Vanished

“But he didn't do it, dammit, man. You heard the man. Someone paid him fifty thousand big ones to plant the kid'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 binge, 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.