an affair with Miss Sanders?"

"Perhaps I am," he said softly.

"Could you please speak a little louder," Tom asked politely.

"Yes, yes ... I am ... but she did not kidnap my son."  Brigitte was
looking pale in her seat, and Marielle was staring at her.

"How do you know that?"  Tom Armour asked Malcolm.

"She wouldn't do such a thing."  He looked outraged.

"Neither would my client.  Do you intend to marry Miss Sanders, sir?"

"Of course not."

Tom raised an eyebrow.

"Do you give all your secretaries mink coats and diamond necklaces?"

"Certainly not."

"Does she wish to marry you?"

"I have no idea.  That has never been in question."

"Thank you, Mr.  Patterson.  You may step down now."  But Bill Palmer
wanted to ask him another question.

"Mr.  Patterson, has Miss Sanders ever threatened you, or threatened to
harm your son, or take him away from you?"

"Certainly not."  He looked horrified.

"She's a very polite, kind young woman."  With fabulous legs, and some
skills Marielle had never dreamt of.

"Thank you.  No further questions."

Malcolm went back to his seat looking florid.  And a moment later,
Brigitte left the courtroom.  She was mobbed by the press the minute
she left, and her dress was torn when she finally climbed into a taxi,
crying.

After that, the prosecution called a series of forensic experts to
establish the fact that the bear and the pajamas were in fact
Teddy's.

And the last witness of the day was a man who said he had gone to
school with Charles Delauney, and Charles had threatened him once when
they were fourteen.  The witness, a nervous young lawyer from Boston,
who had volunteered to testify in order to be helpful, said that he'd
always thought Charles was a little crazy.  Tom Armour objected, and it
was sustained, and the jury was beginning to look bored.  It had been a
long day, and then finally, it was over, and everyone was relieved to
leave the courtroom.  John and Marielle exchanged a long glance on the
way out, and Malcolm said not a word on the drive home.  He went
straight to the library when they got home, closed the door, and made
several phone calls.  And without a word to Marielle, he slammed out
the front door half an hour later, as John Taylor and a handful of FBI
men pretended not to watch him.  They all knew what had happened that
day in the courtroom.

John went to see her after Malcolm had left, and they sat and talked
quietly.

"Were you surprised?"  he asked her gently, referring to Brigitte.

Marielle felt like a balloon the air had been let out of.  It had been
another exhausting afternoon, and in many ways a sad one.

"Yes, I was.  I suppose I'm incredibly stupid, but I've always liked
her.  She's a nice girl, and she's always been so sweet to Teddy."  She
looked thoughtful as she spoke, thinking back to all the little gifts,
the things she had made, the candy, the toys, the sweaters .  somehow,
Marielle felt as though she had been a complete fool.  She wondered how
long it had been going on.  Probably since the beginning, she realized
and she looked back over the past six and a half years, and that made
her feel even more foolish.  How stupid she had been, and how deceitful
they were.

"She probably tried to make friends with Teddy to impress your
husband."

"Maybe," Marielle said sadly.

"I suppose it doesn't really matter."  He had to have been going
somewhere to address his needs, they hadn't slept with each other in
years, and she knew that he was a very physical person.  But she had
just never thought of Brigitte.  It had crossed her mind once, on a day
when the young German girl was looking particularly pretty, and at
first she had been a little jealous when they had started traveling
together, but she had really never given it a thought after that.  And
now she knew that he went to her apartment every day after work, spent
the night there frequently, and even paid for the apartment.  He was
more married to Brigitte than he was to her, or so it seemed to
Marielle.  She had no tie to him at all anymore.  No allegiance, no
fondness, no loyalty, no fidelity .  not even Teddy.

John watched her quietly as she thought it out, and he thought of his
own wife, and what might happen when the trial was over.  He knew
better than anyone that they couldn't go on like this forever.  But
despite the feelings they shared, he and Marielle had shied away from
talking about the future.  There was too much happening in their lives
now to think of anything except the trial, and finding Teddy.

"I almost feel sorry for Malcolm," she said later as she walked John to
the front door.  He hated leaving her at night, and he had come to
cherish their hours together.

"It must have been difficult for him to be exposed."  He had looked
furious on the stand, and Brigitte had looked panicked.

"Not as difficult as it was for you yesterday."  How could she feel
sympathy for him?  She was an amazing girl.

"He lied through most of it."  But they'd caught him in the end.  What
he hadn't admitted was that he had always known about Charles, and her
time in the clinic.

But the jury didn't know that.  All they knew was that he was a cheat,
and perhaps a liar.

"He deserves what he got.  He deserves worse for what he did to you.
They didn't have to do that."

"Well, they did.  They don't have to worry that I'll be sympathetic to
Charles and weaken the prosecution's case.  My testimony is meaningless
now."  She wished she didn't have to go to court at all.  It was all so
painful.

"Are you still sympathetic to him, Marielle?"

She wasn't sure.  She hadn't been in months.

"I don't know.  I just don't know what I think ... all the evidence is
there, and yet I thought I knew him better than that, even after all
these years.  No matter what he said, I didn't believe him when he said
those things in the park ... and then Teddy was gone ... I don't know
what to think."  She couldn't bear thinking of it anymore .  the empty
bed that had still been warm when she touched it.  It had been three
months now since she'd seen him, three months since she'd held her
little boy .  the little boy they said she was too weak and unstable to
take care of.

"If he were innocent ... if we found Teddy again," and he still hoped
they would, but he doubted it now.  It had been too long.  It was
beginning to seem too much like the Lindberghs.

"Would you go back to Charles?"  He had wanted to ask her that for
days.  He wanted to know, because in his heart of hearts, he knew she
still loved him.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

"I don't think so.  I couldn't.

There's too much pain between us.  Think of what we would feel when we
looked at each other every morning.  If he's innocent, and Teddy comes
home again .  Charles will never forgive me for this .  " She looked up
at him, and John was annoyed.

"Everything that goes wrong in the world is not your fault.  You didn't
make those threats in the park, he did.  He's the damn fool who either
did it, or put himself in a hell of a spot for shooting his mouth
off.

Last time I looked, all you did was go to the park with your boy.  This
is not your fault, for God's sake, just like Teddy's kidnapping isn't .
and the other boy's drowning wasn't .  stop believing all the shit
these jerks give you.  " She smiled at him.  She loved him for
believing in her, and protecting her, and caring about her, and trying
to find Teddy.  But she wondered what else they would have when this
was over.

Probably very little.  They would be friends, but they had met at a
time that, for her, would be forever painful.  But he was worried about
something else now, since listening to the last few days' testimony in
court.  He knew what Patterson had up his sleeve now.  If they found
the boy, he was beginning to suspect that Patterson was going to sue
her for custody and divorce, and accuse her of being an unfit mother.

That's what the mental instability was all about, and the testimony by
governesses and maids.  John Taylor already saw where Malcolm was
leading, but he didn't want to scare her.  And maybe it would never
happen.  Maybe they would never find Teddy.

"Take care of yourself," he whispered as he hurried down the front
steps a little while later, wishing he could kiss her.  And as Marielle
went back to her room, she correctly assumed that Malcolm was with
Brigitte.

He didn't bother to come home that night, or to call.  The pretense was
over.  She wondered where they were staying now, to avoid the reporters
who were hot on their trail for a story.  She wondered too how often
his calls to her had come from Brigitte's apartment.  It was amazing
how little she had known about her husband.  She had thought him so
respectable, so kind, so gentle with her, and instead he had been
building a case against her for years, he had always known about the
hospital and Charles, and he had cheated on her for years with
Brigitte.  It was not a pretty picture.  She was still thinking about
it when the phone rang as she lay in the dark at ten o'clock.  She
almost didn't answer it, thinking it would be him.  But there was
always the possibility it would be a call about Teddy.  She knew the
police still in the house would pick it up, but nevertheless she wanted
to listen.

She was startled to hear Bea Ritter asking the policeman to put the
call through to Marielle and he wouldn't.

"It's all right.  Jack.  I have it.  Hello?"

"Mrs.  Patterson?"

"Yes."

"This is Bea Ritter."  Even her voice sounded nervous and energetic.

She was an excited little woman full of life and the pursuit of a great
story.  But Marielle had wanted to thank her anyway, for the
surprisingly decent article about Marielle's performance in the
courtroom.  She thanked her, and the little redhead sounded
embarrassed.

"They really did a job on you.  It made me sick to watch it."

"At least I didn't get carried out of the court the way the others said
I did."

"They're a bunch of jerks.  If it doesn't happen the way they want it,
they make it up, I don't do that."  And then there was a pause.  She
had half expected not to get through to her, and now they were suddenly
talking like old friends, but she was scared and this was important.

"I'm sorry to call so late ... I wasn't sure how to get through to you
Mrs.  Patterson, can I meet you for a little while?"

"Why?"

"I have to talk to you.  I can't tell you over the phone.  But I really
have to."

"Does it have to do with my son?"  Was there a tip?  a chance .  a hope
she almost felt her heart stop.

"No.  Not directly.  It has to do with Charles De- launey."

"Please don't ask me that.  Please ... you saw what they did to me
yesterday ... I can't help him."

"Please ... just listen ... I want to help find your son's kidnapper,
and Charles isn't it.  I believe that."

"Does he know you're calling?"

She blushed beet red at her end of the phone and shook her head.

"He hardly knows me.  I've been to see him a few times, but he's
terribly distracted.  But I think he's innocent and I want to help
him."

"I want to find my son.  That's all I want," she said sadly.

"I know ... so do I ... you deserve it ... please see me ... just for a
few minutes."

"When?"  Just a meeting between them would cause a furor in the press,
and probably a scandal.  And they had enough scandal on their hands,
with the revelation of Malcolm's affair with Brigitte.

"Could I come over right now?  I mean ... I know ... it's a terrible
imposition."  She was scared to death, but she had to see her.

"I ... I just don't think ..."

"Please ..."  The girl was almost in tears, and finally Marielle
relented.

"All right.  Come."

"Now?"

"Yes.  Can you be here in half an hour?"  She would have gladly been
there in half a minute.

When she arrived, Marielle was dressed and waiting downstairs, and as
Bea Ritter walked in, the young reporter actually looked almost
frightened.  She was twenty-eight years old, and suddenly her brash,
bold style seemed to have melted and she was almost childlike.  She was
a tiny girl, much, much smaller than Marielle, and she was wearing
slacks, a heavy sweater, and a raincoat.

"Thank you for seeing me," she said in a voice filled with awe, as
Marielle walked her into the library and closed the door.  She herself
was wearing black slacks and a black cashmere sweater.  Her hair was
pulled back and she had no makeup on, and there was something very
clean and pure about her, which was exactly what John Taylor had fallen
in love with.

"I don't know what you expect from me," Marielle said quietly as they
sat down.

"I told you on the phone, there's nothing I can do to help you."

"I don't even want your help," Bea Ritter admitted to her as she looked
at her thoughtfully.  She had wanted to see this woman again for weeks,
and now she was here, and it felt strange sitting there like two
friends, two women who wanted the same thing for different reasons. 
Bea wanted the boy found so

Charles would be cleared, and Marielle just wanted her son back.

"I

just want to talk to you, to know what you think .  like this .  not
for the newspapers .  or in a courtroom.  You don't think he did it, do
you?  "

"I was honest in court yesterday," Marielle said with a sigh, wondering
why she had let her come here.  She was so energetic, so high-strung,
it almost made Marielle nervous, yet she had felt she owed her one. 
But what good would it do to rehash it all with her again?

"Is this for the press?"  Bea shook her head, and Marielle could see
that she meant it.

"No, it's for me.  I have to know.  Because I don't think he did it
either."  She acted as though Marielle believed the same thing, but she
sensed that was the case, no matter how she denied it.

"Why?"

"Maybe I'm crazy, but I believe him.  I trust him.  I admire everything
he stands for.  I think he's a damn fool, he's done some awfully stupid
things, and tie never should have said the things he said to you that
day in the park, but if he'd meant to take the boy, he'd never have
said them."

"I thought so too ... until they found the baby's pajamas ..."  It was
funny, she still thought of him that way .  "the baby" at four .  the
baby she might never see again.  She had to fight back tears suddenly
as they sat there.

"How did the pajamas get there if he didn't take him?"

"Mrs.  Patterson ... Marielle ... may I call you that?"  They were from
two different lives, two different worlds, but for a brief moment they
were friends, with one common goal, to find her baby.  And Marielle
nodded in answer.

"He swears they were planted.  He thinks someone was paid to put them
there ... maybe even someone from here, from your own house."

"But those were the pajamas he wore.  I saw them.  The embroidery on
them is little trains, and those are the same ones he was wearing the
night they took him."

"Does he have other pajamas like them?"  Marielle shook her head.

"Not exactly."

The young reporter shook her head with a look of despair.  She wanted
so desperately to help him, and Marielle wanted to ask her a
question.

"Why do you care so much?  Is it the story or the man?"  She looked at
her squarely, and Bea's eyes didn't waver.

"It's him," and then in a softer voice, "you still love him, don't
you?"  Marielle hesitated for a long time, wondering just how far she
could trust her, but for some reason she did.  And she knew she
wouldn't be disappointed.

"I always have.  I suppose I always will.  But he's a part of my past
now."  Little by little, Marielle was coming to understand that.

"Charles said that too, when I spoke to him.  But he loves you too.  I
think he's less crazy now.  I think all of this has brought him to his
senses."

"A little late."  Marielle smiled sadly.

"He thinks the boy is alive somewhere."  She wanted to give her hope,
if not the answers.

"I wish that were true.  The FBI think it's getting late.  They're
afraid ..."  She couldn't say the words, and her eyes filled with tears
as she turned away.  It was all so pointless.  What purpose would the
trial serve?  Whatever they did to Charles, it would not bring back her
baby.

"I don't believe that."  Bea Ritter didn't move as she looked at her,
and she reached out a tiny firm hand and took a grip on Marielle's
fingers.

"And I'm going to do everything I can to help them find him.

Whatever the press can do, whatever ins I have, I'm going to use them.
" She had some very odd underworld connections, she explained, due to a
series of articles she'd done, and the local mob boss had loved them.
She'd made him a hero in his own way, and he'd promised her that he'd
always be there for her, and lately, after talking to Charles/she had
wanted to call him.

"What did you want from me?"  Marielle asked tiredly.  She liked the
girl, but it was late, and it all seemed so hopeless.

"Why did you come here?"

"I wanted to look you in the eye and see for myself what you believe.

I think you don't know .  but you're not sure that he did it either.
"

"That's true."

"That's fair enough.  Maybe in your shoes I'd feel that way too.  He
must have given you a pretty rough time when ..."  They both knew that
she meant when their son died.

"He was crazy then," she smiled sadly, "maybe he still is."

"A little bit."  Bea smiled.

"He'd have to be to fight in Spain."  But she admired him for that, and
she loved what he had written.  He had showed some of it to her.  They
had talked for hours at the jail one day, and he had cried when he told
her he didn't do it.  And she believed him.  She had vowed to help him
then, and she knew that Marielle was an important key.  No matter what
they did to her, she was someone who could help him.

"I'm sorry about your husband," she said carefully.

"So am I. It's not going to be pretty in the press tomorrow morning."

"No, it won't be."  Bea had already seen some of the early tear
sheets.

"But it raises a little more sympathy for you.  They really beat you to
death the other day.  It made me sick, that's why I wrote the piece I
did."  She was kind of a Robin Hood, always defending the underdog, the
beaten, the poor, the defeated.  She and Charles seemed to have so much
in common.

"Why Charles?"  Marielle asked softly.

"Why him?  Why do you care so much?"

"I don't want to see him killed for nothing.  I never believed entirely
that Bruno Hauptmann was guilty either.  I know some of the evidence
was there, but so much of it was circumstantial.  So much of it was
hysteria created by the press.  It was my first story, I was
twenty-one, and I always felt that I could have made a difference, but
I didn't.  Maybe this time, I can.  Or at least die trying."

Marielle didn't dare ask her more than that, but there was something
more in the girl's eyes, and after a long moment she decided to ask
her.

"Are you in love with him?"  There was no jealousy there, nothing
proprietary.  It was only a question.  And Bea Ritter looked at her for
a long time before she answered.

"I'm not sure.  I don't want to be.  That isn't the issue."  But it was
why she cared so much and Marielle knew it.

She smiled at her.

"Does he know, or is he as stupid as he used to be?"  Sometimes he
could be dense when he wanted to be.  And of course now he was involved
with something much more important.  But Bea laughed with her.

"I think maybe he is as stupid as he used to be, but maybe he's a
little too busy."  The man was fighting for life.  Then suddenly Bea
looked worried.

"Would you ever go back to him?"  But Marielle shook her head without
hesitation.  Too much pain gone by, too much time, too much sorrow. 
She loved him, she knew she always would.  But he was gone for her now.
Marielle thought the little redhead would be perfect for him, if ever
the time came, and he was acquitted.

He owed a lot to her, but according to Bea, he didn't even know it.

"What are you going to do now, Bea?"

"I don't know ... I'm going to call up some debts ... talk to some old
friends ... hang out with some private investigators I know.  " And
maybe talk to Tom Armour, if she needed money.  Maybe he would be
willing to pay for some tips, or special favors.  She was willing to do
anything, call anyone, go anywhere, pay anyone she had to.

"Maybe nothing will turn up, but at least we'll have tried ... and
maybe it'll lead us to Teddy."

"You'll let me know if you hear anything, won't you?"

"The minute I do."  The two women stood up and Marielle walked her to
the door.  She knew they would never be friends.  But she liked her.
She was an unusual girl, and a smart one.  Charles was luckier than he
knew to have found her.

Bea Ritter slipped away into the night, and when Marielle went back
upstairs, it was long after midnight.  And as she turned the light off,
she lay in her bed thinking of Malcolm, probably in an apartment on
Park Avenue .  and her little boy, she prayed, asleep in a bed
somewhere, with strangers.

 trial went on for weeks after that, as Hitler seized Memel on the
Baltic.  The trial seemed to have pushed the world news off the front
pages, in New York anyway.  But Britain and France had announced that
they stood ready to support Poland.  And at the end of March, much to
Charles's chagrin, the Spanish Civil War ended at last, when Madrid
fell to General Franco.  There were over a million dead by then, in
three years an entire population had fallen.  It was a tragedy to
Charles, as he knew it would be to his friends in Europe.  The fight
was over.  The war was lost.  But Charles Delauney had his own war to
fight now, the battle for his survival.

Marielle never heard from Bea Ritter again after her late-night
visit.

But she continued to read her articles in the paper, and was touched by
her sympathetic viewpoint.

Predictably, there had been a huge hue and cry in the press about
Malcolm and Brigitte for several weeks, but despite constant inquiries,
Marielle stayed aloof about it, and made no comments.  She and Malcolm
had scarcely spoken to each other in weeks, and she had only seen
Brigitte once since then.  The girl had covered her guilt by looking
haughtily at Marielle, and clinging to Malcolm, as though trying to
prove that she was the winner.  It seemed a poor defense to Marielle,
and she didn't envy her awkward position.  She felt betrayed by their
lies, and Brigitte's false kindness, but she was hardly even angry
anymore, or even jealous.  He hadn't been hers in a long time, but she
was deeply hurt by Malcolm's longdistance deception.  Her only attempt
to discuss the matter with him had been rebuffed, and Malcolm had
pretended to be "outraged."  He told her that after her behavior with
Charles he owed her no explanations, which told her absolutely nothing,
except to confirm his guilt.  But that fact had already been
established.

She reminded him coolly that if he continued to stay at the apartment
with the girl, the press would continue to hound them.  After that, she
noticed that he stayed at their house again, and not at Brigitte's
apartment.  But in spite of that, she still scarcely saw him.

The tension between them was unbearable, but so was the trial, as a
trail of expert witnesses, detectives, and irrelevant people took the
stand, endorsing Charles's guilt, and one by one being attacked by Tom
Armour.

It was three full weeks before the defense had their chance.  And Tom
Armour called Marielle as his first witness.  At first he led her
across the same terrain carefully, rebuilding her where Bill Palmer had
destroyed her.  And the portrait that began to emerge at his hands was
far different from the one colored by Malcolm and Bill Palmer.  Instead
of a mentally ill invalid, a woman not to be trusted with her own
child, he showed more clearly what had really happened, how destroyed
she had been at the death of her son, and the loss of her baby, and
then her husband.  Tom Armour admitted openly that Charles had been
more than a little crazy, and had treated her badly.  They were both
racked with pain, he explained, and there was not a dry eye in the
courtroom when he asked her to describe groping for Andre beneath the
frozen ice of Lake Geneva.  She explained how she had been able to save
the two little girls, but not her own son, because he had slipped
farther under the ice, and how he had lain lifeless and gray in her
arms when she found him.  She had had to stop several times as she
described the scene to him, and then the hospital that night and losing
the baby.  In one fell swoop, they had lost their family, and Charles
hadn't been equal to it, Charles even more than she.  Then she had
snapped, and all she wanted for months afterward was to die and be with
her babies.

"Do you feel that way now?"  Tom asked her quietly, as several jurors
blew their noses.

"No," she said sadly.

"Do you believe Teddy is still alive?"

Her eyes Riled with tears again, but she went on, "I don't know ... I
hope he is ... I hope it so much ..."  She looked at the press then and
into the courtroom.  "... If anyone knows where he is ... please,
please bring him home ... we will do anything ... just don't hurt him"
A photographer ran up, and a camera exploded in her face as she said
it, and the judge ordered the bailiff to throw the photographer out of
the courtroom.

"And if anyone does that again, you'll go to jail, is that clear?"

Judge Morrison boomed as Marielle regained her composure.  He
apologized to her, and she waited for Tom's next question.

"Do you believe that Charles Delauney took your son?"  It was a
dangerous question, but he wanted the world to know what she thought
because he didn't think she was convinced that he took him.

"I'm not sure."

"Do you think he would do a thing like that?  You know him better than
anyone here.  He has loved you, and hurt you, and cried with you ...
he's even hit you ... he has probably done worse things to you than to
anyone he knows."  Charles had admitted that to Tom himself, and yet
what Marielle had told Tom of him told him that Marielle did not
believe him guilty.

"Knowing what you do of him, Mrs.  Patterson, do you believe that he
took Teddy?"

She hesitated for an eternity, and then Bnally shook her head and
dropped her face into her hands, and Tom Armour waited.

"Are you still in love with this man, Mrs.  Patterson?"

She looked at Charles sadly.  What terrible things had come to them.

What misery they had shared, and yet long ago, they had been so
happy.

"No," she said softly.

"I love him.  I probably always will.  He was the father of my
children.  I loved him very much when I was young ... but now ... I am
only sad for him, and if he has done this terrible thing, then I hope
he returns my son safely.  But I am not in love with him anymore. We've
caused each other too much pain for too long."  Tom Armour nodded, and
he respected her more than she knew.  She was one hell of a terrific
woman.  She had held up under questioning, shared her guts, her life,
her soul, she had lost two children to the hands of fate, and now one
more, and she was still standing.  He admired her more than anyone he
had ever met, but nothing showed in his face as he went on with his
questions.

"Have you had an affair with Mr.  Delauney since your marriage to Mr.

Patterson?  "

"No," she said calmly.

"Have you had an affair with anyone?  Have you ever been unfaithful to
your husband?"  He looked her straight in the eye, and as her eyes met
his, they did not waver.

"No, I have not."  It was true.  She had kissed John Taylor but that
was all, and by now her marriage was over.

"Thank you, Mrs.  Patterson, you may step down.  I have no further
questions."  He helped her from the stand, and, feeling drained, she
went back to sit down, but she didn't have the beaten feeling she'd had
when she'd been interrogated by Bill Palmer.

Tom called Haverford to the stand next, their butler.  He described her
as decent, fair, and intelligent, a woman of integrity, and a true
lady, he said proudly, which touched her.  He said she'd been wonderful
to her son, and he, Haverford, had always been shocked by how badly she
was treated by Mr.  Patterson's servants.  It was as though everyone
felt they owed nothing to her, and only to Mr.  Patterson.  Haverford
himself felt that Mr.  Patterson never stood behind her.  He acted as
though she was not in charge, and simply a guest, and that was how she
was regarded.  He said Miss Griffin had been abominable to her, the
housekeeper was worse, and Edith stole her clothes, and everyone,
including Mr.  Patterson, knew it.  He said that all of the servants
ridiculed her in the kitchen.

"Are you saying there was no respect for Mrs.  Patterson in her own
home?"  Tom Armour pressed him, to make sure the jury understood it.

"I am, sir," Haverford said, looking dignified in a dark suit that had
been tailored for him in London.

"Would you say that her own behavior led to that attitude, Mr.

Haverford?  Is she, as has been suggested in this courtroom earlier, an
irresponsible, weak woman, essentially without merit?  " The old butler
bristled visibly at the suggestion, thinking Tom had misunderstood
him.

"What I said, sir, is that she is one of the Rnest people I've ever
known.  She is wise, land, fair, decent, good, and after what she's
been through, I don't see how anyone can call her a weak woman."  It
was Miss Griffin who had had the vapors and fainting spells, and had to
have tablets prescribed by her doctor, ever since the kidnapping.

"Would you venture an opinion as to why no one in the Patterson
household respected her then?  Was there any logical reason?"  Bill
Palmer started to object, and then decided it wasn't worth the trouble.
The old man was harmless.

Haverford nodded, anxious to tell the jury.

"Mr.  Patterson let us know early on that ..."  he tried to remember
the exact words, but couldn't "... she wasn't all there, well, not
precisely that.  But he told us she was very frail and very nervous.
And he implied that her orders were to be listened to politely, but
basically disregarded.

Said she didn't know anything about running a house, and later, about
children.  That let all of us know where she stood with Mr.  Malcolm.
"

It led Marielle to know it too, as she listened.  But she still didn't
understand why he had done it.  He had made her an object of disdain
and ridicule right from the beginning.  Maybe he just wanted to keep
control of everything, and there had never been a real place for her in
his house, except as Teddy's mother, and even at that, they hardly let
her be useful.

"Were you aware of Mr.  Patterson's affair with Miss Sanders?"  Tom
asked him then.

"I was, or at least I suspected it," Haverford said with an air of
frigid disapproval.

"Did you ever mention your suspicions to Mrs.  Patterson?"

"Certainly not, sir."

"Thank you, Mr.  Haverford."  Tom offered his witness to the
prosecution, but Bill Palmer chose not to ask him any questions.  He
didn't consider him of any importance.  But Marielle had been touched
by his testimony, and so had the jury.

She felt avenged somehow after what he'd said.  But it was embarrassing
to hear it all spelled out, and also comforting to realize that what
she'd felt was real and not delusions.  What she still didn't
understand was why Malcolm had undermined her with everyone.  There had
to be a reason.  Or was it that he'd been in love with Brigitte almost
since the beginning?  Was he trying to get rid of Marielle?  Did he
hope she'd run away, or just give up and leave Teddy with him?  She
would have died first.  But why humiliate her, lie to her, cheat on
her?  Why bother to marry her in the first place?  Had it all been a
lie from the beginning?  But remembering their sweet, early days, she
couldn't believe that.

The next witness Tom called to the stand was Brigitte Sanders.  And
there was a considerable stir in the courtroom as she came forward.

She was a beautiful girl, there was no denying that, and there was an
air of definite sexuality about her, more than Marielle had ever
noticed before.  Perhaps it was because she had nothing to hide now.

Their secret was exposed, and in some ways, Brigitte seemed proud of
it.  She wore a sleek black dress, and Marielle noticed that it looked
expensive.  Her hair was perfectly coifed in the familiar bob, and she
wore the usual bright red nails and lipstick.  And everyone agreed that
she was very striking.  She made Marielle feel like a small brown wren
in comparison, but what she didn't understand was how cold Brigitte
seemed, how calculating, and how hard she seemed to everyone in the
courtroom in comparison to Marielle.  Tom Armour thought she was
unbearably German in her manner.  And there was an insolent tone to her
voice as she answered his questions.  It was a style Marielle had never
seen her use before, and she wondered if she was feeling defensive, now
that the secret was out, and she'd been exposed to the whole world as
Malcolm's mistress.

She admitted that Malcolm spent most of his evenings with her, and some
nights, and said that he had never been happy with his wife, and he had
married her only to have children.  What she said gave Mari elle a
jolt, and she wondered if it was true.  Was that it then?

"She couldn't even do that easily," Brigitte said with derision.  Gone
the warmth, the concern, the kindness she had always shown Marielle,
and Teddy.  She was ready to tell all, and Malcolm looked strained as
he watched her.

"Would you care to explain that last remark.  Miss Sanders?"  Tom asked
politely.

"It took her a long time to get pregnant."  Tom Armour refrained from
suggesting that perhaps Mr.  Patterson was spending too many nights at
her apartment.

"In fact, he was so tired of waiting, that he was thinking of divorcing
her right around the time she got pregnant."

There was a murmur in the crowd, and Marielle cast her eyes to the
floor, as the judge rapped his gavel.  She could feel herself blush, as
she sat next to John Taylor.  He didn't move, or say anything, but he
felt sorry for her, knowing how private she was, and how discreet.

This couldn't have been easy for her.

"Were you already involved with Mr.  Patterson then?"  Tom Armour asked
Brigitte, but for a long moment she didn't answer.

"Should I repeat the question?  May I remind you that you're under
oath?"

"Yes, I was," she said a little less brashly.

"When exactly did that begin?"  Marielle held her breath, she was
curious now, as they waited for the answer.

"Two months after they were married.  In February And Marielle thought
she knew when.  It was the first business trip he had taken without
her.  He hadn't waited long.  And it was then that he had become
particularly chilly.  She had thought for a while that it was his
disappointment because she wasn't pregnant, but he was already under
Brigitte's spell, and apparently he had stayed there.

"Weren't you very angry that he was married to her, and not to you?"

"No, I ..."  She looked vaguely discomfited by his questions.

"I knew he wanted a child, and he ... Malcolm ... Mr.  Patterson ...
has always been very generous with me."  So they'd heard.  Tom didn't
press her about why he wanted Marielle's baby and not Brigitte's.  He
asked her instead if Malcolm had promised to marry her if he divorced
Marielle, and she hedged by saying that they had never discussed it,
which Tom thought was unlikely.  It was obvious that something had been
said, as she glanced at Malcolm.

She explained that they traveled everywhere together, particularly to
Germany, where Mr.  Patterson did a lot of business.  She said it did
not embarrass her to be his mistress.  But she said it with a defiant
air, and Tom Armour was not completely sure that he believed her.

She said that she was very fond of the child, and Malcolm adored him,
that it had almost killed him when the boy was kidnapped.  She also
said that she hardly ever saw Marielle with the child.

"She was always in bed with a headache."  She had the same unpleasant,
disrespectful tone that the servants had used when talking about
Marielle.  Not one of them, except Haverford, had spoken of her
kindly.

Brigitte left the stand with a great show of legs and a good swing of
her behind as she walked past Malcolm, and he looked away and pretended
not to notice.  And after that, for almost a week, the proceedings got
back to normal.  More forensic experts were called, more detectives. 
No fingerprints had been found at the scene, no evidence that could be
tied to Charles, only the pajamas and the toy found at his house, and
Tom Armour maintained that they could easily have been planted.  No one
at the Delauney home had seen the boy, and Charles's alibi for the
night of the kidnapping was airtight.  It was difficult to pin on him,
and finally, at the end of the fourth week of the trial, he took the
stand, and as he walked to the witness box, there was not a sound in
the courtroom.

Charles Delauney looked gaunt and serious as he solemnly took the oath
and promised to tell the truth, glanced nervously at the jury.  Tom
Armour had already walked him through everything, and he had tried to
warn him of every possible pitfall.

Tom asked him where he had been for the past eighteen years, while he
lived in Europe.  He explained that he had lived in France for years,
and for the past several years Spain, while he fought against Franco.

"Did you serve in the Great War too, Mr.  Delauney?"  Tom asked and
Charles said he had.  He looked very handsome and very pale and
suddenly much older than he had when Marielle had seen him in Saint
Patrick's.  It had been a hellish four months for him, ever since he'd
been arrested.  And his attorney had just told him his father was
fading fast, to add to his problems.

"How old were you when you volunteered?"

"I was fifteen."

Tom nodded approvingly.

"And were you wounded in the service of your country?"

"Yes, at Saint-Mihiel.  And after that, I came back here to go to
school for three years.  But I went back to Europe in 1921.  I went to
Oxford, and Italy for a while, and then I moved to Paris."

"Is that where you met your wife, the current Mrs.  Patterson?"

"That's right."  He glanced at her and in spite of himself he smiled,
and she looked so worried.  She wasn't sure what she wanted to happen
anymore.  She wanted justice for him, and her little boy, and' she
wasn't sure which, if either of them, would get it.

"I met her in 1926.  She was eighteen, and we were married at the end
of that summer."

"Did you love her, Mr.  Delauney?"  Tom looked at him as though it were
an important question.

"Did you love your wife?"

"Yes ... I loved her very much ... she was so young ... she was
wonderful ... like a bright, beautiful spirit.  Everything was new and
exciting to her ..."  His mind drifted for a moment and then he looked
at Tom apologetically and spoke very softly.

"We were very happy."

"And you had a baby?"

Charles nodded.

"A little boy ... Andre ... we'd been married for almost a year when he
was born.  He was very special."  All children were, Marielle thought
to herself .  Teddy was too .  they all were.

"Would you say you were extremely close to the child?"

"Yes."

"Unusually so?"

"Perhaps.  The three of us were together all the time.  We traveled
quite a bit, and I was writing, and at home.  Marielle was wonderful
with him.  She took care of him entirely herself."

"With no governess?"  Tom interrupted him.

"She didn't want anyone to help her."  Marielle smiled at the memory.

Life was so much simpler then, without people like Miss Griffin.

"So the three of you were very close.  Extremely so?"

"I suppose you could say so."

"Would that have made the shock of losing him even more traumatic, do
you think?"

"I suppose it must have been.  And we were both so young ... we just
fell apart.  I blamed her and she blamed me ... and none of it made any
difference."

"She blamed you?"

"Not really ... I meant about the baby ... but the truth was, Marielle
blamed herself and I was so hard on her," his voice caught, filled with
guilt, even now, and he looked her in the eye across the courtroom.

"I was wrong.  I knew that afterward.  But by then, I couldn't reach
her ... she wouldn't see me.  And the doctors thought .  they thought
it would upset her if I came to visit her at the clinic."

Tom wanted to take the bull by the horns so there were no secrets from
the jury.

"Did you hit her the night of your son's death, Mr.

Delauney?  " He spoke in terrible tones and Charles looked miserable as
he nodded.

"I did.  I was crazy that night ... I had just seen him ... and I
couldn't believe she had let that happen to him ... I wanted to break
something ... to die ... I slapped her hard ..."  The memory and the
sound of it would haunt him forever.

"Did she lose the child as a result of that?"

"No," he shook his head with an anguished look at' her.

"The doctor said the baby was already dead when she arrived at the
hospital.  The exposure to the icy water had killed the fetus.  But
they hadn't told her."  Marielle gulped on a sob as she heard the
words, she hadn't even known the baby was dead, all she had known was
that she had lost it that night, in the midst of all the horror.

"Did you hold her responsible for losing both children then?"  Tom
Armour went on relentlessly with his client, and Bea Ritter winced as
she listened to him, but she knew it all had to be exposed if they were
going to save him.  Like a terrible wound that had to be excised and
cleaned if they were going to save the patient.

"Yes," Charles Delauney whispered.

"Yes ... and I was wrong.  It wasn't her fault.  But it was too late by
the time I knew that."

"Would you have killed her that night, if you could have?"

"No!"  Charles looked horrified.

"I never wanted to hurt her.  I was just so hurt myself."

"Did you have to be pulled away from her, when you were slapping her,
or did you stop of your own doing?"

"I stopped myself, and then I left her there, and went out and got
drunk all night.  And when I came back in the morning to tell her how
sorry I was, she was in surgery.  She had lost the baby.  And she never
recovered after that.  I never really saw her, or talked to her, or
spoke to her sensibly."  Tears were sliding down his cheeks and
Marielle's as he testified.

"Did you attend your son's funeral?"

"Yes."

"Did your wife?"

He shook his head, unable to speak for a moment.

"No.  She was too ill.

She was still in the hospital in Geneva.  " Which was different from
the Clinique Verbeuf in Villars everyone knew by now.

"Have you ever wanted other children, sir?"  Tom asked him, and Charles
shook his head very quickly.

"No.  I have no desire for any more children.  That's one of the
reasons why I've never remarried.  I feel that I had my son, and he was
taken away from us.  I have spent my life in other pursuits, writing
about things that seemed important to me, fighting for causes that I
believed in, because I have less to lose than some men, if I'm killed
no one will mourn me.  I have led my life freely.  With a wife and
children, I couldn't do that."

"Do you resent people for their families?"

"No," Charles said calmly.

"I never have.  I have made my choices and lived by them."

"Have you ever wanted to return to your wife?"

"Yes," he admitted quietly.

"Before she left the hospital, I asked her to come back to me, but she
wouldn't.  She said she would always feel responsible for what had
happened, and she didn't believe that I no longer blamed her."

"Were you in love with her at the time, Mr.  De- launey?"

"Yes, I was."  He wasn't ashamed to say it.

"Was she still in love with you, in your opinion?"

"I believe so."

"Are you still in love with her today?"

"Yes, I am," he said quietly.

"Perhaps I always will be.  But I understand that our lives have gone
in different directions.  I don't even think we would suit each other
anymore."  He smiled gently at her from across the courtroom.

"She doesn't strike me as the land of woman who would be happy camping
on a mountainside, while her husband fights in the trenches."  There
was a common smile around the courtroom.  Few women were aching to do
that, save one, who would have followed him in a moment to any
mountainside of his choosing.

"How long had it been since you'd seen her when you ran into her in
Saint Patrick's Cathedral last December?"

"Almost seven years."

"And were you deeply moved to see her?"

"Very much so.  It was the anniversary of our son's death, and it meant
a great deal to me to see her."

"Was she happy to see you, sir?"

"I believe so."

"Did she lead you to believe that she would be willing to see you
again?"

"No," he shook his head firmly.

"She said that she couldn't because of her husband."  It was in sharp
contrast to Malcolm's testimony about his love nest with Brigitte.

"She was very firm about it in fact."

"And were you angry?"

"No, I was sorry.  All I could think of then was the past.  And what we
had had, and I wanted to see her."

"Did she tell you about her son?"

"No, she didn't, and I was shocked when I saw him the next day.  I was
terribly hung over from the night before, and still pretty drunk, and I
was angry at her for not telling me about him the day before.  He was a
very nice-looking little boy.  And I said a lot of very stupid things
about her not deserving him.  I think I

was talking more about myself in my drunken haze, but in any case, I
behaved very badly.  "

"Did you threaten her?"

"Probably," he said honestly.

"Did you mean it?"

"No."

"Did you call her and repeat the threats, or had you called her
before?"

"No."

"Have you ever threatened anyone with physical harm and acted on it,
ever, at any time in your life?"

"Never."

"And was this time any different?  Did you act on those threats, Mr.

Delauney?  " Tom's voice was getting louder and stronger in the
courtroom.

"No, I did not act on those threats.  I would never have hurt her or
the boy."

"Did you take Theodore Whitman Patterson, the Patterson's son, from his
home on the night of December eleventh of last year, or did you hire or
conspire with anyone to do so?"

"I did not, sir."

"Do you know where the boy is?"

"No ... I'm sorry, I do not ... I wish I did ..."

"Were his pajamas and a toy of his found in your home a week later?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any idea how they got there?"

"None whatsoever."

"How do you think they got there, Mr.  Delauney?"

"I don't know.  I thought they must have been planted."

"Why do you think someone would do that?"

"So that I pay for the crime that they did, that's the only reason I
can think of."

"Do you have any idea who that might be?"

"No."

"Do you have any enemies at all, anyone who has sworn to do you
harm?"

"No ... maybe only General Franco ..."  There was a communal smile.

"Are you a Communist, Mr.  Delauney?"

"No," he smiled, "I'm a Republican, or I used to be.  Actually, I
suppose I'm more of a free spirit."

"Do you belong to the Communist party?"

"I do not."

"Do you hold a grudge against Mrs.  Delauney ... Mrs.  Patterson now,
for leaving you?  Or against Mr.  Patterson for being her husband?"

Charles looked at him man-to-man across the courtroom and he wanted to
spit on him, but he controlled himself as he addressed the court.

"From what I've heard in this courtroom, he doesn't deserve her.  But I
have no grudge against him, or against Marielle.  She has suffered
enough in this life.  She deserves better than either of us, and she
deserves to have her child back."  There were tears in her eyes as she
listened to him.  He was a decent man, he always had been.  She didn't
believe now, as she heard his words, that he could have taken Teddy.
And Tom Armour was praying that the jury felt the same way she did.

"Are you guilty of the crime of which you're accused, Mr.  Delauney?

Think carefully, and remember that you are under oath.  Are you in any
way involved in the kidnapping of the child in question?  "

Charles looked at him solemnly, and shook his head slowly.

"I swear that I had nothing to do with it."

Tom Armour turned to the prosecution then.

"Your witness, Mr.  Palmer."

The prosecution attempted to make mincemeat of him, to make him say he
had lied, to make him look even worse for hitting Marielle after their
child's death.  But it was all out in the open now, there were no dark
secrets anymore, and he stuck rigidly to his story.  He continued to
say that he had nothing to do with the kidnapping, and no idea how the
pajamas had turned up in his basement.  There had been no forensic
evidence of the child there at all, no skin, no nails, no hair, no
other clothing, no sign that he had been anywhere near Charles
Delauney.

His testimony took an exhausting two days, and at the end of it, the
mystery still wasn't solved, but Charles had remained adamant till the
end.  He wasn't guilty.  The only real question was had he convinced
the jury?

Malcolm left the courtroom separately that day, and Marielle stopped at
church on the way home.

She wanted to pray for a merciful outcome to the trial, whatever that
would be, and for her little boy.  Easter had come and gone, and other
children had hunted Easter eggs and played with little chicks, and at
home Teddy's nursery was still empty.  It tore at her heart to go
there, and yet she found some reason to every day, to look for
something, to put something away, to fold some small item of
clothing.

Miss Griffin had long gone, still staying with her sister in New
Jersey, and the housekeeper had told Marielle recently that Miss
Griffin was taking a job in Palm Beach soon, with a new baby.  How
lucky for her, Marielle thought .  how lucky to have a baby to go on
to.  But there were no new babies for her, and all she wanted was
little Teddy.  Her heart ached when she thought of the silky hair, the
firm little cheek, the sweet lips kissing her, and he was gone now .
vanished .  probably forever.  She was trying to accept that, day by
day, but thinking of him even made Malcolm's betrayal less important.

She knelt at the altar of Saint Vincent Ferrer church for a long time,
and finally John Taylor came and knelt beside her.  He had been in
court with her every day, and yet there was so little he could do, so
little they had found.  There had been nothing new in the case since
they'd found the pajamas and teddy bear at Charles Delauney's.

The closing arguments in the case were the next day, and he felt
totally helpless.  He thought De l days, it even made him think twice,
but Taylor still believed him guilty.

He put a gentle hand on Marielle's arm.  She had gotten thinner lately
and she looked so pale, but she seldom had her appalling headaches.

"Ready to go home?"  She sighed and then nodded.  Sometimes she wanted
to stay here, on her knees forever, begging Him to bring Teddy home.

She had been asking for months now.

She was quiet on the way home.  The press were still thronging her
door, but Taylor was adept at dodging them and getting her in through
the kitchen.  It was odd to think that the trial would soon be over.

The police were going to stay on with them for a while, and the FBI was
certainly going to check in from time to time, but there had been no
leads, no calls, not even the crazies calling at midnight.  There was
no reason to stay there anymore.  It was over.  All that remained now
was to see what the jury did with Charles Delauney.  He wondered if
that was troubling her now too.  He knew she still cared about him,
probably more than she admitted.

"Do you want to be alone?"  he asked quietly when they got home, and
she looked up at him gratefully and nodded.  In the end, she would be
left with no one.  She and Malcolm were through, Teddy was gone .  and
if they executed Charles there would be no one left in her world who
had ever loved her.  It took her breath away when she thought about it
sometimes, and Taylor knew she was having a hard time.

He gently touched her arm and then her cheek.

"Hang in there ... it's not as bad as it feels sometimes."  But they
both knew this was about as bad as it got.  He watched her walk slowly
up the stairs, her head down, and suddenly he began to worry.  What if
she did the kind of crazy stuff she had done years before?  He wondered
if he should stay, or follow her upstairs, but one of the cops told him
that Malcolm was upstairs, so Taylor just told him to keep an eye on
her, and he went back to his office.

When she left John, Marielle went upstairs to Teddy's room.  She sat
down in a rocking chair, and closed her eyes.  It was dusk outside, and
there were a few stars in the sky, she could just see them through his
bedroom curtains.  She thought of the nursery rhymes they had said, the
songs she had sung him the last night she put him to bed, and as the
tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, she heard a noise and turned to
see her husband.

"What are you doing here?"  he asked coldly.

"I came here to be closer to Teddy."

"It won't do you any good," he said evilly, "he's dead.  Thanks to your
ex-husband."

"Why are you so cruel?"  she dared to ask him this time.

"And how can you be so sure he's dead?  How do you know he won't come
home to us sometime soon?"

Malcolm Patterson stood looking at her coldly.  The mask had fallen
since the trial had begun.  He had lost his cover, and he no longer
cared.  He was going to divorce her.

"If he comes back, Marielle, he won't come back to 'us," or to you,
you're not fit to be his mother.  " It was exactly what Tom Armour had
seen coming.  He had consulted on the Vanderbilt case, and he knew just
how those cases were built.  And that's just what he saw Malcolm doing.
The testimony from the nurse, the maid, the telegram from the mental
hospital, all of it showing that she was unfit ... just in case they
found him.

"Who are you to decide that?"  Marielle said sadly.

"And why do you hate me so much?"

"I don't hate you.  I have nothing but contempt for you.  You're weak .
and you let that Communist into our life to steal our son and kill
him...."

"You know that's not true."  She had never moved from the rocking chair
as he approached her.

"You're a fool, Marielle.  A fool, and a liar."  His eyes blazed, but
so did hers.

"How do you expect anyone to respect you?"

"And Brigitte?"  she said quietly.

"Is she so much better?"  The affront of it still hurt her.  She
realized now too that he had undermined her for all these years.  But
why?  Why did he hate her?  Had he done it for himself or Brigitte?

"Brigitte has nothing to do with this.  We should never have gotten
married."

"Then why did we?"  She no longer knew.  She no longer understood
anything about him.

"Perhaps if I'd met Brigitte before you, we wouldn't have.  But I met
you first.  And I so desperately wanted to have children."  After two
barren marriages, Marielle had seemed to be the answer to his prayers.
And she had been so young, so helpless.  He had liked the fact that she
was alone in the world.

She was his to control, and he liked that.  In truth, he hadn't even
minded about her history at the sanatorium.  It would only serve to
make her more dependent on him.

"Was it all about children then?  About having a son?"

"Perhaps."  She'd been used.  That's all she'd been.  A tool to give
him a baby.  But there had been more, she knew it, and he did too,
whether he admitted it or not.  In the very beginning, for a short
time, she had been sure that he loved her.  And then .  there had been
Brigitte.  Now she understood it.

"And what will you do now?  Marry Brigitte and have more children?"  He
didn't tell her that Brigitte was unable to have children, and theirs
was a genuine passion.

"What I do now is none of your business, Marielle."

"I'll move out as soon as the trial is over," she said calmly.  But she
was going to take Teddy's things .  she had to take them with her in
case he came home again .  for the first time in years, she be l
decide anything .  all she could think of now was Teddy.

"Where will you move to?"  His eyes seemed to take in her energy.

"It doesn't matter.  I'll give the FBI my address, so they can find me
in case ... when they find him."

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.

-cA 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'll 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."

"Could you grab me a roast beef sandwich?  I haven't eaten since
breakfast."

"Mustard or mayo?"

"Both.  Anything.  I'll eat the bag.  I'm starving."

"You got it."

His doorbell rang twenty minutes later, and she stood there in navy
slacks and a bright blue sweater.  She had a blue bow in her hair, and
she handed him a brown bag, with a beer, two pickles, and his
sandwich.

"You're a saint."  He didn't even care what she had to say to him, he
was just grateful she'd brought him dinner.

"Do you want to share the beer?"

"No, thanks."  She shook her head, and slid into a chair in his
kitchen.  It was as though they were old friends, but he knew she had
watched the entire trial, and indirectly, they had been through the war
together.

"How do you think it's going?"

"I'm not sure.  The jury's tough to read.  Sometimes I think the guys
like him better than the women, sometimes ... I'm not sure.  At least
you gave Marielle Patterson a certain amount of credibility again.

What a son of a bitch Patterson turned out to be.  " He nodded, still
cognizant of the fact that she was a reporter and this could be a
trick.

"You've done a great job for Charles Delauney."

"Thank you.  He looked good on the stand today, at least I thought
so."

"So did I," she said softly.  She had managed to catch his eye as he
left the stand, and he smiled when she gave him the high sign.  He had
been touched by her interest and her faith in him, and a little puzzled
by her zeal, but he liked her.  Not nearly as much as she liked him,
but in Bea's eyes, it was a beginning .  unless .  but that was up to
Tom Armour .  and the jury.

"So what's up?  What brings you here at this hour with a roast beef
sandwich?  I assume you didn't just come here to tell me you admire my
style in the courtroom."

"No," she grinned, "but you're very good.  Better than most I've
seen."

But her eyes grew serious then.  She had something important to tell
him.  And they both knew time was running out for Charles Delauney.

Both attorneys would be making their closing arguments the next day and
after that, it was up to the jury.

"I did a very strange thing," she admitted to him, as she accepted a
bite of one of his pickles.

"I called someone I wrote a story on a long time ago ... well, anyway
last year.

You probably know who he is.  Tony Caproni.  "

"The mob boss from Queens?"  Tom Armour looked startled.

"You hang out with a nice bunch of guys.  Miss Ritter."

"I wrote a nice piece on him, and he liked it.  He said if I ever
needed a favor, to call him.  So I did."

"You called Caproni?  Why?"  He was impressed once again by her
courage.

Tony Caproni was one of the most dangerous men in New York, but also
one of the most powerful in his own world.

"I wanted to know if he'd heard anything, if he knew anybody who knew
anybody who ... maybe someone in the underworld, so called, knew who
really kidnapped the kid, or ... I don't know, I just figured it was
worth it."

"And?  He came up dry, I assume.  The FBI tried the same tactic.  They
tried all the informants, all their underworld contacts, and they got
nothing."

"So did Tony, the first time he called."  She put the pickle down and
grabbed Tom's arm.

"He called me tonight.  All he gave me was the name of a guy and his
phone number and told me to call him."

Tom stopped eating and watched her.

"Did he know anything?"

"Someone ... he doesn't know who ... paid him fifty thousand dollars to
plant the toy and the pajamas.  He doesn't want to testify, but if we
promise him amnesty, he will.  He's scared, Tom.  He's scared to death,
but he feels sorry for Charles, and he says he'll do it.  He also said
he thinks the kid is alive, and he wants to speak up before something
happens."

"Holy shit ... oh my God ... give me his number."  She pulled it out of
her handbag, and he picked up his phone, and then he looked at her.

"This isn't a setup, is it?  You use this in the papers, and I'll kill
you."

"I swear.  It's for real."  And for reasons he never knew, he believed
her.

 r at exactly ten-fifteen the following morning.  Tom Armour^ was
looking particularly bright-eyed in a starched white shirt and a dark
blue suit and a new tie, and he had actually gotten up fifteen minutes
early to shine his shoes.  He liked to look his best at the end of a
trial when it really mattered And Charles was looking very sober in
banker's gray and a tie of his father's.

"We'll be hearing closing arguments today, ladies and gentlemen," the
judge explained to the jury.  They had been staying at the Chelsea
Hotel for the past month, and it had to be wearing thin.  Some of them
were beginning to look very peaked.

But as the judge spoke to them, Tom Armour stood up and asked to
approach the bench, which he did, in the company of Bill Palmer.

"What is it.  Counsellor?"  the judge asked him with a frown, in an
undertone.

"New evidence, Your Honor, and a bit of a problem.  May I see you in
chambers?"  The judge looked anything but happy.  They were almost
ready to wrap it up, and now they were talking about new evidence. 
What the devil did that mean?

"All right, all right."  He waved them in, and they were there until
eleven-thirty, arguing with each other and the judge.  He was perfectly
willing to let the man testify, but he was not willing to give him
amnesty.  If what he said was true, planting the pajamas in Charles
Delauney's home was a federal offense, and he probably had additional
knowledge about the kidnappers that he was concealing.

"I say, arrest him," Palmer said, hands down.

"I can't violate my source," Armour told him.

"What if he's lying?"

"What if he isn't?  If he planted the pajamas and the bear, then
Delauney's not guilty."

"For chrissake.  Who is this guy?"  Palmer almost shouted.

"I can't tell you till we come to an agreement."

The judge looked miserable by the time he'd heard them both out, and he
was anything but happy with the deal they finally came to.

"I'll give you forty-eight hours to check this out, to find out if it's
bogus or not.  Use the FBI, the Ma l vines, the army.  I don't give a
damn what you do, but see if you can't get me more than this.  And I
won't promise the man anything.  Check it out, find out what's going
on.  But in forty-eight hours, you'd better be back in this courtroom
with evidence, or I'm citing you for contempt, and I'm throwing your
hot tip in jail.  You got that?"

"Yes, sir.  Thank you."  Tom Armour was beaming.  He had two days to
work a miracle, but maybe Bea's friend would help him.

"Are you amenable to a two-day recess, Mr.  Palmer?"  the judge
asked.

"Do I have a choice?"  Palmer looked annoyed but resigned.  He'd been
all prepared to give it his best shot with his closing.

"Not really."  The judge smiled at him, and Tom laughed.

"Then I agree, don't I?  This better be good.  Personally, I think it's
all a crock.  Delauney's guilty' as hell, the lousy Commie bastard."

"Don't talk about my client like that," Tom Armour said sternly.

"Then don't take people like him as clients."

The three men walked back into court, and the judge explained to
everyone that there was possible new evidence and court was adjourning
for a two-day investigation.  Court would reconvene again on Friday. 
He thanked everyone for being there, and court was duly recessed, as
Tom whispered to Charles and explained what had happened.  And as soon
as he stood up again, he signaled to John Taylor.

"Can I see you for a minute?  We need help."

"Sure."  Officially, the way things had worked out, John was there to
help the prosecution.  But he was actually there to help all of them,
by finding Teddy.

"Can we go somewhere quiet for a few minutes?"  He left Charles then,
to be taken back to jail, and followed Taylor to an empty office.

"What you got?"

"I'm not sure.  But I think it's a good one."  He explained the source
to him, and what the man had said.

"He's scared out of his mind.  He took the dough from whoever left it
for him, and he's an accessory now, or at the very least he'll get an
obstruction of justice.  He's got a record an arm long, the guy's on
parole, and he's scared shitless to come forward."

"At least he's not dumb.  Who is he?  Maybe I know him."

"You probably do.  But you've got to guarantee me amnesty for the guy
if I tell you."

"I can't guarantee you shit, Armour.  But I can guarantee you I'm gonna
lack your ass if you don't share what you've got with me.  We're not
just protecting your client's ass here.  We're looking for a
four-year-old boy, who may or may not be dead by now, and if he isn't,
he's in one hell of a lot of danger."

"I know that, dammit.  But you can't blow my source.  He also thinks
the boy is still alive.  You've got to promise me you're not just going
to go and nail him."

"I'm not going to nail him.  I want to talk to him.  If you want, you
can come with me.  Who is he?"  Armour was still worried he was going
to get the guy in trouble.

"His name is Louie Polansld," Tom said hesitantly, praying Taylor
wouldn't bust him.

"Louie?  Louie the Lover?  Hell, Louie and I go back years.  I sent him
to the joint fifteen years ago when I was a kid myself ... I saved his
life.  His mob buddies were trying to kill him then, and we gave him a
nice cozy cell and protection for about five years.  He loves me." 
John Taylor was actually grinning.

"Are you serious?"  Tom looked startled by the story.

"He'll talk to me.  I swear it."  And when Tom called Louie again, he
was waiting by the phone, and he agreed to meet with Tom Armour and
John Taylor.

They met at one o'clock in an Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village,
it was run by the mob and had been a speakeasy for years, and Taylor
knew it well, although it was new to Tom Armour.  The man they met was
short and obese, bald, and sweating profusely.  He was a nervous wreck
when he talked about what he'd done, but he actually seemed genuinely
pleased to see John Taylor.

"I never shoulda done it.  It was crazy.  But it was so damn much
money, and it sounded so easy."  And it had been.  Until now.

Taylor looked at Tom.

"Who the hell would have paid him that much to frame Delauney? Somebody
really has it in for your client."

"I wish to hell I knew who," Tom said sourly.

"The word is, the lad's still alive, but I don't know where, or who's
got him," Louie said in a whisper, glancing over his shoulder.

"What makes them think so?  Can you find out?"  Taylor was suddenly all
business.

"I'll ask.  But I think someone's keepin' it real quiet.  There's a lot
of money changed hands, and they must have hired good ones, because no
one's talkin'."  Except for Louie, thank God.  Taylor found himself
praying that Lome's pals were right, and that Teddy was still living.

"You have any idea where he is?  Any hint?  Any clue?  Anything we can
go on?"

"Maybe he's already out of the country."  They had thought of that. 
But for months they had held a tight rein on the ports and the airport,
and even the frontiers into Canada and Mexico.  They had closed down
everything tight, until very recently.  By now they figured that Teddy
was either dead, or no one was going to try moving him out of the
country.  But that suddenly made John wonder.  The pressure on the
ports had been lightened only the week before.  It was worth another
look.  He looked at Louie with an interested expression.

"You just gave me an idea, Louie.  I love ya."

"Yeah?  Then what are you gonna do for me?  Listen ... I'll give the
money back ... I only spent ten grand.  You can have back the other
forty.  Give it to the FBI, Christ, give it to the judge.  But shit, I
don't wanna do more time for a lousy pair of kid's pajamas."

"Tell you what."  Taylor looked at him seriously.

"If we find anything, I'll make a deal for you for helping us find the
kid.  If we don't find him, you could be in deep shit.  But I'll do
what I can.  I'll call you."

"Yeah ... let me know ..."  Louie the Lover looked nervously at Tom,
and John Taylor went to make a phone call.

"Thank you for talking to us," Tom said quietly.

"This could mean my client's life."

"Yeah," Louie smiled nervously, "and my ass.  But ... eh ... I don't
like to see people hurt a kid.  Stinks.  You know what I mean.  Like
the Lindbergh thing.  I was in the joint then, doing time for a little
bank robbery.  Made me sick, guys like that ... killing a baby."

"Do you think they could have killed him?"  Tom felt sick as he thought
of it, not just for his client.  He had come to admire Marielle through
the trial, and he couldn't bear the thought of her going through
that.

Especially not after the other children she'd lost, and what she was
facing with Malcolm.

"Hard to tell," Louie answered seriously.

"Sometimes when there's a lot of money involved, it could go either
way.  And word on the street is, this one's a big ticket."

"I wish I knew who did it."  He knew for certain it wasn't Charles
Delauney.  He had believed him before, but now he had no doubts
whatsoever.  But if it had been this professionally done, he also
wondered if they would ever find out who had done it.  Or find poor
Teddy.

And when Taylor came back, he looked grim.

"What's up?"  Tom asked him.

"I don't know.  Maybe it's a wild-goose chase, but we're going to tear
the port apart for the next few days.  You never know what you're going
to find there.  But I hear we've got ten freighters and six passenger
liners to pull apart.  That ought to keep us busy for a few minutes.

And Louie, you do your stuff too, and see what you hear.  " And if
nothing else they could get a statement from him about planting the
bear and the pajamas.  But Taylor knew it might prove not to be that
easy, in the end, to protect him.

"I'll call you."

"Thanks for lunch."  Louie looked at both of them, and he wasn't sorry
he had come.  If they found the kid, maybe it would be worth it.  A man
had to do something he felt good about once in a while, even if it cost
him.

And as they left the restaurant, Taylor slipped into a phone booth, and
made another call.  He called Marielle at the house, he hadn't wanted
anyone to hear him.

"Hi there.  It's me."  He knew she'd recognize his voice.

"Will you meet me at the same church we went to yesterday, say ... in
twenty minutes?"

"Sure."  She sounded surprised.  And when he met her there, she'd come
alone.  She'd slipped out the back door, and walked down the street
like anyone else before anyone noticed.  She was wearing a scarf over
her head, a wool jacket, and dark glasses.

"Is something wrong?"  She looked worried, and he smiled to reassure
her.

"No, but I'm going to be very busy for the next couple of days.  If you
don't see me, don't be worried."

"Does it have to do with the new evidence they mentioned in court this
morning?"  She seemed surprised.  She had seen him literally every day
since the night of the kidnapping.  He was her only support now.

"Yes, it has to do with that."

"Is it ... does it have to do with Teddy?"  had they found him or
worse, found his body?  But she didn't dare ask him.

"I don't think it has to do with anything, but we're checking it out.

Don't worry about it, I'll let you know if anything turns up," he
assured her.  He didn't want to raise her hopes, it wasn't fair to do
that.

"But I want to ask you a question first.  Something my office turned up
accidentally this morning."  It was what had led him to think of the
port, that and something Louie the Lover had said.  The two together
had started a bell ringing in his head.  Before that, he just figured
it was a mistake, or something she hadn't told him.

"Are you and your husband going anywhere in the next two weeks?"

"Malcolm?  He's hardly spoken to me in weeks, and last night he told me
he was going to divorce me."  But she didn't look upset.  She was
taking it all pretty well considering what she'd been through.

"Nice guy.  So you're not planning a trip with him?"  He was sure she
wasn't, but he'd had to check it.

"No.  Why?"  She looked puzzled.

"You don't think he'd plan a little honeymoon, to try and patch things
up?"

"Not with me anyway.  He told me his lawyer would call me."

"When was all this?"

"Last night, after church," and then suddenly she remembered something
he'd said in Teddy's bedroom.

"He said he was going away.  Is that what you mean?"

"Maybe."  But he didn't tell her that Mr.  and Mrs.  Malcolm Patterson
were booked to sail on the Europe.  He could only assume that Malcolm
was taking Brigitte and planning to pass her off as his wife.  It had
been done before, and on shipboard, people tended to be pretty
discreet.  Nice little trip he'd planned for himself, while Marielle
was waiting to hear from his lawyer.  What a bastard.

"Anyway, I just wondered.  I figured it was a mistake."

"Did you think I was planning to slip out of town?"  She smiled, but
even when she smiled her eyes were sad now.  She had been through too
much in the past four months.  He wanted to hold her in his arms, but
it didn't seem the time or place to him and he was busy.

"Don't plan on leaving town without the FBI on your heels, Mrs.

Patterson.  "

"Actually, that sounds very appealing."  She smiled as they walked out
of church.

"When will I see you again?"

"As soon as I can get away.  I'll come by the house, or I'll call
you.

Or I'll see you in court on Friday morning.  " He smiled gently and put
an arm around her shoulders.

"Take care of yourself."  He knew that when he wasn't busy, he would
worry about her every moment.  He followed her most of the way back to
the house, and then watched as she ran up the street to the Patterson
mansion.  He took a cab then to his office.

And for the next two days, Marielle didn't hear from anyone.  Malcolm
went down to Washington to see the German ambassador and Brigitte went
with him.  Tom Armour had his hands full with polishing up his closing
arguments and keeping Charles calm.  He was a nervous wreck about what
was going on, when Tom told him at least some of Louie's story.  If
he'd known all of it, Tom knew he'd have gone completely crazy.  But he
knew Louie had planted the bear and the pajamas.  What he didn't know
was that

Louie might not be willing to testify, if the FBI wouldn't promise him
amnesty and protection.

"But that proves I'm innocent," he almost shouted at Tom.

"I know.  But the guy has to be willing to come forward."

"What's his name?"  As though it mattered, but Tom Armour smiled.

"Louie the Lover."

"Great.  Just the kind of guy I need in my corner."

"Listen, my friend, if he planted those pajamas and is willing to
testify to that fact in court, he's exactly who you need in your
corner."

"How the hell did you find him?"  Hope was beginning to dawn but he
knew he wasn't out of the woods yet.  A lot of things were going to
have to happen right before he could be acquitted, and if Louie the
Lips, or whatever his name was, disappeared, Charles was as good as
dead, and he knew it.

"Actually, I got a hot tip in the middle of the night, from a friend of
yours, or an admirer anyway."

"Who's that?"  Charles looked intrigued.

"Beatrice Ritter," Tom said noncommittally.

"She's quite a girl, isn't she?  Lots of spirit," and then Charles
looked pensive.

"Sometimes she reminds me of Marielle when she was young.  She was such
a fireball then, so full of life and fun and mischief.  I guess life
kicked it out of her after that."  He looked sad.

"Or maybe I did."  She was so serious now, so beautiful and kind, and
so quiet.  And yet there was a side of her that wanted to laugh and
have a good time, and be happy again.  Tom Armour could see it when he
talked to her.

"Do you think she'll ever recover from all this?"  He asked Tom as
though he knew her, but Charles had come to recognize that his attorney
had a good instinct for people.

"I think she will.  I don't think she'll ever be the carefree young
girl of her youth that you describe, but few people are by the time
they reach thirty.  She'll get over it, but it'll still be there.

She'll go on, because she's strong.  " But he sighed then, she deserved
a lot better than she'd gotten.

"How come you're so happy most of the time?"  Charles teased him.  They
had become friends in the last four months, Charles respected Tom, and
Tom liked him.

"Just stupid, I guess."  But he had had his share of tragedy too.  He
had told Charles early on, when Charles had told him about Andre.  Tom
had lost his wife and baby daughter ten years before in a car accident,
right after he finished law school.  Oddly enough, it was the same year
Charles had lost Andre.  And he had never remarried either.

But he was crazy about his work, and he figured one day he would, when
he had time .  when he wasn't defending lunatics like Charles Delauney
when he felt brave enough to love someone again .  but for Tom Armour,
that time hadn't come yet.

Tom had a hell of a time keeping Charles distracted for two days and
Charles kept asking Tom if there was any news from John Taylor.  But
there wasn't.  Tom was anxious to hear from him himself, and he had
only dared to call once, and was lucky enough to find him in the
office.  And Taylor sounded exhausted.

"Hell man, do you know what it's like to tear apart sixteen ships?

We've torn up the whole fucking port, what do you mean 'hurry up'?  "

And they had asked for the same cooperation from the Port Authority in
New Jersey, but it was easier for them.  All they had in port at the
moment were tankers.  But Manhattan was a snake pit and all the foreign
ships were furious to be searched, until they heard what it was about,
then they were a little more willing to cooperate, but not much.  The
news of Teddy's kidnapping was old, and in spite of the trial, people
had already begun to forget, and stop caring.  And the inconvenience of
a major search, with all it involved, was monumental.  They had even
checked out the Europa, which Malcolm was sailing on later, but it was
clean.  And the Germans had been highly annoyed to have their ship
searched.

"I told you.  I'll call you if we get anything.  I haven't been in my
office since last night, and I only came in to take a shower because I
couldn't stand myself anymore.  You got any complaints, Mr.  Armour?"

Taylor was sharp, but Tom knew he didn't mean any harm, he was just
tired.

"No complaints, just a nervous client."

"Tell him to keep his pants on.  We're doing our best.  And will you do
me a favor?"  He hesitated and then decided to ask him.

"Sure.  Shoot.  What is it?  Call Louie the Lover?"  He smiled and
Taylor laughed.

"No.  Marielle Patterson.  She must be a wreck, wondering what's going
on.  I didn't tell her about Louie getting fifty grand to plant the
pajamas.  I just told her we had a new lead.  I didn't want to get her
excited."

"Sure.  What'll I tell her?"

"I don't know ..."  Taylor hesitated, and Tom found himself wondering
what his interest in her was, but he told himself he was too suspicious
about everything, he was turning into a real bastard.

"Just make sure she's all right.  Patterson's giving her such a hard
time.

He's divorcing her, you know.  "

"Swell guy."  Tom was disgusted, but not surprised to hear it.

"That's what I said.  He doesn't know how lucky he is.  But I think
he's going to get what he deserves with little Miss Krautland.
Underneath all that blond hair, she looks like one tough cookie."

"May I quote you.  Special Agent Taylor?"  Tom laughed, and Taylor
chuckled tiredly in answer.

"Anytime, Counsellor."

"You've got to admit, the little kraut looked cute on the stand
though."  They both laughed and Taylor went back to work reorganizing
his agents.  They had already torn apart twelve ships and they had four
to go before the next morning.

Tom managed to call Marielle, as he'd promised Taylor.

"Is there something particular going on, Mr.  Armour?"

Marielle sounded really worried.

"I keep thinking they've had some kind of information about ... about"
She was afraid to say it.

"I keep worrying that they're going to find Teddy's body.  I guess we
should know if ... I don't know which is worse, not knowing, or finally
knowing that it's over."  Either one sounded pretty awful to Tom.  He
still remembered finding out about his wife and the baby.  It had been
beyond bearing.  But this had dragged out for so long, maybe it would
be a relief to finally know if he was gone, instead of just having him
disappear into thin air, and never know.  It had taken them two months
to find the Lindbergh baby.

"I hope we'll have good news for you soon."

"Do you know what it is they're doing?"

He didn't want to tell her they were turning the port upside down,
looking for Teddy.

"I think they're just looking into some final evidence before we close.
It'll all be over tomorrow."

"How's Charles taking it?"

"Actually ..."  Tom leaned back in his desk chair and smiled.  She had
a nice voice, and he liked talking to her.  He liked everything he'd
seen of her during the trial, but he hadn't let himself think about her
before, except in relation to his client.

"Actually, he's driving me era2y, to tell you the truth."

"That sounds like Charles."  And then she grew serious again.

"Is he very worried?"

"As worried as he should be.  This new evidence may be of some help to
him though.  We're hoping so anyway.  The FBI is checking it out for
us.

We'll let you know if we hear anything at all.  "

"Thank you."  She wasn't supposed to be on their side, but there didn't
seem to be sides anymore.  There was just everyone searching for the
truth .  and for Teddy.

The next two days seemed endless to her with Malcolm away, and John
Taylor gone to help with the investigation.  Suddenly, she had no one
to talk to, and with Malcolm gone, the house seemed unusually quiet.

It made her start to think about what she would do when she moved
out.

She had nowhere to go, nothing to do, no family to turn to.  In some
ways it worried her, but she wasn't as frightened as she might have
been years before.  He didn't frighten her anymore.  Suddenly, she
didn't care about him at all.  All he had done was hurt her.

Bea Bitter called her once too on the second day of the recess, but she
didn't say what the investigation was about either.  She pretended not
to know, and she didn't admit that she had brought the tip to Tom
Armour.  She just called to say hello, and see if they had any more
leads about Teddy.

"No, nothing.  Have you seen Charles again?"

"A few days ago.  He's incredibly tense since they're so close to going
to the jury."  And she was praying they wouldn't have to.

But by midnight that night, nothing had changed.  There were two more
ships to go through, and one of them was refusing.  It was German and
they claimed they didn't have to submit.  It took another eight hours
to get a court order to force them.  And at ten o'clock the next
morning, as Judge Morrison called the court to order, John Taylor was
boarding the last ship with the Coast Guard, the Port Authority, and
the FBI, and he was sure they would find nothing.  But if nothing else,
he had to do it for Marielle.  He called Tom Armour from the dock, just
before he left for the courtroom.

"Well?"

"We got nothing.  We came up empty.  No Teddy, no more tips, no one
will talk, no one knows anything.  We touched base with every one of
our informants.  Nothing.  And Louie the Lover's not answering his
phone.  I think he's scared.  He may have run out on us."  Taylor had
nothing but bad news for him.

"Shit.  What am I supposed to do now?"

"You close your case, just like you were going to do two days ago."

"But he didn't do it, dammit, man.  You heard the man.  Someone paid
him fifty thousand big ones to plant the lad's pajamas."

"Yeah, I know.  But who's going to testify to that?  You, or me?  Hell,
it's hearsay."

"You can't do this to me!"  Tom was practically in tears, but Taylor
was too tired to care.  He still had one last ship to tear apart, and
he was almost too exhausted to do it.

"Fuckin' A, man, I haven't slept in two days and I've been all over
every slimy rotten ship in this port," and a few fancy ones too, but
they all looked the same to him by now, "and I haven't turned up
shit.

I think your guy probably didn't do it, but I can't give you the goods
to get him off with, and we don't have the kid.  What more can I tell
you?  "

"I'll ask for a mistrial."  Tom's voice was shaking he was so upset.

But so was Taylor.  No matter how hard they pushed, no one was
talking.

"A mistrial based on what?"  Taylor asked tiredly as his men started
boarding the German ship to look around, but their hearts weren't in it
anymore.  They knew they weren't going to find the boy.  Either he was
gone, so well hidden he would never be found, or he was dead and buried
somewhere and wouldn't turn up for years.

"How the hell are you going to get a mistrial?"  Taylor repeated when
Tom didn't answer.

"I don't know ... give me time ... can you give me any reason at all to
ask for another recess?"

"None at all.  And if Louie doesn't surface soon, the judge is going to
have your ass and mine to replace him."

"Yeah.  I know that."

"I'll send a message to you in court with one of my guys, after we
check this ship, but don't get your hopes up."  Tom's hopes were
already dashed and he dreaded telling Charles that Louie the Lover had
vanished.

"He what?"  Charles shouted when Tom told him.

"He's gone," Tom whispered tersely as they walked into the courtroom.

"Son of a bitch.  How could those assholes have let that happen?"

"Keep your voice down."  The judge was rapping his gavel.

"He had a lot to lose.  He could have gone to prison for what he did.
And he's on parole with a rap sheet as long as your arm.  It's a rotten
thing to do, but you can't really blame him."

"The hell I can't.  They're going to execute me for this."  Tom's eyes
were like rocks, and there was a pain in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm not going to let that happen to you."  Tom tried to sound
confident but it was not what he felt as the judge asked him and Bill
Palmer to approach the bench with a look of suspicion.

"Well, Counsellor?  Your new evidence?  Do we have a witness?"

"No, sir, we don't," Tom Armour said grimly.

"The FBI have been investigating this lead and several others for two
days, and so far they've gotten nowhere."  He was brutally honest and
the prosecutor looked pleased.

"And your informant?"  the judge asked, looking displeased with Tom.

"Has vanished.  Your Honor.  For the moment."

"I can't believe you've wasted two days of the court's and the
taxpayers' time, Mr.  Armour."  The judge was rapidly sliding from
displeasure to fury.

"We had to check it out, sir.  I was even hoping to ask for a further
recess.  But ..."

"Don't even consider it.  Counsellor."  He glared at both of them and
waved them back to their seats.  Bill Palmer was looking extremely
happy, and he glanced at Malcolm sitting staunchly in the courtroom,
with Marielle next to him, very still and quiet.  They never spoke in
court.  The judge rapped his gavel again, and told Bill Palmer to make
his closing statement.

Tom Armour couldn't believe this was happening.  They had almost had
the key to it in their hands, and they had lost it.  Charles looked as
though he was near tears, and Bea Ritter was frantically wondering what
had happened, but there was no one to tell her.

In his closing arguments, all of Bill Palmer's statements were
predictable, and ugly.  He reminded the jurors of every ugly thing
Charles had ever done, every stupidity, every weakness, every threat,
every drunken hinge, every minor, or major, act of violence.  His
attack on Marielle, his wanton destruction years ago, at nineteen, of a
neighborhood bar in Paris.  All of these were the early signs,
according to Bill Palmer, of a lack of control, a self-indulgence, a
tendency to violence that would eventually lead him to kidnap and kill
little Teddy.  His violence at war, his thirst for killing which had
led him to the Great War at fifteen .  His leaning to Communism, which
had taken him to Spain .  and the threats he had made in Central Park,
which had been carried out only thirty-six brief hours later.  And the
little red pajama suit found in his basement, a sign that he indeed had
kidnapped Teddy.  The man was a kidnapper, the prosecutor raged across
the courtroom, and he had almost certainly killed this helpless baby.
And as he said the words, and looked at the jury, and then around the
courtroom, there was a small flutter, and brief thumping sound.
Finally, after all that had come before, it had been too much for her.
Marielle Patterson had fainted.

's overhead, a feeling of something cold and damp on her forehead. 
She opened her eyes, and after a few moments, Marielle realized she had
been carried into the judge's chambers.  His secretary was standing
over her with a damp cloth, and a doctor had been called, but she
insisted that she was all right.  She tried to sit up, but she felt
weak, and then she saw that both attorneys were there, and her husband.
Someone was pressing something cool against the insides of her wrists,
and someone else handed her a glass of water.  It was Bea Ritter.  She
had pressed right through the crush of photographers and literally
climbed over them to get to Marielle, and it was Bea who had called for
help as she knelt next to her on the floor, not Malcolm.  He only
looked annoyed and embarrassed, and not one whit sympathetic.

"Mrs.  Patterson?"  the judge asked quietly.

"Would you like someone to take you home?"  Her head throbbed angrily
as he asked her.

The truth was she would have liked to have gone home, but she thought
it cowardly not to stay till the end.  She felt she owed it to Charles,
or to Malcolm, or to someone.  She wasn't sure whom, but she thought
she was supposed to be there.  Maybe just to prove to the world that
she wasn't a weakling.  But everyone was looking so sorry for her now
that she hated to be there.

"I'm all right.  If you don't mind ... perhaps I can stay here for a
few minutes."  At least long enough to regain her composure.

"Had you finished your closing statement, Mr.  Palmer?"  The judge
looked across his office and inquired, and Bill Palmer nodded.  He
hadn't expected the additional drama to punctuate his statement, but it
hadn't done any harm either.  Actually, he rather liked it.

"Yes, I had.  Your Honor.  Just."

"Then why don't we recess for lunch?  Mr.  Armour can close after the
noon recess.  Is that all right with you.  Counsellor?"  It was already
eleven-thirty, and he wouldn't have wanted to break into his closing
statement anyway, so it was fine with him, and he agreed with a
concerned look at Marielle.  She was white as a sheet, and she looked
really awful.  But the judge had seen it too.

"I think Mrs.  Patterson should go home and rest for a little while,
during the recess," he suggested to the room at large.

"Thank you, Your Honor," she whispered as Tom's heart went out to her,
and Bea patted her hand in sympathy.

Malcolm made a show of assisting her to the car, but when they got to
the house, he left her to her own devices.  She lay down in her room,
in the dark, with a cold cloth on her head, and tried to drink a little
tea.  But it was too late.  She already had a crushing migraine.

But she knew that no matter how rotten she felt, or how blinded by
pain, she had to be back at the courtroom by one-thirty.  But suddenly
she could hardly force herself to go.  It was as though she had
expected something that only that morning she had Bnally come to
understand wasn't going to happen.  In some odd way, she'd thought it
was all like a terrible game .  and if they won .  in the end;

she'd get her child back.  Someone would admit what they had done with
him, or say they were sorry.  There was going to be a reasonable end to
it all, a prize for all the pain, some reasonable closure, only now she
realized that there wasn't.  There was nothing.  There were only words
and people and actors .  and liars .  and in the end, someone would say
either innocent or guilty, and they would either execute Charles or set
him free, but no one was ever going to bring Teddy back.  Never.  That
had never been part of the bargain.  And she felt as though she were in
a haze of confusion as she lay there.

"Are you coming?"  Malcolm walked into her darkened bedroom at
one-Bfteen, and looked with scorn at her lying on the bed.  She felt
too ill to move.  And she couldn't even imagine getting to the
courtroom.

"I don't think I can," she said weakly.  She couldn't even open her
eyes, or sit up now.

"That's nonsense," he snapped at her.

"You have to.  Do you want them to think that you're afraid to be
there?"  He said it as if it were a cardinal sin.  Was fear so terrible
then?  The second deadly sin.  Fear.

The first one was weakness.  And what about love?  Was that a sin
too?

Had she sinned because she'd loved Charles .  and Andre .  and their
baby girl .  or even Teddy?  Where was "love" in Malcolm's vocabulary,
or did it even exist?  Were there only responsibility and obligation
and duty?  Her head was spinning.  Or was love something he'd saved
only for Brigitte.

"If you don't go, Marielle, they'll think you were in league with
Delauney and you can't bear to watch him convicted.  Is that what you
want?  Is that what you want smeared all over the press?  Well, I
don't.

Get up for God's sake, and face it.  " He was shouting at her in the
darkness, and she could feel her whole body tremble.  But from
somewhere, she drew on a strength she didn't know she had, and she sat
up quietly and took the cloth off her head as she winced and looked at
her husband.

"I've been facing things all my life, Malcolm, things you couldn't
begin to face, even now.  So don't tell me what to get up and face."
She spat the words at him in a way she hadn't dared speak to him since
she'd known him.  But he'd been vicious to her ever since Teddy's
kidnapping, and she'd finally had it.  It wasn't her fault, or his, or
probably even Charles's.  It had probably been done by some totally
insane crazed stranger.  And whoever had done it, they had, and it was
over.  Why did he continue to blame her?

"You look dreadful," he said, as he watched her comb her hair and pull
it back in a bun in her dressing room.  She went to wash her face and
put on some lipstick, but she looked very severe, as she put on dark
glasses and followed him to the car, thinking how long it had been
since she'd seen John Taylor.

She sat quietly in the car next to Malcolm, with their guards and their
policemen, and as usual they made their way through the crowds to the
courtroom, dodging hands and people who wanted to touch' them and ask
questions, trying to avoid the press, and shield their faces from
photographers.  And with her headache, it seemed particularly awful.
But they finally made it to their seats, and she took off her dark
glasses.

For the first time during the trial, the judge was ten minutes late,
and Tom was poring over his notes, while Charles sat with his eyes
closed, looking grim.  He had almost no hope left, in spite of Tom's
skill.  He was certain that without the informant's testimony about the
pajamas and the bear, he would be found guilty.

The judge had just invited Tom to begin his closing argument, and he
had just stood up, when John Taylor walked into the courtroom.  He
stopped for a moment and looked at the judge, who knew him well, and
both prosecution and defense looked at him with profound expectation.

And everyone in the courtroom wondered why the usually pristine FBI
agent was so disheveled and Rithy.  He was wearing work pants and a
rough sweater, and he was absolutely covered with oil and dirt, and it
seemed a very odd appearance in court, but he went straight to
Marielle, as everyone watched, and with an apologetic glance at the
judge, John whispered to her to come with him.  She followed him out of
court silently, without even saying a word to Malcolm.  Everyone
watched them go, with turned heads and whispers, and the judge finally
rapped his gavel again to get everyone's attention.

"May I remind you, ladies and gentlemen," he boomed, "that Mr.  Armour
is making his closing statement."  Tom turned himself to what he was
doing then, and attempted to concentrate and not think about why John
Taylor had taken Marielle out of the courtroom.  He had the terrible
feeling that they had found Teddy's body and he wanted to tell her
first.  But wouldn't he have taken Malcolm with him too, or was it
kinder not to?  Tom forced himself to focus on the man with one leg .
and the ex-nun .  and the young black musician .  and tell them what a
fine man Charles was, how he had been unfairly accused, and the
prosecution had not proven beyond a reasonable doubt that he was
guilty.  That if they examined their conscience there was no way they
could send this man to the electric chair for things he had said, and
never meant, in the heat of a drunken moment.  Even to his own ears, he
droned on, as he continued to wonder why Marielle had left the
courtroom.  It was all he or anyone else could think of.  Only Malcolm
looked calm as he continued to watch the proceedings.

And as she walked to a car with John, she looked at him in terror.

"What's happening?"  she asked anxiously.

"What's going on?"

"I want you to trust me.  I have to take you somewhere.  Are you all
right?"  He looked at her worriedly.  She had swayed for a moment, and
no one had told him she'd fainted that morning.

"I'm fine.  I just have a very bad headache."

"She winced again, but she followed him into the car without
hesitation.

"I'm sorry to do this to you.  It won't be as bad as you think, and
I'll make it as easy as I can for you ... but I need to take you with
me."  He started the car, and they drove off toward the West Side, and
she looked frightened.

"Are you arresting me?"  Was that possible?  Was he crazy?  Did he
think she'd been in collusion with Charles after all?  Had Malcolm told
him that?  His final revenge on her?  As they drove west, she looked
really frightened.

"Of course not."  He patted her hand gently, and then raised an
eyebrow, trying to make light of the moment.

"Should I be?"

"I don't know," she said nervously.

"I don't know where we're going.

Should Malcolm be here too?  " Like Tom, she was suddenly afraid they
were going to ask her to identify Teddy's body, and she knew she
couldn't stand it, and maybe John thought he was being kind to her by
taking her there alone, but he shook his head in answer to her
question.

"No, he shouldn't.  You'll be fine with me, Marielle.  Trust me. You'll
be all right.  This won't be as difficult as you think."  He looked at
her gently, wanting to kiss her.  But right now, they had serious
business to take care of.

"Can't you tell me what this is about?"  She was almost in tears.  All
he had said to her in court was "Mrs.  Patterson, I have to ask you to
come with me."  And Malcolm had looked as startled as she did.

"I can't tell you, Marielle, I'm sorry.  Right now, this is official
business."  But he patted her hand, and left a smudge of soil on her
fingers.

She nodded, trying to be brave as she rode along, but the headache was
so bad now she could hardly stand it.  He chatted with her on the brief
drive, but it was obvious that he was preoccupied, and she couldn't
help noticing that he was absolutely filthy,

and she wondered why.  And he was so distracted he didn't even notice
her silence.

A few minutes later they reached the port, and he drove right onto the
docks, where half a dozen FBI cars were waiting.  And everyone
scrutinized her intently as she got out of the car and he helped her.

"I hate to touch you, I'm so dirty."  He smiled and the gentleness of
his eyes seemed to help her.

He took her on board the ship then, it was a small German ship, and it
wasn't particularly attractive or particularly clean, and there was a
terrible smell of cabbage which did nothing to help her headache.  It
was a freighter which took passengers on too, and the captain was
waiting for her in the small dining room, with a serious expression.

Taylor introduced her, and half a dozen FBI men were standing by, and
she was not sure if they were guarding her, or the captain, or John
Taylor.  But the captain came forward to her quickly.

"Mrs.  Patterson.  I am so very sorry.  This will be a terrible sadness
for my country," he said solemnly with an awkward bow and an attempt to
kiss her hand, but as he said the words to her, the room began reeling.
She knew from what he said, that they must have found Teddy's body. 
She turned suddenly to John Taylor in desperation, almost clawing at
him, begging him with her eyes to help her.  He pulled a chair up next
to her and helped her into it, and signaled to one of his men to bring
her a glass of water.  And when it came he held it to her lips and let
her lean against him, while he almost crooned to her like a mother with
a sick child, begging her to be strong and let him help her.  But all
she could do was shake her head and close her eyes, and want to die
again.

She knew she just couldn't go through it.

"You're all right, Marielle ... you're going to be fine ..."  She could
hear his voice as she closed her eyes, and then opened them.

"Just a few more minutes.  I want you to look at some people for me ..
that's all.  I just want you to look at them and tell me if you know
them."

"Are they dead?"  She was whimpering like a child and he gently stroked
her hair with one hand as he touched her shoulder with the other.

"No, they're alive.  You're all right.  You just have to look at them
and tell me, yes or no, if you know them."

"All right."  She was having trouble breathing she was so afraid, and
she was grateful for the chair because she knew she could never have
stood up, as everyone watched her.  And a moment later, a man was led
into the room, escorted by two FBI men.  He was tall and blond and very
thin, and he had a hard, angry face, and he tried to avert his face
from Marielle, but the FBI men gave him a hard shove until he faced
her.  He stood some five feet away from her and she shrank back toward
John, but his agents held him fast, and he didn't try to escape them.

"Do you know this man, Marielle?  Have you ever seen him anywhere? Look
at him carefully."  She shook her head and said that she hadn't, and
she had no idea why she was there, and now she was afraid to ask him. 
She knew it had something terrible to do with her child, but if they
had killed him, she didn't want to know it.

They took the first man away, and then brought the second man in five
minutes later.  This one was dark and swarthy and he had an ugly scar
that ran straight across his face and back down toward his chin, and he
looked at Marielle as though he would have liked to kill her.  He said
something to her in German, in an angry, guttural tone, and she shrank
toward John and he was quick to reassure her.

"No one's going to hurt you, Marielle.  I won't let them."  She nodded,
childlike again, and still so desperately afraid to know what they'd
done.  And then a woman was brought in.  She was blond and heavyset,
about thirty.  She was speaking frantically in German to the captain of
the ship as they brought her in, and he finally shouted at her to be
silent, and she looked imploringly at Marielle, as though she expected
her to help her.

"What is she saying?"  Marielle asked.

"She is saying that she has hurt no one," the captain explained.  She
said a lot more then, and the captain finally told her again to be
quiet.

"Who are these people?"  she finally asked John.

"That's what I wanted to know from you first.  You don't know any of
them, Marielle?  You're sure?"

"Not a one.  I've never seen them before."

"They've never worked for you, even briefly ... or for Malcolm."

"I don't know.  I've never seen them," she said again.  She was
certain.

John nodded expressionlessly at his men, and signaled for the three
Germans to be removed.  And when they were gone, he nodded at his men
again, and then bent to say something to Marielle in earnest.

"I want you to be very strong ... I want you to be strong, Marielle .
hold my hand ... we're going to show you someone ... and I want you to
tell me if you know him."  But she was afraid the moment he said the
words.  She didn't have the courage to look at her dead baby.

She had seen Andre when he was drowned, held him in her arms, clutched
him to her heart, and she couldn't do it again .  she knew it .  she
couldn't.  She began to cry and turned, struggling to be free, as John
held her.

"I can't ..."  she cried, and buried her face against him.

"I can't do it ... please ... don't make me ..."

"It may not be him ... you have to help us ... please ... please,
Marielle ..."  He was almost in tears himself, and he hated to hurt
her.  But the child they had found appeared to be a deaf mute, and did
not seem to understand them.  They weren't sure if he was drugged, or
too frightened to speak to them, or simply didn't speak the language,
and the captain didn't recall seeing him before, although the group had
been aboard for days.  The child looked different than the Patterson
boy, but there was something about the eyes that had caught John's
attention.  The hair color was wrong, and he was much thinner than the
photographs he'd seen of him, and older, but still .  he knew he had to
ask her.  He couldn't let the ship sail without asking her to look at
him.  And some sixth sense had told him that there was something very
wrong about these people.  But she was clinging to him, and she refused
to look at him.  And then John's eyes met hers as he held her.

"You have to do this, Marielle ... for Teddy's sake ..."  He held her
hand, and slowly her head turned, and she stared at the child they
brought in, and everything stopped for an endless moment.  She got up
and she stood staring at him, as though unable to believe what she was
seeing.  His hair had been cut, and he had short dark brown hair, but
it was faintly blond at the roots, and if you looked carefully, you
could see that they had dyed it.

And as she stared at him, he looked up at her, unable to believe that
she had finally come to save him.  She let out a heartrending scream
and in two long strides she was clinging to him and holding him tightly
against her.  And slowly, like a forgotten sound, the child began to
cry.  He began to whimper at first, and suddenly there were great
wounding cries, as he clung to the mother he thought he had lost
forever.  The captain began to cry, and there were tears streaming down
John Taylor's cheeks as he watched them.

She looked at no one for an endless time.  All she saw, all she knew,
all she felt, was the child in her arms, the child she thought she had
lost forever.

"My darling ... oh my love ..."  She held him as though she would never
let him go, and finally the captain assisted them off the ship, and the
three Germans were taken away in handcuffs and leg irons by the FBI
men.  He apologized profusely again, and John informed him that the
ship would have to be held in port, pending further investigation.

Two- dozen men were left to guard the ship, and John helped Marielle
and Teddy into the car.  He had to get her back to court and tell the
judge what had happened.  But he had also called for additional men. 
He knew he was going to need an army of guards for them at the
courthouse.

He looked long and hard at the child sitting on his mother's lap.  The
boy hadn't smiled, but he clung to her as though he was afraid to lose
her.  And John touched the small fingers holding hers ever so gently.

"Hello, little man ... we've been looking for you for a long time."

Teddy stared at him, not sure whether or not to trust him.

"They said you were dead," he whispered softly as he looked up at his
mother .  "and then they put me in a box ... with holes in it ... and
they fed me crackers."

"Nice folks, these krauts," John said tautly, "I've always loved them."
They were going to do a lot of talking.  They had insisted from the
moment they'd been detained that they had been hired by the boy's
father to take him to Germany, to "safety," but they would not disclose
the boy's father's name.  They said only that the boy's parents were
German.  But one of them had been carrying a card with Malcolm's name
on it and a phone number John recognized as Brigitte Sanders's
apartment.  But John had said none of this to Marielle.  It was going
to be interesting what else the Germans had to say once they all
started talking.

"I don't know what to say," Marielle whispered softly to John as she
clung to Teddy on her lap and they drove swiftly toward the
courthouse.

"I never thought we'd find him ... and I was so afraid .  I thought you
had taken me there to ..."  She couldn't even begin to say the words,
and suddenly she realized her headache was gone.  All she could think
of was Teddy, held tightly in her arms, in the speeding car, beside the
man who had found him7 "I know what you thought," he said quietly.

"I wouldn't have done that to you ... if that was the case, I'd have
taken Malcolm.  But I wanted you to see them first.  They said they'd
been hired by the child's parents."

"Malcolm's going to be so glad," she smiled.  She was glad for him.  He
didn't deserve to lose his son.  But John Taylor said nothing.

Twenty FBI men were waiting for them outside the courthouse when they
arrived, and John had them surround Marielle and the child almost like
a living cage, and the boy looked very frightened.  All Marielle did
was cling tightly to him in her arms, and promise him that everything
was going to be all right.  They were going to see Daddy in a minute.

And as John Taylor walked into the courtroom, surrounded by his men,
everyone paused, as though they sensed that something important was
about to happen.  The judge stared up at them.  And Tom Armour stopped
in mid-sentence.  The odd group made its way down the room, and it was
only when they reached the judge that the men slowly peeled away at
Taylor's direction and what they saw suddenly in their midst,
completely hidden there, was Marielle holding a small dirty little boy
with dark hair, and the judge rose to his feet with a look of
amazement.

"Is this?  ..."  He looked at Marielle, smiling through her tears as
she looked up at him, and then at Taylor, and then in confusion across
the courtroom as suddenly a woman screamed as she understood, and the
spectators and the press tried to stampede, but the police held them
back.  They had been warned as Marielle and Teddy entered the
courtroom.

"My God ... it's the boy!"  someone shouted.

"He's alive.

It's Teddy!  " The judge sat down again and began frantically rapping
his gavel, and ordering the police to clear the courtroom.  But it was
Malcolm's reaction which fascinated John.  When he first saw the boy,
he didn't do what Marielle had done.  He stood, and then he sat down,
and then he looked around him as though for someone else, and only then
did he suddenly leap forward.

But it was almost an afterthought by then.  His first reaction had not
been to run to hold his baby.  And there was none of the rush of
emotion Taylor had seen in Marielle, that terrible terror that he was
dead, and the gut-searing scream when she realized it was her baby.  It
was Charles who stood crying as he looked at him, and he smiled at
Marielle over the boy's head as they both cried.  He remembered another
time, another day, and he was glad that this time had been different.

"Thank God he's alive," he whispered to Tom Armour, who nodded,
fighting back his own emotions, as he smiled at his client through
tears.  He also knew what it was to lose a child, and he too was
grateful that that hadn't happened.  Charles wasn't even thinking of
himself just then, he was just glad for Marielle that they had found
Teddy.

Malcolm looked extremely sobered as he came forward to Marielle and
John and Teddy.

"Thank God you found the boy," he intoned, almost piously, but his eyes
were dry, and Taylor could see that he was angry.  He tried to take the
boy from Marielle, but the boy wouldn't let go of his mother.

"They said Mommy was dead," he said, still looking terrified.

"They must have been terrible people," Malcolm said with an odd
expression.  And at that moment, John Taylor asked Malcolm to join him
in the judge's chambers.

The court had been cleared by then, and only the two attorneys, the
defendant, Marielle, the child, the jury, and the countless FBI men
remained in the courtroom.  The judge had gone with Malcolm and John
Taylor to his chambers.  Marielle had no idea what was going on between
them, but she sat talking quietly to Charles and Tom, and there was a
feeling of peace and well-being in the room that she had never sensed
in her entire lifetime.  Two of the FBI men had gone out to get Teddy
an ice-cream cone, and he was eating it happily while holding tightly
to his mother.  And she sat there holding him, feeling as though he had
never left her.  The last months shrank into the mists of the nightmare
from whence they had come, never to return again.  Teddy was home, safe
and sound.  After four months, and by the grace of God, and John
Taylor, and maybe even Louie the Lover, Teddy was back with his
mother.

It was a long time before Malcolm and the judge and John emerged, and
when they did, Malcolm's mouth was set in a thin line.  John had had
two interesting calls from his office.  There was still a great deal
they didn't know, but what they did know was that the kidnappers, or at
least the three people holding him on the ship, had been hired by
Malcolm.  There was no doubt of it now.  They were even carrying papers
to prove it and they had a false passport for the child that had
allegedly been provided by Malcolm.  It said the boy's name was
Theodore Sanders.

"That's absurd," he had said instantly, moments after the call came.

"They're trying to implicate me in something I have nothing to do
with."  He looked outraged, and reminded Taylor instantly of his
connections.

"They used your name, Mr.  Patterson," John said quietly.

"And no one else's.  You'll have every opportunity to identify them,
and to defend yourself.  We'll have to talk about this.  But we're
going to do it in my office.  A lot of money has changed hands, a lot
of people have committed crimes here while on your payroll.  And if
nothing else, I think you're looking at charges of conspiracy and
extortion.  Not to mention whatever civil matter may arise on the part
of Mr.  Delauney."

Taylor did not look amused, nor did Malcolm.

The judge looked shocked.  It was impossible to believe the man had
kidnapped his own son, or hired criminals to do it.  Why would he ever
do it?  But that was up to the FBI to find out.  He had a jury to send
home, and an innocent man to release.  At least it appeared that way.

It didn't seem as though Delauney was the kidnapper after all, and the
child was back unharmed.  It was certainly a step in the right
direction.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the judge spoke solemnly to the very confused
members of the jury.

"It would appear that we have a miscarriage of justice here.  Or we
would have had, if we had gone any further.  It would appear, at this
time, that Charles Delauney is innocent of the crime he has been
accused of.  Pending further investigation, I am going to release him
at this time, and I am going to send you home to your families.  We are
going to ask Mr.

Delauney not to leave the city, and we will notify you if this case is
indeed dismissed, which I believe it will be.  We thank you for
everything you have done here, for your good faith and your time.  " He
nodded and they stood up, looking as though they were going to run from
the courtroom.  But they all managed to smile at Marielle, and a few
wished Charles good luck.  One of the women stopped to kiss Teddy.

"I am releasing you, Mr.  Delauney, without bail, with the
understanding that you will not leave the city of New York until this
matter is settled.  Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."  Charles looked as though the weight of the world had been
lifted from his shoulders.

"And I'll wait to hear from you, Mr.  Taylor," the judge said to John
as his agents led Malcolm away without handcuffs.  Malcolm said not a
single word to Marielle as he left, and he had barely spoken to
Teddy.

John stayed behind to take Marielle and Teddy home, and Tom was smiling
at his client.

"You're a free man.  Would you like a lift home?"

"I'd like that a lot," he said to his lawyer.

"I'm glad he's back," he said softly to Marielle .  "I couldn't stand
your losing him too.  You don't deserve that."  He kissed her gently on
the cheek then and they looked at each other for a long moment.

"I'll always love you," he said, as Teddy stared at him, and Marielle
nodded.  She would always love him too, but she had nothing left to
give to him.  She had given it all a long time ago, and now all she had
left was for Teddy.

"Come on, I'll take you home," John said quietly, as he put an arm
around her shoulders, and slowly they walked out of the courtroom, as
Charles watched them go.  Tom took him home a few minutes after that,
and Bea Ritter was waiting for them outside on the steps of the
courthouse.  When she had seen Marielle walk in, flanked by FBI men,
she had known that something incredible had happened.  She had sat on
the steps, crying as she waited.

"I owe you a hell of a lot," Charles said to her, almost shyly.

"You and Tom were the only ones who believed in me.  And for a while
there it was pretty rough going."  She nodded gratefully, and he gave
her a warm hug, and then he drove home with Tom, who dropped him off at
the Delauney mansion.  The old butler who had worked there for forty
years almost fainted when he saw him.  The papers were filled that
night with the tales of Teddy being found on a German ship, by FBI
agents allegedly carrying machine guns.

And by the next morning, Charles Delauney was a free man.  At eight
o'clock that morning.  Judge Mom- son had officially dismissed the case
of the U.

S.

against Charles Delauney.  With the evidence gathered the night before,
Tom Armour had called the judge at home to ask him to sign the order.
And by then, John Taylor had enough evidence to bury Malcolm.  It was a
complicated tale, and his supporters would find it difficult to
believe, but he had hired the cream of the underworld to kidnap his own
son and paid them a fortune to do it.

Over a million dollars had changed hands to keep the boy hidden until
the pressure had eased up, and he could be gotten out of the country.

And finally, a German team had been brought in, handpicked and
carefully trained, to spirit him back to the country where Malcolm was
planning to make his home with Brigitte.

He had planned it for a long time, almost as soon as the child was
born.  By then he already knew he had made a mistake marrying Marielle
and not Brigitte.  Marielle was distinguished, dignified, decent, and
kind, and in many ways, she was the perfect wife.  But it was Brigitte
he longed for, Brigitte who excited him, Brigitte he wanted to make his
life with, except for the fact that she couldn't have children.

The idea had come slowly at first, then they had only talked of a
divorce.  Marielle was too gentle for him, too frightened, too marked
by her past.  He had liked the fact that she had no other ties, when he
married her, but in time, he felt her dependency on him as a burden.

And in contrast to her, Brigitte was everything she was not, she was
sharper, harder, more demanding, and totally independent.  She made
demands on Malcolm which terrified him, particularly when she
threatened to leave him.  But he had dragged his feet about the
divorce, because he didn't want to leave Teddy.  He had thought of
suing for custody, but that was so involved, and unsure.  And finally,
Brigitte had suggested they just move to Germany, and take the boy with
them.  It was then that Malcolm had taken the plan several steps
further.  If the boy was presumed dead, eventually everyone would stop
looking for him, including his mother.

And if, eventually, he married his secretary, and adopted her child in
Germany, who would know?  Who would question it?  It would seem
perfectly natural that he would try to ease the pain of his loss.  And
who would even suspect it was really Teddy?  After a year or two of
keeping him well hidden in Germany, he would seem like a German
child.

It was an ingenious plan, and it would certainly have gotten rid of
Marielle forever.  But it had used countless people in the process,
Charles, Marielle, the child, the people who had kidnapped the boy,
those who had hidden him.  A lot of people had suffered, and would
suffer now, because of Malcolm.  It almost made the judge sick when he
heard it.  And John Taylor wanted to kill him.

The plan was beautifully thought out.  And Malcolm had already begun
moving large blocks of his assets to Europe.  No one seemed to have
noticed it, because he had so many investments there.  But he was
planning to move to Germany within the year, with Brigitte.

Brigitte had been well paid too, for her complicity, to the tune of
half a million U.

S.

dollars, which had been deposited for her in Berlin.  And his other
minions had been paid well too.  It was a plan that had cost him a
fortune.  But to Malcolm it was a fortune well spent.  What he wanted
was to get rid of Marielle, have the boy to himself, and bring him up
German.  He had had it with America, he said.  It was Hitler who was
going to rule the world.  Hitler, the only man who knew how to run a
country.  All his efforts and interests and passion, and even money,
were devoted to Adolf Hitler.  And in his eyes, the greatest gift he
could give his child was to bring him up German.

It was an incredibly evil tale, and John Taylor, like the others
involved, could scarcely believe it.  And oddly enough, no one had
squeaked except "Louie the Lover," but as the house of cards began
tumbling down, the people he had hired began talking, to save their
hides.  They had no intention of going down the tubes for Malcolm.  And
in a matter of days, John Taylor had more testimony than he knew what
to do with.  They still couldn't charge Malcolm with kidnapping,
because Teddy was his son.  But they had charged those who had actually
taken him.  And Malcolm was charged with conspiracy, collusion,
obstruction of justice, and consorting with known criminals, which was
the best they could do against him.

The odd thing was that Charles Delauney had been an afterthought, a bit
of serendipity that had come along at the perfect time for Malcolm.  He
was the perfect scapegoat to take the blame, after what Patrick had
reported to Malcolm when Marielle had first seen him at Saint
Patrick's.  The timing couldn't have been better for him.  And it only
took another fifty thousand dollars to plant the pajamas and teddy bear
at the Delauney home, to seal Charles's fate and confirm that he was
guilty.  Malcolm had easy access to the pajamas anyway, since he had
the boy well hidden in New Jersey.  He had kept him there for four
months, waiting for the ports to open up again.  And in May, he and
Brigitte would sail after him on the Europa, after blaming Marielle for
putting the boy at risk and causing him to be kidnapped.  Malcolm was
going to tell the world he was the injured party, and continue to find
consolation in the arms of the devoted Miss Sanders.  It was all so
perfectly planned, and it would have gone off without a hitch if John
Taylor hadn't ruined everything by finding Teddy at the last moment on
the little German freighter.  Two days later it would have sailed.  The
thought made everyone shudder.  And somehow in Malcolm's mind, it was
all a respectable plan, since the boy was his own son, and all he had
really wanted was to get Marielle out of the picture, and allow the boy
to become a German.  For Malcolm it meant spending the rest of his life
in Germany, but Malcolm loved it there anyway.  He loved it better than
his own country.

But for the moment he wasn't going anywhere.  He was out on bail,
pending trial in late July, and he and Brigitte were hiding out in
upstate New York.

She had been charged with conspiracy too, and there was some talk of
deportation.

And all Marielle wanted was to get out of town and spend some quiet
time with Teddy.  She didn't want to see Malcolm or Brigitte, and she
was dreading the next trial, but she knew she had to be there, as a
witness for the prosecution.  In the meantime, she was thinking of
going to Vermont for three months, but there were a number of things
she had to do first, like see an attorney about divorcing Malcolm.

She was explaining some of it to John, when he came to talk to her
before she made any firm decision to take Teddy away on vacation.  He
had been busy for days, but he still tried to drop by almost daily.

His agents were gone from her home by then, and the police, and most of
the servants were gone too.  And she and Teddy were looking for an
apartment.

"I thought we were going to talk before you made any serious moves."

He'd been in the press constantly since the trial, as the hero who
found the Patterson baby.  And other than that, he'd had his hands full
with the case against Malcolm and Brigitte, and all their minions.

There was a total of twenty-two people involved, all charged with
various offenses.

"And what's this about Vermont?"  He looked worried and hurt.  He hated
the thought of her leaving, even for a few months.

He wanted to keep her near him.

"I thought we could use some country air."  Particularly before she
went through another month of trial.  But this time she was prepared,
and John would be with her.  But she looked at him cautiously as she
said it.  She had a lot to say to him.  But the right time hadn't come
yet.

"Are you really moving?"  He eyed her hopefully.  In some ways, things
had worked out better than he'd planned.  She had the boy back, and she
was free of Malcolm.  The question was, what was he going to do?  His
eyes met hers now as he asked her if she was really moving out of the
Patterson mansion.  And she nodded slowly.  She wouldn't be sorry to
leave this house.  The only happy memories she had there were of Teddy,
and he was coming with her.

"The house is Malcolm's."  Their eyes met and there were a thousand
questions he wanted to ask her.

"All we need is a small apartment," she said softly.

"And what else?  What do you want from me now?"  He knew he had to ask
her.  He knew what he wanted, but he was afraid he couldn't have it. 
He wanted her.  Forever.

"Your friendship" your love .  your life.  But she knew that she had no
right to say that.

"Is that all?"  His eyes were sad as he asked her.  For weeks now he'd
been putting off this conversation because he was afraid of what she'd
say if he told her just how much he loved her.  They had promised each
other they'd wait until after the trial, before they let themselves
think of what they wanted from each other.  And now the time was here,
and she had made her decision.  She didn't want to be responsible for
destroying his marriage.

"What do you want from me,

Marielle?  " he repeated to her.

"What will you let me give you?"

"The gift of time.  The time to heal, and enjoy my son.  But I owe you
more than that, John ... I owe you everything ..."  She smiled at him.
She owed him still more, and they both knew it, or at least she did.

"I owe you not to take anything away from you, not to destroy what you
have ... to steal you from your home, your wife, your children.  What
would you really have if you left them?"  Her eyes were big and deep
and sad as she asked.  And he knew she was wiser than he was.

"I'd have you and Teddy ..."  he said softly.

"And guilt, and regret ... and maybe one day you'd hate me for it."

"I could never hate you."

Malcolm had hated her eventually, and Charles for a time.  She knew
what it was like.  And she valued John Taylor too much to lose him.

She'd loved him more than he knew, more than she was ever going to tell
him.

"You're not going to let me run away with you, are you?"  He looked at
her sadly, touching her hand, and wanting to kiss her.  It was part of
why she wanted to go away, to get away from him and how much she loved
him, but she didn't tell him.  She knew she loved him too much to be
near him and not to get involved with him, and she cared too much about
him to interfere with his marriage, or his children.

She whispered to him gently as he took her in his arms.

"You need them.  And they need you."  But so did she, and other than
Teddy, she had no one.

"I need you too," he said urgently.  He had never known anyone like
her, and for a mad moment he had told himself that he could make her go
away with him.  He could force her to if he had to, but as he looked at
her, he knew he wouldn't.

She had a right to what she wanted.  A time of solitude and peace and
healing.  And maybe she was even right about Debbie.

"I don't want to lose you, Marielle," or what they had had, the promise
of so much more to come, and now that promise was over.

"You won't lose me.  I'll always be here."  Her eyes tortured him with
their tenderness and their wisdom.

"And when you're not there anymore?  When you belong to someone
else?"

he said sadly, because he knew that day would come, better than she
did.  Because she deserved it, more than anyone, and much more than he
did.

"We'll still be friends.  I told you ... you won't ever lose me."  And
then she smiled again, "Unless you want to."  She kissed him gently on
the lips then and he held her close, and they talked for a long time,
and finally, hating to go, he left her and went home, wondering if she
was very wise or very foolish.  It would be years before they'd know.

And yet he had always known that their worlds were just too
different.

It was something she had never acknowledged, but he knew he had to.

He felt lonely without her for days, and it amused him at times to take
it out on suspects in the Patterson interrogations.  But she felt
lonely without him too.  It wasn't as though she couldn't call.  She
knew she could.  But for his sake, she was trying not to.  And she was
busy getting ready for the move to Vermont with Teddy.  They had
finally rented a house, sight unseen, and there were supposedly cows
and chickens and a sheepdog.  And Teddy looked more like himself again
at last.  He had gained weight, and he looked healthy and happy and
clean, and most of the brown dye had come out of his hair, except in a
few spots, but he still got anxious at night, and he had terrible
nightmares.  He was sleeping in Marielle's bed, and she took care of
him herself.  Haverford was the only one left and he was leaving them
for good in a few days, and he was enjoying helping her with Teddy.

In fact, he was helping Teddy to a bowl of ice cream when Charles came
to say good-bye to her and Teddy.  He was going back to Europe in the
morning.

"Spain again?"  she asked as he followed her into the kitchen.

"Not now."  He was thinking of going to England to enlist, but after
all that had happened, he knew he wasn't ready and he wanted to go back
to Paris before he went to war again.

"We're going to the South of France first, just for the summer."  He
blushed, as though embarrassed by the indulgence, but they both knew
that he had earned it.  But something he had said amused Marielle, and
she couldn't resist teasing him, as Teddy offered him part of the huge
bowl of chocolate ice cream as they stood in the Patterson kitchen.  He
and the boy were almost friends, although Teddy was still confused
about how he knew his mother.

"We?"  she asked.

"Are you taking a friend?"  But she already suspected.

She had seen them out walking together more than once, and Marielle was
pleased.  Perhaps more than anyone, they deserved it.

"All right, all right," he laughed.  He knew that she had already
guessed.  He knew how wise she was, and the odd thing was, he still
loved her.

"Anyone I know?"  After so many years apart, it was odd to be so
friendly again, except she knew now that they would never really be
apart again.  Suddenly, it was all so different.

"I'm taking Bea to Paris with me."

"You should.  You owe her at least that," Marielle teased, and he
laughed.

"She was awfully good to me during the trial."  And even better to him
since then.  He stayed for a little while, and Marielle kissed him when
he left, but he caused her no pain and she wished him well.  She was
free of him now.  But she still loved him.

The one she didn't love was Malcolm.  She feared what would happen
after his trial.  Somehow, she knew that, because of his connections,
if he was hurt at all, it wouldn't be for long, and she wanted to be as
far away from him as she could be.  She didn't want him anywhere near
Teddy.  But John Taylor had promised her unlimited protection.  But she
knew that she couldn't run away forever either.  At some point, she
would have to stand and face him.  But the FBI had sworn that Malcolm
would never again take Teddy.

He had pushed her for so long, had been so cruel, and had been so
coldhearted in the terrible things he had done that he would even be
denied visitation.

Sometimes she wondered if she would ever love and trust anyone again,
except Teddy.  He was everything that mattered.  He was the joy and the
life and the spirit that she lived for.

The day before they left for Vermont, she packed the rest of her
things.  She could hardly wait to leave Malcolm's home.  They were
taking all of their things with them.  She had told Malcolm the house
would be vacant when he got back with Brigitte.  And Marielle was more
than willing to stay at a hotel with Teddy.  For her, the house was now
haunted and she didn't want to be there.

It had been difficult explaining it to Teddy.  He still didn't know
that it was his father who had had him kidnapped.  And instinctively,
he had sensed something was wrong, and he had heard whispers here and
there, but he was still so young, he didn't really understand it.

Marielle had told him that Malcolm was away for a long, long time, and
it was unlikely they would see him.  Teddy was surprised, but not sad,
and he seemed happy just being with his mother.

The doorbell rang the night before they left, and

Haverford came to tell her it was Tom Armour.  She was surprised he had
come to see her.  Charles was gone by then, and she hadn't seen Tom
since the trial, but he had heard from John Taylor that she was
leaving.

She walked slowly down the stairs to meet him.  And he looked very
handsome and young, and a little ill at ease as he stood there.

Marielle was friendly and warm, as she greeted him, acting as though
his visit had been expected.

"I heard in court today that you're leaving," he said awkwardly, as she
shook his hand, and Haverford disappeared to make coffee.  He had been
meaning to come and see her for a while, but he'd been putting it off,
till he could get up his courage.  He'd wanted to come and say good-bye
to her himself.  He had wanted to say something to her ever since the
end of the trial, and with everything that had happened, he had never
had the chance to.

"You're going to Vermont?"  That was all that Taylor had told him, but
his eyes told their own tale, and for an instant, Tom had wondered what
had happened.

She nodded with a smile, as they sat down in the library, where, in
recent months, so much had happened.  She wondered why he had come
by.

But she was happy to see him.  He had done a good job for Charles, and
she had always liked him.  He had been decent to her when she was on
the stand, and she had always sensed his strength and innate
kindness.

"Teddy and I need to get away," she explained, as

Haverford appeared with the coffee, and then disappeared just as
quickly.

"How is he now?"  He inquired about the boy, as he looked around.  It
was a magnificent home, and he couldn't help wondering if she was sorry
to leave it.  But she smiled as she watched his face.  She knew what he
was thinking, and she had no regrets.  She couldn't wait to leave
now.

"He's fine.  He still has nightmares sometimes, and he doesn't like to
talk about what happened."

"Understandably."  They both knew it was going to mark him forever. 
And he still had no idea that the kidnapping had been masterminded by
his father.  Marielle was hoping she wouldn't have to tell him for
years, which Tom thought was incredibly decent of her, but from.  what
he'd seen other during the trial, it didn't surprise him.

She seemed peaceful now, very calm and subdued, and her eyes were
serious, but in a quiet way, she looked happy.

"And you?"  he asked gently, as he looked at her.

"You're all right?  No more headaches?"

She smiled in answer.  She hadn't had one since the trial.  For the
first time in years, she felt totally healthy.  It was as though she
had survived some terrible test, and having come through it the ghosts
had finally been laid to rest, and she was much stronger.

"I'm fine."

She wanted to thank him for his kindness during the trial, but she
wasn't quite sure how to do it, and she tried not to notice how
handsome he looked in white slacks, a blazer, and red tie, but he was a
good-looking man, and she blushed as she turned away to straighten a
book on the table.

"Marielle ..."  He knew it would have to come from him.  But he didn't
want her to leave town before he had spoken to her.

"I ... I'd like to call you when you're in Vermont ..."  She looked at
him with wide eyes, surprised by what he had said, and suddenly
wondering if he was representing Malcolm.  But he saw the look in her
eyes and he gently touched her hand to reassure her.

"I'm not sure I'm making myself clear ... I'm making a terrible botch
of this."  He suddenly looked embarrassed and boyish, and they both
felt like two children.

"It's been a long time since I've done anything like this."  It had
been a long time since he'd met anyone even remotely like her.  She
reminded him so much of his late wife.  And yet, she was also very
different.

Marielle had more integrity than any woman he'd ever known, more
strength, more fortitude, possibly more kindness.  And she hadn't been
very lucky in the last ten years.  When she came back from Vermont, he
was hoping to change that.

"Will you have a phone in Vermont?"  He was still stumbling around,
trying to talk to her about the future, and suddenly Marielle laughed.
She thought she understood, but it was difficult to believe it.  He had
always been so businesslike, so cool, and yet beneath the serious air
ran powerful emotions.

"I think we'll have a party line."

"Good.  Then we'll give your neighbors a thrill," he laughed.

"I'll try to think up some really juicy news to tell you when I call
you."  But there had already been enough of that, they both knew, for
the past several months.  She was hoping that life would be ordinary
now, and she looked at him with interest as they chatted about her new
life in the country.  She was only going to be there for a few months,
until Malcolm's trial.  And then she would have to come back and find
an apartment for herself and Teddy.  Haverford was leaving them the
next day, when they left for their adventure in Vermont.  And when they
came back, life was going to be very different, but she didn't regret
it.

"Would it be too soon if ..."  He ventured on, feeling more awkward
than a schoolboy, "... if when you got back, I ... we ..."  He almost
groaned as he looked at her, he couldn't believe this was as difficult
as it was.  He had been thinking of her for weeks, in ways he hadn't
thought of anyone in years, and he had never thought anything would
ever come of it, and now he was finding it impossible to tell her.  He
finally took a deep breath, took her hand in his own with an earnest
expression.

"Marielle ... you're an extraordinary woman.  I'd like very much to get
to know you."  There.  He had finally said it, and he felt relief sweep
over him.  Even if she told him she never wanted to see him again, at
least she knew to some small extent how much he liked her.

"I've admired you since the first moment I saw you."

She blushed again, feeling oddly vulnerable and very young, and when
she looked at him, he saw something in her eyes that almost made him
feel that he was melting.

"It's amazing to think that from so much pain ... from such a terrible
thing ... so many good things have happened."  She was very gentle as
she spoke, and very grateful for the blessings she had received.  And
as she looked at Tom, wanting to say so many things, there was a sound
at the door of the library, and her greatest blessing appeared in blue
pajamas.

"What are you doing here?"  she said as she grinned, and Teddy bounded
into the room with a look of mischief.

"I couldn't sleep without you."  He climbed up on her lap, and looked
at Tom with interest.

"Yes, you could.  You were snoring when I left."

"No, I wasn't," he denied it, and Marielle introduced Tom to Teddy,
without explaining how she knew him.

"I was faking," he announced.  But he yawned happily as he said it, and
leaned possessively against his mother.

"I hear you're going to Vermont," Tom said easily.  He loved children,
and after all they'd been through over him, more particularly this
one.

"Yeah," Teddy said proudly, "and we're going to have cows and horses
and chickens.  And Mommy says I'm going to ride a pony."

"I used to spend my summers in Vermont when I was your age."  Tom
smiled at him, and then over his head at his mother.  He had said
enough.  No matter how awkwardly put, she had clearly understood his
intentions, and she liked them.  A private look passed between them
over the boy's head that brought them suddenly closer.

"Did you have a pony?"  Teddy inquired, suddenly intrigued by him.  He
hadn't seen his Daddy in a long time, and sometimes he still missed
him.  And Mommy said he'd gone on a long, long trip.  He was probably
in Africa somewhere, or on a ship, and they couldn't even call him.

"I did have a pony.  And I had a cow I had to milk all by myself.  If I
come to Vermont, I'll show you how."

"Are you coming to Vermont?"  Teddy looked seriously interested, and in
point of fact, so did his mother.

"I hadn't thought of it," he had planned on waiting till she got back,
"but actually that's not a bad idea."  He glanced at Marielle
inquiringly and they exchanged another smile.  He was happy he had been
brave enough to come over and see her before she left.  Otherwise, he
might have tortured himself for months, and perhaps now he wouldn't
have to.

"Maybe I could come up for a weekend."  He knew a lovely hotel near
where they were going, and the idea suddenly held enormous appeal, as
he watched the boy with his mother.

"Can you still ride a horse?"  Teddy asked him seriously.

"I think so," Tom laughed.

"If you can't," Teddy offered generously, "I'll teach you."  The three
of them laughed, as they wandered to the kitchen to find Teddy a
cookie.  Haverford had gone to his room.  He had to pack the last of
his own things, and Marielle knew he was sorry to leave them.  But he
hadn't wanted to continue in Malcolm's employ, and Marielle could no
longer afford him.  She had accepted a small settlement from Malcolm
and that was all she wanted.  Teddy would inherit the rest from Malcolm
when he was older.

Tom poured him a glass of milk, and Marielle found the last of the
chocolate chip cookies, and in the end, the three of them sat talking
and laughing and eating cookies until long, long after Teddy's bedtime.
It was almost eleven when Tom finally left.  He helped her put Teddy to
bed, and then they both came downstairs so she could let Tom out, and
he stood at the front door, looking at her for a long, hungry moment.

"Thank you for letting me spend some time with you tonight," he said,
wanting to touch her hair, and her cheek, and her neck, but it was too
soon and he knew it.

"I'm glad you came by."  She hadn't expected ever to see him again, and
she had regretted it.  Now his visit had opened a whole new horizon.

She still missed John Taylor, but she knew she had made the right
decision, for his sake.  And spending some time with Tom was like an
unexpected gift and she was grateful.

"I always wanted to tell you how much I admired you in court," she said
softly, but he didn't want her thinking of that anymore.  He only
wanted her to think of Vermont, and happy things, and summers in the
country with Teddy.  And when she came back for Malcolm's trial, he
already knew he was going to be there to help her.

He didn't want her to go through it alone.  He didn't want her to go
through anything difficult again, only happiness and peaceful things,
if he could do anything about it.

"Don't think of that," he said gently.  He couldn't stop himself from
reaching a hand out to her and bringing her closer.

"Don't think of it anymore."  The past was over.  Hers, as well as his
own.  There was too much pain there, and he wanted to close those doors
firmly behind them.

"Just think of Teddy and his pony."  They both smiled and then his eyes
grew serious as they stood very close to each other.

"I'll miss you when you're in Vermont."  The crazy thing was he meant
it.

they scarcely knew each other, and yet they did.  He knew her better
than most of his closest friends, better in some ways than he'd known
any of the women he'd gone out with.  And he loved everything he knew
about her.

"I'll miss you too," she smiled at him, feeling hope for the first time
in years, and totally at ease with him.

"We'll call you on our party line."

"I'll call you first," he whispered.  He had already written down the
number.

"Drive carefully."  He pulled her closer to him then and she closed her
eyes when he kissed her.

"Good night, Marielle ... see you soon ..."  He looked at her for a
last time as he stood in the doorway, and then he was gone, and she
closed the door, thinking of how odd life was.  You never knew what was
going to happen.  She had thought so many things that had been untrue
in her lifetime .  that she and Charles would be together forever, that
their life would be happy and exciting and full of children .  and that
Malcolm would cherish and protect her forever .  that nothing terrible
would ever happen to them because he was so decent and so solid .  and
then she had feared that Teddy would never come back to her again.  She
had been wrong about everything, and especially, thank God, about
Teddy.  He was home again.

He was all that truly mattered.  He was the shining star of hope that
she had survived for.  But now, there was something more than that. 
The others had gone.  The nightmares were past.  The dreams had
vanished in the mists.  And she and Teddy were alone, with their bad
memories and their good ones, and their whole lives before them.  The
sorrows would strengthen them, she knew.  And the time in Vermont would
do them good and when they came home, they would begin a whole new life
and Tom Armour would be waiting for them, with all the decency and
kindness he had to offer.  And maybe their dreams would come true, and
maybe they wouldn't.  She hoped they would, and so did he, as he walked
home to his apartment.  She hoped the nightmares would never come
again, to either of them.  She hoped many things, and most of them
about Teddy.

In the morning, when they left, Haverford stood there waving at them,
as she and Teddy drove off in Malcolm's old Buick Haverford had known
her for all the years she had been married to Malcolm, and Teddy since
he was born.  And now they were gone, to whatever life held for them.

He silently locked the door, thinking of the boy, and slipped the key
into an envelope to send to the lawyers.  The house was empty, the
family was gone.  And as he walked down the steps and hailed a cab, he
felt hopeful for them, and that cheered him.  And at that exact moment,
Marielle was driving across the bridge, and Tom Armour was on his way
to court, to a fresh trial, thinking other and Teddy.