Vanished

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-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?”