Free Silent Night by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

twelve hours later. She looked exhausted and desperately worried. She was probably in bed asleep now. But every nerve in his body was telling him that he should talk to her. Despite her denial, he believed she held the key.
    As he turned away from his desk, the phone rang. When he picked it up, he again heard the terrified breathing. This time he took the initiative. “Cally,” Mort said urgently. “Cally, talk to me. Don’t be afraid. Whatever it is, I’ll try to help you.”
    *   *   *
    Cally could not even think of going to bed. She had listened to the all-news station, hoping but at the same time fearing that the cops had found Jimmy, praying that little Brian was safe.
    At ten o’clock she had turned on the television to watch the Fox local news, then her heart sank. Brian’s mother was seated next to the anchorman, Tony Potts. Her hair seemed looser now, as though she’d been standing outside in the wind and snow. Her face was very pale, and her eyes were filled with pain. There was a boy sitting next to her who seemed to be about ten or eleven years old.
    The anchorman was saying, “You may have heard Catherine Dornan’s appeals for help in finding her son Brian. We’ve asked her and Brian’s brother, Michael, to be with us now. There were crowds of people on Fifth Avenue and Forty-ninth Street shortly after five o’clock this evening. Maybe you were one of them. Maybe you noticed Catherine with her two sons, Michael and Brian. They were in a group listening to a violinist playing Christmas carols, and singing along. Seven-year-oldBrian disappeared from his mother’s side. His mother and brother need your help in finding him.”
    The anchorman turned to Catherine. “You’re holding a picture of Brian.”
    Cally watched as the picture was held up, listened as Brian’s mother said, “It’s not very clear, so let me tell you a little more about him. He’s seven but looks younger because he’s small. He has dark reddish brown hair and blue eyes and freckles on his nose . . .” Her voice faltered.
    Cally shut her eyes. She couldn’t bear to look at the stark agony on Catherine Dornan’s face.
    Michael put his hand over his mother’s. “My brother’s wearing a dark blue ski jacket just like mine, ’cept mine is green, and a red cap. And one of his front teeth is missing.” Then he burst out, “We gotta get him back. We can’t tell my Dad that Brian is missing. Dad’s too sick to be worried.” Michael’s voice became even more urgent. “I know my dad. He’d try to do something. He’d get out of bed and start looking for Brian, and we can’t let him do that. He’s sick, real sick.”
    Cally snapped off the set. She tiptoed into the bedroom where Gigi was at last sleeping peacefully and went over to the window that led to the fire escape. She could still see Brian’s eyes as he glanced over his shoulder, begging her to help him, his one hand in Jimmy’s grasp, his other holding the St. Christopher medal as though it would somehow save him. She shook her head. That medal,she thought. He hadn’t cared about the money. He followed her because he believed that medal would make his father get well.
    Cally ran the few steps back into the living room and grabbed Mort Levy’s card.
    When he answered, her resolve almost crumbled again, but then his voice was so kind when he said, “Cally, talk to me. Don’t be afraid.”
    â€œMr. Levy,” she blurted out, “can you come here, quick? I’ve got to talk to you about Jimmy—and that little boy who’s missing.”

13

    A ll that was left of the snack Jimmy had purchased when they stopped for gas were the empty Coca-Cola cans and the crumpled bags that had held potato chips. Jimmy had thrown his on the floor in front of Brian, while Brian had placed his in the