“If he were innocent… if we found Teddy again,” and he still hoped they would, but he doubted it now. It had been too long. It was beginning to seem too much like the Lindberghs. “Would you go back to Charles?” He had wanted to ask her that for days. He wanted to know, because in his heart of hearts, he knew she still loved him.

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I don't think so. I couldn't. There's too much pain between us. Think of what we would feel when we looked at each other every morning. If he's innocent, and Teddy comes home again…Charles will never forgive me for this…” She looked up at him, and John was annoyed.

“Everything that goes wrong in the world is not your fault. You didn't make those threats in the park, he did. He's the damn fool who either did it, or put himself in a hell of a spot for shooting his mouth off. Last time I looked, all you did was go to the park with your boy. This is not your fault, for God's sake, just like Teddy's kidnapping isn't…and the other boy's drowning wasn't…stop believing all the shit these jerks give you.” She smiled at him. She loved him for believing in her, and protecting her, and caring about her, and trying to find Teddy. But she wondered what else they would have when this was over. Probably very little. They would be friends, but they had met at a time that, for her, would be forever painful. But he was worried about something else now, since listening to the last few days' testimony in court. He knew what Patterson had up his sleeve now. If they found the boy, he was beginning to suspect that Patterson was going to sue her for custody and divorce, and accuse her of being an unfit mother. That's what the mental instability was all about, and the testimony by governesses and maids. John Taylor already saw where Malcolm was leading, but he didn't want to scare her. And maybe it would never happen. Maybe they would never find Teddy.

“Take care of yourself,” he whispered as he hurried down the front steps a little while later, wishing he could kiss her. And as Marielle went back to her room, she correctly assumed that Malcolm was with Brigitte.

He didn't bother to come home that night, or to call. The pretense was over. She wondered where they were staying now, to avoid the reporters who were hot on their trail for a story. She wondered too how often his calls to her had come from Brigitte's apartment. It was amazing how little she had known about her husband. She had thought him so respectable, so kind, so gentle with her, and instead he had been building a case against her for years, he had always known about the hospital and Charles, and he had cheated on her for years with Brigitte. It was not a pretty picture. She was still thinking about it when the phone rang as she lay in the dark at ten o'clock. She almost didn't answer it, thinking it would be him. But there was always the possibility it would be a call about Teddy. She knew the police still in the house would pick it up, but nevertheless she wanted to listen. She was startled to hear Bea Ritter asking the policeman to put the call through to Marielle and he wouldn't.

“It's all right, Jack. I have it. Hello?”

“Mrs. Patterson?”

“Yes.”

“This is Bea Ritter.” Even her voice sounded nervous and energetic. She was an excited little woman full of life and the pursuit of a great story. But Marielle had wanted to thank her anyway, for the surprisingly decent article about Marielle's performance in the courtroom. She thanked her, and the little redhead sounded embarrassed. “They really did a job on you. It made me sick to watch it.”

“At least I didn't get carried out of the court the way the others said I did.”

“They're a bunch of jerks. If it doesn't happen the way they want it, they make it up, I don't do that.” And then there was a pause. She had half expected not to get through to her, and now they were suddenly talking like old friends, but she was scared and this was important. “I'm sorry to call so late… I wasn't sure how to get through to you…Mrs. Patterson, can I meet you for a little while?”

“Why?”

“I have to talk to you. I can't tell you over the phone. But I really have to.”

“Does it have to do with my son?” Was there a tip?… a chance… a hope…she almost felt her heart stop.

“No. Not directly. It has to do with Charles Delauney.”

“Please don't ask me that. Please…you saw what they did to me yesterday… I can't help him.”

“Please…just listen… I want to help find your son's kidnapper, and Charles isn't it. I believe that.”

“Does he know you're calling?”

She blushed beet red at her end of the phone and shook her head. “He hardly knows me. I've been to see him a few times, but he's terribly distracted. But I think he's innocent and I want to help him.”

“I want to find my son. That's all I want,” she said sadly.

“I know…so do I…you deserve it…please see me…just for a few minutes.”

“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.