Vanished

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

“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 Franklin 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.