Silent Night (4 page)

He opened her purse, rummaged through it, and pulled out her bright green combination change purse and billfold. “Eighteen dollars,” he said angrily after a quick count of her money. “Is that all?”

“Jimmy, I get paid the day after tomorrow,” Cally
pleaded. “Please just take it and get out of here. Please leave me alone.”

There's half a tank of gas in the car, Jimmy thought. There's money here for another half tank and the tolls. I might just be able to make Canada. He'd have to shut Cally up, of course, which should be easy enough. He would just warn her that if she put the cops onto him and he got caught, he'd swear that she got someone to smuggle the gun in to him that he'd used on the guard.

Suddenly a sound from outside made him whirl around. He put his eye to the peephole in the door but could see no one there. With a menacing gesture to Cally, indicating that she had better keep quiet, he noiselessly turned the knob and opened the door a fraction, just in time to see a small boy straighten up, turn, and start to tiptoe to the staircase.

In one quick movement, Jimmy flung open the door and scooped up the child, one arm around his waist, the other covering his mouth, and pulled him inside, then roughly set him down.

“Eavesdropping, kid? Who is this, Cally?”

“Jimmy, leave him alone. I don't know who he is,” she cried. “I've never seen him before.”

Brian was so scared he could hardly talk. But he could tell the man and woman were mad at each other. Maybe
the man would help him get his mother's wallet back, he thought. He pointed to Cally. “She has my mom's wallet.”

Jimmy released Brian. “Well, now
that's
good news,” he said with a grin, turning to his sister. “Isn't it?”

A
plainclothesman in an unmarked car drove Catherine to the hospital. “I'll wait right here, Mrs. Dornan,” he said. “I have the radio on so we'll know the minute they find Brian.”

Catherine nodded.
If they find Brian
raced through her mind. She felt her throat close against the terror that thought evoked.

The lobby of the hospital was decorated for the holiday season. A Christmas tree was in the center, garlands of evergreens were hung, and poinsettias were banked against the reception desk.

She got a visitor's pass and learned that Tom was now in room 530. She walked to the bank of elevators
and entered a car already half full, mostly with hospital personnel—doctors in white jackets with the telltale pen and notebook in their breast pockets, attendants in green scrub suits, a couple of nurses.

Two weeks ago, Catherine thought, Tom was making his rounds at St. Mary's in Omaha, and I was Christmas shopping. That evening we took the kids out for hamburgers. Life was normal and good and fun, and we were joking about how last year Tom had had so much trouble getting the Christmas tree in the stand, and I promised him I'd buy a new stand before this Christmas Eve. And once again I thought Tom looked so tired, and I did nothing about it.

Three days later he collapsed.

“Didn't you push the fifth floor?” someone asked.

Catherine blinked. “Oh, yes, thank you.” She got off the elevator and for a moment stood still, getting her bearings. She found what she was looking for, an arrow on the wall pointing toward rooms 515 to 530.

As she approached the nurses' station, she saw Spence Crowley. Her mouth went dry. Immediately following the operation this morning, he had assured her that it had gone smoothly, and that his assistant would be making the rounds this afternoon. Then why was Spence here now? she worried. Could something be wrong?

He spotted her and smiled. Oh God, he wouldn't smile if Tom were . . . It was another thought she could not finish.

He walked quickly around the desk and came to her. “Catherine, if you could
see
the look on your face! Tom's doing fine. He's pretty groggy, of course, but the vital signs are good.”

Catherine looked up at him, wanting to believe the words she heard, wanting to trust the sincerity she saw in the brown eyes behind rimless glasses.

Firmly he took her arm and ushered her into the cubicle behind the nurses' station. “Catherine, I don't want to bully you, but you have to understand that Tom has a good chance of beating this thing. A very good chance. I have patients who've led useful, full lives with leukemia. There are different types of medicine to control it. The one I plan to use with Tom is Interferon. It's worked miracles with some of my patients. It will mean daily injections at first, but after we get the dosage adjusted, he'll be able to give them to himself. When he recuperates fully from the operation, he can go back to work, and I swear to you that's going to happen.” Then he added quietly, “But there is a problem.”

Now he looked stern. “This afternoon when you saw Tom in ICU, I understand you were pretty upset.”

“Yes.” She had tried not to cry but couldn't stop. She'd been so worried, and knowing that he had made it
through the operation was such a relief that she couldn't help herself.

“Catherine, Tom just asked me to level with him. He thinks I told you it was hopeless. He's starting to not trust me. He's beginning to wonder if maybe I'm hiding something, that maybe things are worse than I'm telling him. Well, Catherine, that is simply not so, and your job is to convince him that you have every expectation that you two will have a long life together. He mustn't get it in his head that he has a very limited time, not only because that would be harmful to him, but equally important because I don't believe that's
true
. In order to get well, Tom needs faith in his chances to get better, and a great deal of that has to come from you.”

“Spence, I should have
seen
he was getting sick.” Spence put his arms around her shoulders in a brief hug. “Listen,” he said, “there's an old adage, ‘Physician, heal thyself.' When Tom is feeling better, I'm going to rake him over the coals for ignoring some of the warnings his body was giving him. But now, go in there with a light step and a happy face. You can do it.”

Catherine forced a smile. “Like this?”

“Much better,” he nodded. “Just keep smiling. Remember, it's Christmas. Thought you were bringing the kids tonight?”

She could not talk about Brian being missing. Not now. Instead, she practiced what she would tell Tom.
“Brian was sneezing, and I want to make sure he's not starting with a cold.”

“That was wise. Okay. See you tomorrow, kiddo. Now remember, keep that smile going. You're gorgeous when you smile.”

Catherine nodded and started down the hall to room 530. She opened the door quietly. Tom was asleep. An IV unit was dripping fluid into his arm. Oxygen tubes were in his nostrils. His skin was as white as the pillowcase. His lips were ashen.

The private duty nurse stood up. “He's been asking for you, Mrs. Dornan. I'll wait outside.”

Catherine pulled up a chair next to the bed. She sat down and placed her hand over the one lying on the coverlet. She studied her husband's face, scrutinizing every detail: the high forehead framed by the reddish brown hair that was exactly the color of Brian's; the thick eyebrows that always looked a bit unruly; the well-shaped nose and the lips that were usually parted in a smile. She thought of his eyes, more blue than gray, and the warmth and understanding they conveyed. He gives confidence to his patients, she thought. Oh, Tom, I want to tell you that our little boy is missing. I want you to be well and with me, looking for him.

Tom Dornan opened his eyes. “Hi, Love,” he said weakly.

“Hi, yourself.” She bent over and kissed him. “I'm
sorry I was such a wimp this afternoon. Call it PMS or just old-fashioned relief. You know what a sentimental slob I am. I even cry at happy endings.”

She straightened up and looked directly into his eyes. “You're doing great. You really are, you know.”

She could see he did not believe her.
Not yet
, she thought determinedly.

“I thought you were bringing the kids tonight?” His voice was low and halting.

She realized that with Tom it was not possible to utter Brian's name without breaking down. Instead she said quickly, “I was afraid they'd be hanging all over you. I thought it was a good idea to let them wait until tomorrow morning.”

“Your mother phoned,” Tom said drowsily. “The nurse spoke to her. She said she sent a special present for you to give me. What is it?”

“Not without the boys. They want to be the ones to give it to you.”

“Okay. But be sure to bring them in the morning. I want to see them.”

“For sure. But since it's just the two of us now, maybe I should climb in the sack with you.”

Tom opened his eyes again. “Now you're talking.” A smile flickered on his lips. And then he was asleep again.

For a long moment, she laid her head on the bed, then got up as the nurse tiptoed back in. “Doesn't he look
fantastic?” Catherine asked brightly as the nurse put her fingers on Tom's pulse.

She knew that even slipping into sleep, Tom might hear her. Then with a last glance at her husband, she hurried from the room, down the corridor and to the elevator, then through the lobby, and into the waiting police car.

The plainclothesman answered her unasked question: “No word so far, Mrs. Dornan.”

“I
said, give it to me,” Jimmy Siddons said ominously.

Cally tried to brave it out. “I don't know what this boy is talking about, Jimmy.”

“Yes, you do,” Brian said. “I saw you pick up my mom's wallet. And I followed you because I have to get it back.”

“Aren't you a smart kid?” Siddons sneered. “Always go where the buck is.” His expression turned ugly as he faced his sister. “Don't make me take it from you, Cally.”

There was no use trying to pretend she didn't have it. Jimmy knew the boy was telling the truth. Cally still had her coat on. She reached into the pocket and took out
the handsome Moroccan leather wallet. Silently she handed it to her brother.

“That belongs to my mother,” Brian said defiantly. Then the glance the man gave him made him shiver. He had been about to try to grab the wallet; instead, now suddenly fearful, he dug his hands deep in his pockets.

Jimmy Siddons opened the billfold. “My, my,” he said, his tone now admiring. “Cally, you surprise me. You run rings around some of the pick-pockets I know.”

“I didn't steal it,” Cally protested. “Someone dropped it, I found it. I was going to mail it back.”

“Well, you can forget that,” Jimmy said. “It's mine now, and I need it.”

He pulled out a thick wad of bills and began counting. “Three hundred-dollar bills, four fifties, six twenties, four tens, five fives, three ones. Six hundred and eighty-eight dollars. Not bad, in fact, it'll do just fine.”

He stuffed the money in the pocket of the suede jacket he had taken from the bedroom closet and began to dig through the compartments in the wallet. “Credit cards. Well, why not? Driver's license—no, two of them: Catherine Dornan and Dr. Thomas Dornan. Who's Dr. Thomas Dornan, kid?”

“My dad. He's in the hospital.” Brian watched as the deep compartment in the wallet revealed the medal.

Jimmy Siddons lifted it out, held it up by the chain, then laughed incredulously. “St. Christopher! I haven't been inside a church in years, but even I know they kicked him out long ago. And when I think of all the stories Grandma used to tell us about how he carried the Christ child on his shoulders across the stream or the river or whatever it was! Remember, Cally?” Disdainfully he let the medal clatter to the floor.

Brian swooped to retrieve it. He clutched it in his hand, then slipped it around his neck. “My grandpa carried it all through the war and came home safe. It's going to make my dad get better. I don't care about the wallet. You can have it. This is what I really wanted. I'm going home now.” He turned and ran for the door. He had twisted the knob and pulled the door open before Siddons reached him, clapped a hand over his mouth, and yanked him back inside.