Mary, Mary - James Patterson [79]
Now she looked up, her eyes searching mine. “Could I have a cup of coffee? Would it be too much trouble?”
The coffee arrived, and Mary held the paper cup with her fingertips and sipped at it with an unexpected kind of delicacy. The coffee seemed to revive her a little, too.
She kept sneaking glances at me, and she absently smoothed her hair against her head. “Thanks.” Her eyes were a little brighter, and I saw a shade of the friendly woman from the day before.
“Mary, do you have any questions about what’s going on? I’m sure you must.”
Immediately, a pall came over her. Her emotions were palpably fragile. Suddenly, tears welled up in her eyes, and she nodded without speaking.
“What is it, Mary?”
She looked up to the corner of the ceiling, where a camera was watching us. I knew that at least a half-dozen law enforcement personnel and psychiatric specialists were tucked away less than ten feet from where we sat.
Mary seemed to guess as much. When she did speak, it was in a whisper.
“They won’t tell me anything about my children.” Her face contorted as she fought back more tears.
Chapter 96
“YOUR CHILDREN?” I asked, somewhat confused, but going along with what she’d said.
“Do you know where they are?” Her voice was wavery, but her energy had increased quite a bit already.
“No, I don’t,” I answered truthfully. “I can look into it. I’ll need some more information from you.”
“Go ahead. I’ll tell you what you need to know. They’re too young to be on their own.”
“How many children do you have?” I asked her.
She seemed dumbfounded by the question. “Three. Don’t you already know?”
I took out my pad. “How old are they, Mary?”
“Brendan’s eight, Ashley’s five, and Adam’s eleven months.” She spoke haltingly while I wrote it all down.
Eleven months?
It was certainly possible she had given birth a year ago, but somehow, I doubted it very much.
I checked the ages to be sure about what she’d said. “Eight, five, eleven months?”
Mary nodded. “That’s right.”
“And how old are you, Mary?”
For the first time, I saw anger show on her face. She balled her hands into hard fists, closed her eyes, and struggled to compose herself. What was this all about?
“I’m twenty-six, for God’s sake. What difference does that make? Can we get back to my kids now?”
Twenty-six? Not even close. Wow. There it was. The first opening.
I looked at my notes; then I decided to take a little leap with her. “So Brendan, Ashley, and Adam live at home with you. Is that right?”
She nodded again. When I got something right, it seemed to calm her down tremendously. Relief spread over her face, then seemed to continue down into her body.
“And were they home yesterday when I was there?”
She looked confused now, and the anger that had ebbed away edged back. “You know they were, Agent Cross. You were right there. Why are you doing this?”
Her voice rose as she spoke. Her breath had gone shallow. “What have you people done with my children? Where are they right now? I need to see them. Right now.”
The door opened, and I held my hand up to the guard without taking my eyes off of Mary. It was obvious her pulse had quickened as the agitation seemed to take hold.
I took a calculated risk with her.
“Mary,” I said gently, “there were no children in the house yesterday.”
Her response was immediate, and extreme.
She sat bolt upright and screamed at me, her neck muscles straining. “Tell me what you’ve done with my children! Answer me this instant! Where are my kids? Where are my kids?”
Steps sounded on the floor behind me, and I stood up so I could be the first one to reach her.
She was raving now, screaming over and over.
“Tell me! Why won’t you tell me?” Now she had started to sob, and I felt sorry for her.
I slowly walked around the table. “Mary!” I shouted her name, but she was completely unresponsive to the sound of my voice, even to my movement toward her.
“Tell me where my kids