Gift Shop Page 22

  “Who is it?” sang out a woman’s voice, from within. “I’m kinda stuck, so come on in. O.K.?”

  So Jean went in, and through a spacious hallway from which the stairs ascended, and through an arch to a very large sitting room, with windows toward the yard at the back. It wasn’t the neatest sitting room in the world. It looked more like a hobby shop, after a hard day. There were no curtains at the back windows.

  The woman, whom Jean remembered, was sitting in the midst of yards and yards of flowered material, sewing by hand. “Hi.” she said. “Excuse me, but I don’t want to lose track of this hem. Boy, am I lousy with a needle. New curtains. How are you going to like them?”

  Jean had to answer, helplessly, that she liked them. She was struck by the busy peace, here. There were children hanging over a big table spread with scraps of colored paper. There were children on the floor. The woman said, yes, she was Callie Julian. Jean was asked to sit down, which she helplessly did, while the children seemed to shift to pay hospitable attention. From every nook and corner, there seemed to be a child, watching, listening, smiling.

  But for some reason, Jean’s heart had begun to pound. She said, “Mrs. Julian, your sister is in St. Bart’s Hospital, isn’t she?” Callie showed no surprise, so Jean rushed on. “Well, I … I’ve come from the Fairchilds. I want you to let me take the little girl, Barbara Fairchild, to her own father. It’s very important. Do you know anything about it?”

  Callie, who was using a very long thread and taking enormous stitches, smiled and said, “I know one thing. None of my kids is going away from me, not just like that. Look, they live here. That’s a kind of funny thing to come and say.”

  “I’ve got a cab waiting,” said Jean. “There’s been so much trouble. I don’t know how to explain it all to you. I don’t want to—scare anybody. But if you won’t let me take her, right now, quickly, then I’ll have to find a phone and call somebody. Maybe the police. I mean it, Mrs. Julian. I see you don’t know. There isn’t time. She’s got to be protected. Where is she?”

  Jean looked around the room. The children now seemed to have drawn together, as if the very idea of removing one of them had caused them to cohere. They were all standing over there. In the middle of the pack, Jean saw a flaxen head. “Oh, I see her,” she said. “Hi, Bobby.”

  The little girl’s hair was cut like a boy’s; she was wearing shorts, as they all were. All the little legs—the black, the brown, the white, the pink, the tanned—and all the little knobby knees were bare. All the pairs of eye—the dark, the blue, the green, the gray—were watching solemnly. The group was like a huge sensitive flower whose petals had curled to protect its heart.

  No child answered her.

  Callie glanced at the pack of them. “Don’t worry, mob,” she said, lightly.

  “Mrs. Julian,” cried Jean, “you have got to worry. If you won’t let me take her, and I see you won’t … then I had better make that call.” Jean stood up. “Where is the nearest …” she began.

  Somebody was knocking on the front door.

  Jean said, “Oh, wait! Please!” She was afraid.

  But Bobby detached herself, and so did one of the little boys, the one with the huge black eyes. It was evidently their turn to do the honors. The other children shifted and loosened, as if they became spectators, watching, listening, smiling as before. But Callie put down the billowing cotton fabric. She was frowning slightly.

  Jean thought, maybe it’s Harry. But oh, her prophetic soul!

  It was Dorinda.

  She came in, moving fast, with a sweeping air of command. “Ah, look who’s here,” she said at once. “This is it, then.” She looked at the children.

  Callie stood up. “Excuse me. Who—”

  The children had drawn together into their knot. A man appeared behind Dorinda. He had a child by the arm, on either side, and he seemed to toss them into the group. “Better get rid of the cab,” he said. “Right?” He disappeared.

  Another man now appeared, from another doorway at the far end of the room. “Nobody out there,” said he.

  And the head of a man appeared at the back windows, looking in. “All clear,” he boomed against the glass. He was Varney.

  Jean had braced and thought of dashing. But which way? The house swarmed with them.

  Dorinda said, “All right. I want the Fairchild girl. Which one is she?”

  Callie said, “I’ll thank the whole lot of you to get right out of my house and leave me and my kids alone.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Dorinda.

  Callie said, “Now see here …”

  But Varney had come into the room. He walked ponderously to Callie and pulled her arms behind her. Jean knew what he was doing. He was a fancier of handcuffs, Varney was. He was not only handcuffing Callie but he ran the chain around the rail on the back of the chair. Then he shoved her down into it, with a thud.

  The children surged, in a shrill and single-impulsed mass, toward Callie. But the strange man grabbed at as many as he could, and Dorinda grabbed, and Varney helped. The little black boy evaded them all, and dashed for the front door. But he reappeared, in the embrace of Vance Miller.

  Jean could see no way, no hope of escape. They swarmed. And it was her turn, now. Varney said to her, “Hiya, baby?” Her arms were being wrenched behind her and the handcuffs were going on. He let the corner of his mouth slobber just a little and he slapped her hard, on her right cheek. “Sit down.” Jean sat down.

  (Well, she’d been here before. Now, we go round again, she thought.)

  She said to Callie, loudly, because of the noise here, “Just don’t tell them anything. Because it doesn’t matter.”

  Varney hit her again. “You see?” said Jean. “No matter what, they hit you, anyway.”

  Callie, chained to her chair, and trampling her new curtains, had lost every bit of color from her face. Vance and the strange man had all the children herded into a corner now. They were howling and shrilling. The noise was frightful.

  “Shut them up,” yelled Dorinda.

  Varney went to slap one or two, but this only increased the din.

  Dorinda was in a flaming rage. Her face, in fury, was another face. “Get the one we want,” she shouted, “and we’ll get out of here.”

  “Which one?” yelled Varney.

  “Which one?” shouted Dorinda, standing over Callie, who simply stared at her, stunned to silence.

  “Come on. Come on. Which one is the Fairchilds’ precious brat?” Dorinda whirled on Jean. “Do you know?”

  But Jean said coolly, “Supposing I knew? How would you know, if I lied?”

  Varney came and cursed at her, but he didn’t touch her, this time.

  “Separate the girls,” ordered Dorinda. The children tightened together; the noise was even worse. Dorinda looked murderous. “Shut them up, somebody,” she shrieked.

  The other strange man now reappeared, the one who had gone to send the cab away. He had evidently been snooping through the whole house. “Hey, there’s a pretty deep cellar, with no windows.”

  “Then, for God’s sakes” howled Dorinda, “put some of these damned screeching brats down there. Put the boys. Get rid of them, anyhow.”

  So the men, all four, attacked the mass. The children squealed and wiggled. There was a pulling of limbs.

  But Callie spoke up. She didn’t scream, but at the first sound from her throat the children began to shush each other. “Just go on down cellar,” she said, “Joe, Lenny, Carl.” She did not say “Bobby.” “Do what they want, for now. Just wait. Papa will be coming.”

  So the men began to be able to separate from the rest one little black boy, one little white boy, and one little Red Indian, who were taken away.

  Four little girls were left in a row, including the one with the boy’s haircut. They stood silently. The silence was terrible.

  Varney returned and stared at them sourly. “I got a hunch we’d better hurry,” he muttered.

  Dorinda s
aid to Callie, “Which one of these? Which one? What do you care? She isn’t yours.”

  (And Jean thought, with wonder, she really doesn’t know. All that stuff about her stepmother was just lies. She doesn’t even know what color woman Marybelle is. She doesn’t know which child is Bobby.)

  “I won’t tell you one word, to hurt any one of them,” said Callie. “They are all mine.”

  So Dorinda slapped her, rather gaily, and went to loom over the children. “Now, listen,” she said, “I won’t touch three of you. There’s only one I want. We’ll just take that one, and go away. Now, which one of you just came from Hawaii? Which one is Barbara?”

  Four pairs of eyes stared. “What are your names? You.” Dorinda grabbed the redhead. “Who is she?” She pointed at the little towhead.

  “She’s my sister,” said the redhead.

  Then they all began to chime. They pointed fingers at each other. They jumped up and down. They cried, “She’s my sister! She’s my sister! She’s my sister.” All of them, the redhead, the towhead, the brown-haired one, and the little Oriental, too.

  Dorinda changed tactics. “Darlings,” she cooed.

  But the four little females were not fooled. This female couldn’t fool them.

  Varney said, “Nuts!”

  But Dorinda said, “Well, we’ve got her. We’ve got them all, and so we’ve got her. Bring the car around back, Vance. I’m getting on the phone.”

  The girls began to scream again, rather cheerfully.

  Varney was trying to say to Dorinda that they ought not to take so long, but the noise was frightful.

  “Put the whole damn lot of them down cellar,” yelled Dorinda over the noise, “and if they won’t shut up, then shut them up. I don’t care how.”

  “I can quiet them,” said Callie, “if I’m with them.”

  “Take the old bag down cellar, too,” said Dorinda, contemptuously.

  “And Jean-baby?”

  “No, no. Not Jean-honey,” said Dorinda. “She is going to be a big help to me.”

  So the men took the female children away and Varney unlocked Callie’s handcuffs to loose her from the chair and he took her, too. Callie went docilely. Jean saw her profile, as she went. It was serene, and it was strangely beautiful.

  Vance had vanished. Outside, Jean saw bumping across below the back windows, the blue roof of a car.

  “You are sure about that cellar?” said Dorinda, to Varney. “They better not be able to get out.”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” he said. “There’s a wall been built down there. Looks like they had to shore up this crummy house. Safe as a jail.” He swallowed and his little eyes flickered.

  “Don’t be cute,” said Dorinda coldly.

  “Dor, we better not stick around here much longer—”

  “I’m making the phone call now,” she said, “from the car. Bring her.”

  Through the floor came the sound of children’s voices but the sound was slowly losing its excitement, softening to a murmur, as Jean was plucked from her chair and then Varney dragged her around corners and out a back door. He was very rough. She could feel him hating her. She couldn’t help it, if he did. She kept thinking, if they’ll only take too long, somebody will come.

  The blue Continental stood on the lumpy lawn, well behind the house, invisible, now, from the street. Dorinda slipped into the driver’s side. Varney jammed Jean into the car, beside her, and held Jean with hard hands.

  Dorinda pushed a channel button, got an operator, placed a phone call.

  “Paul Fairchild’s residence.” Jean could hear the answering voice. It was Elaine’s.

  “Governor Thomas Fairchild,” snapped Dorinda.

  “I’m sorry, but Governor Fairchild isn’t here. May I …”

  “Paul Fairchild, then.”

  “May I say who is calling—”

  “Never mind. Put him on. And hurry up.”

  “I am very sorry …” Elaine was taking offense.

  “Tell him I’ve got his daughter.”

  Elaine squeaked.

  Jean was throbbing. Her heart was making such slow heavy sad sweeps in her breast, not so much with fear, as with sorrow, for the old man’s sake.

  “This is Paul Fairchild.” His voice came on. It was steady. It was even bold.

  “I’ve got your daughter,” said Dorinda, “and now, you’ll do what I tell you to do.”

  “Why should I believe you’ve got my daughter? Who are you?”

  “You know Jean Cunliffe, I believe?” said Dorinda nastily. “Dear little Jean, who was in your house for hours, only last night? You’ll know her voice, now, won’t you?”

  She thrust the phone against Jean’s face. “Tell him.”

  Jean knew, right away, that this was not the time to refuse to speak. It was the time to tell a brave old man the truth.

  “Mr. Fairchild,” Jean said, “this is Jean Cunliffe.”

  “Jean, where are you?”

  “No, no,” said Dorinda. “Not where. Hit her, Vic, if she starts.”

  “Don’t tell me,” said the old man, quickly.

  “Mr. Fairchild,” Jean said steadily. Her voice seemed to go like a thin thread, a long elastic connection. “They do have the little girl. I’m sorry to have to say so. But it’s true.”

  “I see, said the old man. “And they have you, too?”

  “Yes, but Harry …”

  Varney’s fingers were on her throat. Dorinda snatched the phone away.

  “Now,” she said, “tell your son Thomas to fix a month’s stay, at least, for Maximilian Kootz. Tell him to do it, now. I’ll give him twenty minutes and no more. I’ll call you back, and if he doesn’t—”

  “Within the next twenty minutes,” said the old man, “I can’t tell my son Thomas anything. And neither can you. He’s on an airplane.”

  “Tell him … When does he get off the airplane?”

  “He should arrive within the hour,” said Tom’s daddy calmly. “I can call his office and his home. I can leave your message.”

  “Do that,” she snapped. “And tell him he has got to stop—”

  “I’ll tell him what you say,” said the old man. “I can’t tell him what to do.”

  “Oh, yes, you’ll tell him what to do. Or the kid will pay for it. And Jean Cunliffe will pay for it. So you’d better.”

  The old man said, “I will call. I will leave the message. What my son will do, is my son’s business.”

  Dorinda poured out scorn. Paul Fairchild was talking stupid nonsense, just to annoy her.

  But when she had run down, the old man said, and Jean could hear his exhaustion, “My boys are men.”

  Dorinda said, “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, old man. You’ll stop any looking around for us. If I hear—where I am—one sound that I can’t trust, the little girl will get her ears cut off. Give me the governor’s phone numbers. We’ll see who’s going to tell him what to do.”

  Paul Fairchild gave her two numbers. Then he said, “Why don’t you listen to the six o’clock news? KNX. It’s about on.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t reach Tom, before that.” The old man was impatient with stupidity. “You may hear some news,” he snapped, “that will put your mind at rest.”

  Dorinda said that she would do as she pleased, and the rest of the world would do as she pleased, too. And hung up.

  “What’s that about?” She glared at Jean.

  “Listen and find out,” said Jean.

  “Damn you! Tell me.”

  “Then would you really,” said Jean, “stop hitting me?”

  Dorinda hit her.

  Jean went with the blow … pain was inevitable … and thought, maybe he’s bought a little bit more time. A few more minutes. She felt proud of him.

  Dorinda was out of the car, giving orders. She sent the man Cole out to the front to watch with the man she called Jake. She told Vance and Varney to bring Jean indoors.

  So Jean was tussled
back into the house. Dorinda did not call the governor’s numbers. (He wouldn’t be there, yet.) She hunted the room for a radio and found one. She turned it on. It gave forth dance music.

  Jean, huddled and bent uncomfortably, handcuffed to a chair, knew what was coming on the air. The governor’s statement, of course. But Dorinda did not know.

  So Jean hung her head. She thought of the old man, who must be sick with sorrow, yet had been so steady. She thought of seven children and the mother, down in the cellar, at the mercy of the merciless. She thought of Harry, of help coming, and this woman waiting here, where the men she led knew that they ought not to wait. Jean didn’t think Dorinda ought to wait either, from Dorinda’s point of view, and she hid her face to hide her hope that Dorinda would wait too long.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Paul Fairchild (who had been put to bed after his expedition to St. Bart’s) hushed the two women in his room and dialed long distance with a steady hand. He spoke briefly to someone in Tom’s office. Then he dialed again, and spoke to Patricia Fairchild, giving no more than a bare outline of what was happening. “They have the child. I don’t know where. The least they threaten is to kill her. Tom should know about it.”

  He then dialed a local number, St. Bart’s. He asked for Dr. Fairchild. (Dick should know.) While he waited, this time, he looked across the room at Elaine.

  The woman was huddled in a chair. She had listened, twice over, to his account—so bare, so terrible. She hadn’t meant … Nobody understood …

  “Did you help these people?” the old man said to her. His voice could not afford emotion. Not yet. So it was calm. But she began to go to pieces, to sob and squeak, to twist and writhe. Mei moved swiftly and took Elaine under her arms and, with the strength of ten, she lifted the hysterical woman out of the chair and forced her out of the room. Forever.

  The old man watched them go. A voice soon told him that Dr. Fairchild was with a patient, at the moment. Was there a message?

  “Is Harry Fairchild there? Can you have him paged?” (Harry should know.)

  The voice reported that Harry Fairchild must have left. The voice was sorry. The old man dialed Harry’s number. Bonzer didn’t answer.