A Cry In The Night

38

The house was crowded but she saw everyone as vague shadows on a screen. Sheriff Gunderson, the people from the coroner’s office who chalked the outline of Erich’s body and took it away, the reporters who swarmed in after the news of the art forgery and stayed for the far bigger story. They’d arrived in time to snap pictures of Erich, the cape draped around him, the wig matted with blood, the curiously peaceful face of death.

They’d been allowed to go to the cabin, to photograph and film Caroline’s beautiful paintings, Erich’s tortured canvases. “The greater the sense of urgency we give to the search, the more people will try to help,” Wendell Gunderson said.

Mark was there. It was he who cut away the blanket and her blouse, bathed the wound, disinfected it, bandaged it. “That will hold it for the present. It’s only a flesh wound, thank God.”

She shivered at the touch of those long, gentle fingers through all the burning pain. If there was help possible it would come through Mark.

They found the car Erich had driven, found it hidden in one of the tractor paths on the farm. He’d rented the car in Duluth, six hours’ drive away. He’d left the children at least thirteen hours ago. Left them where?

All through the evening the driveway was filled with cars. Maude and Joe Ekers came. Maude, her strong, capable bulk bending over Jenny. “I’m so sorry.” A few minutes later Jenny heard her at the stove. And then the smell of perking coffee.

Pastor Barstrom came. “John Krueger worried so about Erich. But he never told me why. And then it seemed as though Erich was doing so well.”

The weather report. “A storm is moving into Minnesota and the Dakotas.” A storm. Oh, God, are the girls warm enough?

Clyde came to her. “Jenny, you gotta help me. They’re talking about committing Rooney to the hospital again.”

At last she was startled out of her lethargy. “She saved my life. If she hadn’t shot Erich, he would have killed me.”

“She told one of them reporters that she did it for Arden,” Clyde said. “Jenny, help me. If they lock her up, Rooney can’t take it. She needs me. I need her.”

Jenny got up from the couch, steadied herself against the wall, went looking for the sheriff. He was on the phone. “Get more flyers. Tack them up in every supermarket, every gas station. Go over the border into Canada.”

When he hung up, she said, “Sheriff, why are you trying to put Rooney in the hospital?”

His voice was soothing. “Jenny, try to understand. Rooney intended to kill Erich. She was out there with a gun waiting for him.”

“She was trying to protect me. She knew the danger I was in. She saved my life.”

“All right, Jenny. Let me see what I can do.”

Wordlessly, Jenny put her arms around Rooney. Rooney had loved Erich from the moment he’d been born. No matter what she said, she had not shot him because of Arden. She had shot him to save Jenny’s life. I couldn’t have killed him in cold blood, she thought. And neither could she.

The night wore on. All the properties were being searched again. Dozens of false reports were coming in. Snow was starting to fall, swift, biting flakes.

Maude made sandwiches. Jenny could not swallow. Finally she sipped consommé. At midnight Clyde took Rooney home. Maude and Joe left. The sheriff said, “I’ll be at my desk all night. I’ll call you if we hear anything.” Only Mark remained.

“You must be tired. Go on home.”

He didn’t answer her. Instead he went and got blankets and pillows. He made her lie down on the couch by the stove; he poked a new log on the fire. He stretched out on the big chair.

In the dim light she stared at the cradle filled with wood, beside the chair. She had refused to pray after the baby died. She didn’t realize how bitter she’d been. Now… I accept his loss. But please let me have my girls.

Could you strike a bargain with God?

Sometime during the night she began to doze. But the throbbing in her shoulder kept her on the edge of wakefulness. She felt herself stirring restlessly, making soft hurting sounds. And then it eased, the pain and the restless tossing. After a while when she opened her eyes, she found herself leaning against Mark, his arm around her, the quilt tucked over her.

Something was teasing her. Something in her sub conscious that kept trying to surface, something desperately important that was eluding her. It was something to do with that last canvas and Erich watching her, his face peering through the window at her.

At seven o’clock Mark said, “I’ll fix some toast and coffee.” Jenny went upstairs and showered, wincing as the stream of water struck the adhesive on her shoulder.

Rooney and Clyde were in the house when she came back down. They sipped coffee together as they watched the national news. The girls’ pictures would be shown on the Today show and on Good Morning America.

Rooney had brought the patches. “Do you want to sew, Jenny?”

“No, I can’t.”

“It helps me. We’re making these for the girls’ beds,” she explained to Mark. “The girls are going to be found.”

“Rooney, please!” Clyde tried to quiet her.

“But they are. You see how nice and bright the colors are. No dark stuff in my quilts. Oh, look, here’s the story.”

They watched as Jane Pauley began the report: “A forgery that rocked the art world yesterday turned out to be only a very small part of a far more dramatic tale.

“Erich Krueger…” They watched as Erich’s face came on the screen. The picture was the same as the one on the brochure in the gallery: his bronze-gold, tightly curled hair, his dark blue eyes, the half-smile. They had films of the farm, a shot of the body being carried away.

Now Tina and Beth smiled from the screen. “And this morning those two little girls are still missing,” Jane Pauley said. “As he died, Erich Krueger told his wife that her children are still alive. But police are not certain he can be believed. The last canvas he painted seems to suggest Tina and Beth are dead.”

The entire screen was filled with that last painting. Jenny looked at the limp puppet figures, her own tortured image staring, Erich looking in the window at them, laughing as he held back the curtain.

Mark jumped to turn off the set. “I told Gunderson not to let them take photographs in the cabin.”

Rooney had jumped up too. “You should have showed me that painting!” she screamed. “You should have showed it to me. Don’t you understand. The curtains… The blue curtains!”

The curtains! This was what had been gnawing at Jenny’s memory. Rooney spilling the scraps onto the kitchen table, that dark blue material, the faint design visible in the painting.

“Rooney, where did he put them?” They were all shouting the same thing. Where?

Rooney, totally aware of the precious knowledge she held, tugged at Mark, excitedly crying, “Mark, you know. Your dad’s fishing lodge. Erich always used to go there with you. You didn’t have curtains in the guest room. He said it was too bright. I gave him those eight years ago.”

“Mark, could they be there?” Jenny cried.

“It’s possible. Dad and I haven’t been at the lodge in over a year. Erich has a key.”

“Where is the lodge?”

“It’s… in the Duluth area. On a small island. It makes sense. It’s just…”

“Just what?” She could hear the sound of snow slapping against the windows.

“The lodge doesn’t have central heating.”

Clyde vocalized the fear that was now in all of them. “That place don’t have central heating and you mean those kids may be alone in it now?”

Mark raced for the phone.

Thirty minutes later, the police chief from Hathaway Island returned their call.

“We’ve got ’em.”

Agonized, Jenny listened to Mark’s question. “Are they all right?”

She grabbed the phone to hear the answer.

“Yep, but just barely. Krueger had threatened to punish them if they ever tried to set foot out of the house. But he’d been gone so long and the place was freezing so the older girl decided to take a chance. She managed to unlock the door. They’d just left the house to hunt for Mommy when we found them. They wouldn’t a lasted half an hour in this storm. Wait a minute.”

Jenny heard the phone being moved and then two small voices were saying, “Hello, Mommy.” Mark’s arms held her tightly as she sobbed, “Mouse. Tinker Bell. I love you. I love you.”