Capturing Angels Read online

  “This looks like somewhere on the East Coast,” he said. “Maybe Cape Cod?”

  “Yes, Provincetown. We spent our honeymoon there. John bought me the painting.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of it. I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s very nice.”

  “We went way out on the dunes. You feel like you’re in some desert. Great fun,” I said, remembering. My lips began to tremble again. I took a deep breath and said, “We were going to take Mary there one summer.”

  “You will,” he said.

  I held on to his gaze, to his confidence. “No matter what you say, I can’t believe I lost track of her and didn’t realize she wasn’t with me when I entered that store. What kind of people could just swoop down on us like that? On me? That much time couldn’t have gone by. It doesn’t make sense. Can’t you help me understand?”

  “We don’t want to conjecture about it yet. Right now, all the possibilities exist. It could very well be a crime of opportunity for any of these possibilities, as well as someone who was—”

  “Was what?”

  “Watching and waiting because they had chosen your family, your daughter,” he said.

  “For any one of those horrible possibilities? What do you think, really think? Don’t worry about my complaining that you guessed incorrectly later. I don’t care how experienced the FBI people are with this sort of thing. There are too many variables. I’m right, right?”

  He was silent for a moment. “We should really wait to see what happens here. It’s still early, and—”

  “I want your opinion,” I said firmly.

  “Right now, I think the second possibility is more likely,” he said. “Someone was probably following you and waiting for the opportunity.”

  “And I gave it to him.”

  “Or her,” he said.

  I looked up sharply. I was sure there were women who were jealous of me, jealous of our family. Was someone I knew capable of such an act? Maybe someone’s maid? I felt like a shopper on Black Friday, zipping through a store and looking for bargains as I searched every possible memory of every acquaintance.

  We heard the phone ring. I widened my eyes and tried to listen. To me, it seemed like at least ten minutes before we heard any sounds, but I’m sure it was less.

  “Did something happen?”

  “I’ll check and come right back,” Lieutenant Abraham said.

  I think I held my breath almost as long as he was gone. I started to get up again when I heard his footsteps on the stairway.

  “Your in-laws,” he said instantly upon entering. “They were asking you all to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Did John tell them finally?”

  “No,” he said.

  “He’s making a mistake. Everyone will be angry about it.”

  “Maybe you should try to get some sleep,” he added. “It could be a very long night.”

  “Are you leaving?”

  “I did get a call about something else, and this is really in the hands of the FBI now, but I will check back.”

  “What if they never call? How long do we wait before we give up?”

  “This investigation has just begun. Don’t think the worst things.”

  He closed his hand to show me to keep myself together and then turned to leave.

  “Lieutenant Abraham?”

  He paused.

  “If you’re right and it is the second possibility, what do we do?”

  “Agent Joseph will go into that with you both. You’ll have to rake your memory, try to think of someone, places you were where you saw the same people, perhaps, and things like that. Eventually, something will come to mind, some clue. You’ll see.”

  “That’s why you asked me similar questions at the mall? You already were considering a premeditated kidnapping, weren’t you?”

  “I like to be thorough. This still could be anything. Too early for any conclusions.”

  “I was always with her. I mean, even if she played with someone else’s daughter at her home, I was there, too. She’s never even slept at my in-laws’ home without us, or my parents’ house, for that matter. I don’t understand. There weren’t opportunities for someone outside of our family other than Margaret Sullivan to get that familiar with her. I mean, she’s hardly had much time, much of a life, experience with people, with—”

  “Don’t do this yet,” he said, stepping back in. “Let’s wait to see if they call for a ransom.” He looked at his watch. “Tell you what. I’ll return around nine. Get some rest.”

  He smiled, and I thought that there was more than just polite warmth in his smile. Immediately, I hated myself for having any other thought than thoughts pertaining to Mary, especially thoughts about another man’s warmth and good looks.

  It felt almost sinful, and for a moment, I thought, If I’m sinful, God won’t let her come back to us.

  See, Grace, I told myself, this is your fault. Almost any which way you look at it, it will always be your fault.

  I wanted to burst out and tell John that his God was not that hard to understand after all.

  4

  The Blame

  I did try to sleep again when he left, but all I could do was doze off for a few minutes and then wake sharply to listen for anything. Close to five, John came up to tell me that he was sending out for some food.

  “Has Margaret come over?”

  I was sure the first thing on her mind when she found out would be to get us some food, prepare something.

  “No, not yet, but you should eat something, Grace. You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “I can’t imagine swallowing anything.”

  “Keep telling yourself you have to be strong. I’ll let you know when the food arrives.”

  “Why haven’t they called, John? If they want a ransom, why wouldn’t they call?”

  He shook his head. I always felt a small panic when John was unable to answer even the most insignificant questions.

  “What do they say downstairs?”

  “They say we should be patient, and this delay is not unusual. They say the more they make us wait, keep us on pins and needles, the more cooperative we’ll be. It makes sense.”

  “What if it’s one of those other possibilities? Someone hoping to sell her in Mexico or . . .” I could almost answer for him. I knew what he would say.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “If there is a bridge,” I muttered, mostly to myself. He was already out the door anyway.

  Later, I ate some vegetable rice soup and a quarter of a ham and cheese sandwich, only because John stood over me and repeated that if something happened to me or to him right now, our situation would become even more dire. Of course, he was right. John was usually right about everything, because he took so much time to think things out. Maybe it was part of his nature, or perhaps it came from his education and his training, but he wouldn’t be above researching what was the best new can opener for us to buy. Most of his leisure reading involved periodicals that focused on consumer research and investments.

  We had already determined that I wouldn’t continue homeschooling Mary, especially after I became pregnant again. John had focused on what school was going to be right for her. He had arranged for our visits to the possibilities and had spoken with board members, the teachers, and other fathers of children who already attended the various institutions, and I would have to agree that he had come away with more insight for us to share. I always thought he would push Mary toward a parochial school, but despite his religious devotion, he subscribed to the belief that diversity was essential.

  “But you attended a parochial grade school,” I reminded him.

  “I was never happy about that, and when I entered a nonparochial junior and senior high school, I felt I was at a disadvantage,�
�� he said. He had also made it clear many times in discussions with friends and with me that he was an advocate of separation of church and state.

  One wouldn’t think so if one saw how firmly John held to his religious convictions, but I would have to say that he never looked down on anyone else for his or her religious beliefs. In his way of thinking, anyone who had any spirituality was fine. “We all arrive at the same place from different roads,” he would say. He practiced what he preached. Our friends were diverse. Sometimes our parties looked like UN receptions.

  Now that I look back on it all, I realize that John was a complicated man in so many ways. Someone who settled on a first impression of him would almost always be wrong. I know the tendency was to think of him as rigid and narrow, but he was capable of sudden bursts of acceptance and compassionate understanding, too. I told myself many times that I had to have seen great good in him to have fallen in love with him.

  Of course, most of these conclusions came from my therapy sessions. At times, I did feel as if I was unwrapping myself. Every relationship is a journey. Some go all the way, and some just veer off to the right or the left and end. I felt I was at some crossroads or another when I began my therapy. Sometimes I thought I should feel guilty for having any unhappiness in such a marriage, and sometimes I thought, how could I not?

  After I had eaten what I could, I went downstairs again. It was a little after eight by now. From the sight of the dishes and the boxes, I thought our three FBI agents had eaten well. Whatever party atmosphere they’d had for a while died a quick death at the sight of me again. Agent Dickinson started to clean up as if she were an errant teenager who had thrown a forbidden party and been caught by her parents. She barely looked at me.

  It was pitch-dark outside by now, of course. Our street lights were on, but because we were on a cul-de-sac, there was no traffic. It was strange how this comfortable part of the world, the city, suddenly looked so ominous. Beautiful evergreen and eucalyptus trees lined the street, but right now, they looked haunting. Pockets of shadows seemed to contain unseen, never-thought-of dangers, and every parked car in my imagination contained evil people. The time that had gone by had hardened me. Maybe I was just numb, but I wasn’t trembling, and the pills I had taken were receding like some hazy tide that had washed over me.

  “They took her before eleven,” I said, pointing to our miniature grandfather clock on the fireplace mantel. “Approximately, that is, and it’s after eight. That’s nine hours. Why, if they wanted money, wouldn’t they call by now? Haven’t they waited enough to be satisfied that we’re frantic and eager to please them? It has to be happening for another reason.”

  “We’ve had some cases where they haven’t called for days,” Agent Joseph said, opening up every possibility for me. “Desperate parents are willing to do almost anything by then.”

  “I would,” I said.

  I was more angry than frightened now, or maybe my fear was so hot that it burned anger into me, branded me with red rage. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “Everyone, just leave. We’ll do whatever they want, get Mary back, and tell you about it later. Then you can play cops and robbers.”

  I looked at John. He was staring at me as if he could read my thoughts and was afraid that I might just say them aloud. Whatever he saw in me, however, convinced him that it was time to bring family into the situation.

  “We’ll call our parents now,” he declared with that iron firmness he could evince. Anyone hearing him would know there was no appealing any decision John made. It was as final as death. He looked at Agent Joseph. “We need our family.”

  Agent Joseph nodded. “Sure,” he said.

  “Come into my office, Grace,” John told me, and led me out of the living room. “Your parents are farther away. Do you want to wait until morning?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Okay. Then I’ll call them first.”

  He went behind his desk. I sat on the leather settee to the right and watched him tap their number on his speed dial. Calling our parents and informing them drove everything deeper home. When something like this happens to someone, he or she continually pushes the reality back. It’s like watching a television show with your favorite character. No matter how exciting and nerve-wracking the threat to him or her is, in the back of your mind, you know the character will survive. Otherwise, there would be no show the following week.

  There could very well be no show with Mary in it ever again, I thought.

  John offered me the receiver, but I shook my head. I didn’t think I could speak to either of my parents right now. If I tried, I would only burst into tears.

  “Mom, it’s John,” he said when my mother answered. My father usually made her answer the phone. He had owned and operated a very successful limousine company and had to be on the phone so much that he despised it.

  When John began, there was no hesitation in his voice, no girding of the loins first, no taking a deep breath, nothing but looking the reality in the face. He’d have everyone be the same, have the same self-control, if he could.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news to tell you both. Mary was abducted today at the mall. . . . Abducted,” he repeated. I’m sure she had said something like “What are you talking about?”

  He looked at me as he continued. “She was with Grace at a department store in one of the malls. They got separated accidentally, and during that brief time, someone must have talked Mary into going with them or tempted her far enough away to force her.”

  He looked at me, and again I shook my head. Just hearing John tell it like that turned me to stone. I really didn’t want to talk to my mother on the phone and have to explain to her what I couldn’t explain to anyone else, including myself. No matter what I said or how she reacted, I was sure I would feel her blaming me. My throat ached almost as much as my heart did without my hearing her voice right now.

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Apparently, their separation was long enough for whomever to disappear with her before Grace realized what was happening. No, she’s still missing. By now, it’s reaching the news sources. There’s an Amber Alert. That’s why we decided to call you. We don’t want you to hear it from some strangers. The FBI are here now, and we’re waiting for what may be a ransom demand,” he continued, “but it’s been some time, and no call has come through.”

  He listened and then said, “She’s been taking some of her regular sedation. She’s naturally overwrought. Well . . . that’s up to you now. Come whenever you are able. We’ll keep you up to date and call the moment there’s something new. No, I haven’t called them yet. You were the first.”

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece and mouthed, “She’s crying.”

  I nodded and looked away. Tears were coming into my eyes. I had thought that I had run out of them or at least my daily allotment. I know John wanted me on that phone to help calm her down, but right now, I couldn’t be of help to anyone.

  “We’ve all got to be strong now, Mom,” John said. “Yes, yes, we know, but we’ve got to hold together and work as best we can with the police. That, and pray,” he added, looking directly at me.

  He listened, then finally took a deep breath and said, “No, don’t call. Every time this phone rings, we hold our breath. Just come when you can, and tell Dad whenever you come to drive carefully. We don’t need to add anything else to the situation.” He hung up.

  “They’re coming now?” I asked.

  “Maybe. It’s a little over two hours, and she said your father’s night vision is not that great. But I have the feeling your mother will push him. Maybe you should see about the guest room,” he said. Then he picked up the phone to call his parents. They lived in Sherman Oaks, so they could be here in a little more than a half hour. I was sure they would.

  “I’ll check the room and get some tea and coffee set up in the dining room,” I said, rising. “I’ve got
to keep busy, and once they arrive, we want to keep all of them out of the FBI’s way.”

  I don’t know why I felt I had to justify doing something other than sitting and waiting with the FBI agents, but I did.

  I paused in the doorway and turned back to him. “Do you think we should call Margaret, too?”

  “No. Just family for now,” he said.

  “She’s become like family,” I reminded him. “And she’ll hear about it like everyone else very soon, like you said.”

  “Just real family for now,” he emphasized.

  “But one of the detectives is sure to interview her soon, don’t you think?”

  “Of course, but let’s wait until that occurs,” he said, and then called his parents.

  When his father answered the phone, John began the same way he had with my mother. It was almost as if he was reading from a text the FBI had provided.

  “Dad. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news to tell you both.”

  I left quickly. Hearing it again was like replaying the pain I had just endured. I could imagine my mother screaming for my father, his look of astonishment, their hugging, and then, as John suggested, their most likely getting themselves together for the trip here.

  I was still in the kitchen when Lieutenant Abraham returned. I heard Agent Joseph greet him and say, “You can tell you’re a bachelor. Who else would be able to stay on a job even when he was basically relieved? Only someone without a love life,” he added for the two others.

  The sound of laughter seemed as grating in my ear as fingernails on a chalkboard. I actually cringed. I quickly carried a tray of cups and saucers into the dining room and returned to the kitchen to prepare the teapot. My father favored an herbal tea at night. Like my mother, John’s parents drank decaffeinated coffee. I took out some biscuits.

  Thinking about small details like this seemed cold and foolish, but I was doing everything I could to avoid envisioning Mary standing beside me or sitting quietly at the kitchen table, waiting for John to come in from work or after working on his ships in the bottles. She had such terrific patience for a girl her age. I had no doubt that my friends with children were jealous of how well behaved she was in comparison with their own. This house, this family, did float on a pool of green envy, I thought.