Two Little Girls in Blue (36 page)

E
ating the hamburger and drinking the coffee made Angie feel better. I didn't know how hungry I was, she thought resentfully, as she sat in the one comfortable chair in the motel room, ignoring Kathy. The sherbet Angie had given her was untouched, and she was lying on the bed with her eyes closed.

I had to drag the kid out of McDonald's because that nosy old waitress started talking to her, Angie thought, mentally reviewing the difficult day. “What's your name, little boy?” “My name is Kathy. My name is Stevie.” “Oh, my granddaughter has a pretend friend, too.” And all the while there's a picture of the twins lying there on the table. My God, if Grandma had looked closely, she'd have been yelling for that cop.

What time would Clint get here? she wondered. The earliest would have to be about nine o'clock. He sounded sore. I should have left him some money. But he'll get over it. I did make a mistake using the credit card to buy that stuff at Abby's Discount. I should have used the cash Lucas gave me. Oh, well, it's too late to worry about it now. I should be okay here until Clint shows up. Whatever car he rented, he'll probably ditch,
then steal another one to use until we can get off the Cape.

And then we'll have a million bucks to ourselves.
A million bucks!
I'm going to have a real makeover, Angie promised herself as she reached for the television remote. She glanced at the bed. And no more big ideas about having a kid of my own. They're too damn much trouble.

T
he various law enforcement agencies had established a command post in the FBI's Danbury office. Agents Tony Realto and Walter Carlson, along with Captain Jed Gunther and the Danbury police chief were in a conference room.

“We're now certain that Clint Downes and Lucas Wohl were cellmates in Attica,” Realto said. “They both broke parole as soon as they were released from prison, assumed new identities, and somehow have managed to stay under the radar for all these years. We now know how Bailey's credit card got used to hire the Excel car. Lucas knew the number since he often drove Bailey, and Bailey paid him by credit card.”

Realto had given up smoking when he was nineteen, but he now found himself longing for a cigarette. “According to Gus Svenson, Angie has been living with Downes for the last seven or eight years,” he continued. “Unfortunately there isn't a single picture of either one of them anywhere in the cottage. You can bet the old mug shot of Downes doesn't even look like him anymore. The best we can do is give the media an artist's sketch and description of both of them.”

“Someone's been leaking to the press,” Carlson said.
“The rumor is already out that Kathy is alive. Are we going to comment on it?”

“Not yet. I'm afraid if we say that we think she is alive, it might be a death sentence for the kid. By now, Clint and Angie probably suspect that we're looking for them, and if they realize every cop in America is studying the face of every three-year-old they come in contact with, they could panic and decide to get rid of her. As long as they think we actually believe she is dead, then they might very well try to travel as a family.”

“Margaret Frawley swears that the twins are communicating,” Carlson said. “I was hoping I'd hear from her. If Kelly had said anything significant, I know she would have called me. Is the officer who drove her home still around?”

“That would be Ken Lynch,” the Danbury police chief said. “I know he's back from the Frawleys.” He picked up the phone on his desk. “Radio Lynch to get over here.”

Fifteen minutes later, Lynch walked in. “I swear Kelly is in touch with her sister,” he told them flatly. “I was right there, and she insisted that Kathy is on Cape Cod.”

T
he traffic was light on the Sagamore Bridge. As he crossed the Cape Cod Canal, Clint drove with increasing impatience, constantly glancing at the speedometer to be sure he wasn't going too fast. He knew he had narrowly escaped being stopped by a cop on Route 3, when he'd been doing seventy in a fifty-five-mile-an-hour zone.

He looked at his watch. It was exactly eight o'clock. It's at least another forty minutes more before I get there, he thought. He turned on the radio just in time to hear the excited voice of the newscaster say, “The rumors continue that the suicide confession to the death of Kathy Frawley may be a hoax. While authorities will neither confirm nor deny the truth of the rumor, they have just released the names of two suspects in the kidnapping of the Frawley twins.”

Clint felt perspiration begin to pour from his body.

“An all-points bulletin has been issued for the arrest of an ex-convict named Ralph Hudson. Using the alias of Clint Downes, he was most recently employed as the caretaker of the Danbury Country Club in Danbury, Connecticut. Also named in the warrant is his live-in girlfriend, Angie Ames. Downes was reportedly last
seen when he was dropped off at LaGuardia Airport sometime after five
P.M
. The woman, Angie Ames, has not been seen since Thursday evening. She is believed to be traveling in a twelve-year-old, dark brown Chevy van with Connecticut plate number . . .”

It won't take them anytime to trace me to the shuttle, Clint thought frantically. The next thing, they'll trace me to the rental agency and get the description of this car. I have to dump it fast. He drove off the bridge onto the Mid-Cape Highway. At least I was smart enough to ask the guy behind the rental counter for a map of Maine, he thought. That may buy me a little time. I've got to think. What should I do?

I have to take a chance and stay on the highway, he decided. The closer I get to Chatham, the better. If the cops suspect we're on the Cape, they'll be checking motels—if they're not already checking them, he thought grimly.

His eyes darted over the road as he passed the exits, searching for police cars. The landscape became more familiar to him as he reached Exit 5 for Centerville. That's where we did the job, he thought. Exit 8, Dennis/Yarmouth. It seemed to him to be an interminable time before he finally got to Exit 11, Harwich/Brewster, and turned on to Route 137. I'm almost at Chatham, he thought, trying to reassure himself. It's time to dump this car. Then he spotted what he was looking for, a movie complex with a crowded parking lot.

Ten minutes later, parked two rows back, he watched as a pair of teenagers left an economy sedan
and walked into the lobby of the theatre. He got out of the rental car and followed them into the lobby, standing in a corner as he watched them get on the ticket line. He waited until he saw the usher tear their tickets, then watched them disappear down a corridor before he went back outside. They didn't even bother to lock the door, he thought, as he tried the handle of the boy's car. Don't make it too easy for me. He got in the car, then waited a moment until he was sure no one was nearby.

He bent down under the dashboard and, with deft, practiced movements, attached wires together. The sound of the engine turning over gave him his first feeling of relief since he had heard the broadcast. He turned on the lights, put the car in gear, and began the final phase of his trip to Chatham.

“W
hy is Kelly so quiet, Sylvia?” Margaret asked, fear in her voice.

Kelly was sitting on Steve's lap, her eyes closed.

“It's all reaction, Margaret.” Sylvia Harris tried to sound convincing. “Besides, she's having an allergic reaction to something.” She reached over and pulled up the sleeve of Kelly's polo shirt, then bit her lip. The bruise was turning purple, but that was not what she wanted Margaret to see. It was the sprinkling of red marks on Kelly's arm.

Margaret stared at them then glanced back and forth between Dr. Harris and Steve. “Kelly doesn't get allergies,” she said. “It's one of the few ways she and Kathy are different. Is it possible that Kathy is having some kind of allergic reaction?”

Her insistent tone demanded an answer.

“Marg, Sylvia and I have talked about it,” Steve said. “We're starting to believe that it's possible that Kathy may be having an allergic reaction to something she's been given, maybe to some medication.”

“You don't mean—not
penicillin?
Sylvia, remember when Kathy was so allergic to even the test drops of penicillin that you tried on her? She broke out in red
spots, and her arm got swollen. You said that if you'd given her an injection of it, you might have killed her.”

“Margaret, we simply don't know.” Sylvia Harris tried to keep her own fearful anxiety out of her voice. “Even too much aspirin can cause a reaction.” Margaret was at the breaking point—or beyond it—she thought. And now a new worry, one too frightening to even consider, was pulsing through her mind. Kelly was becoming so listless. Was it possible that Kathy and Kelly's vital functions were so entwined that if anything happened to Kathy, Kelly's reaction would be to follow her?

Sylvia had already shared that awful possibility with Steve. Now she could see that it was occurring to Margaret as well. Margaret was seated beside Steve on the couch in the living room. She reached over and took Kelly from him. “Sweetheart,” she implored, “talk to Kathy. Ask her where she is. Tell her Mommy and Daddy love her.”

Kelly opened her eyes. “She can't hear me,” she said drowsily.

“Why, Kelly? Why can't she hear you?” Steve asked.

“She can't wake up anymore,” Kelly said with a sigh as she curled into a fetal position in Margaret's arms and went back to sleep.

S
louched down in the car, the Pied Piper listened to the radio. The breaking news, being repeated every few minutes, was that Kathy Frawley might still be alive. Two suspects were being sought, an ex-convict going by the name of Clint Downes and his girlfriend, Angie Ames. She was believed to be traveling in a twelve-year-old, dark brown Chevy van with a Connecticut license number.

After the first moment of panic passed, the Pied Piper weighed his options. He could drive to the airport and get back on the plane, which was probably the smartest thing to do. But there was always that chance, that one single chance, that Lucas had revealed his identity to Clint Downes. If the feds arrest Clint, he'll give me up for a lighter sentence, he thought. I can't take that chance.