Vanished

“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 he 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.