“No. I didn’t want to leave you last time, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t like visiting you at that place.”

That place. The Bedford correctional facility for women.

“I didn’t like being there.” Cally tried to sound matter-of-fact.

“Kids should stay with their mothers.”

“Yes. I think so too.”

“Mommy, is that big present for me?” Gigi pointed to the box that held the uniform and coat Jimmy had discarded.

Cally’s lips went dry. “No, sweetheart, that’s a present for Santa Claus. He likes to get something for Christmas, too. Now come on, it’s past your bedtime.”

Gigi automatically began to say, “I don’t want to…,” then she stopped. “Will Christmas come faster if I go to bed now?”

“Uh-huh. Come on, I’ll carry you in.”

When she had tucked the blankets around Gigi and given her her “bee,” the tattered blanket that was her daughter’s indispensable sleeping companion, Cally went back to the living room and once again sank down onto the couch.

Kids should stay with their mothers … Gigi’s words haunted her. Dear God, where had Jimmy taken that little boy? What would he do to him? What should she do?

Cally stared at the box with the candy-cane paper. That’s for Santa Claus. A vivid memory of its contents flashed through her mind. The uniform of the guard Jimmy had shot, the side and sleeve still sticky with blood. The filthy overcoat-God knew where he’d found or stolen that.

Jimmy was evil. He had no conscience, no pity. Face it, Cally told herself fiercely-he won’t hesitate to kill that little boy if it helps his chances to escape.

She turned on the radio to the local news. It was seven-thirty. The breaking news was that the condition of the prison guard who had been shot at Riker’s Island was still critical, but was now stable. The doctors were cautiously optimistic that he would live.

If he lives, Jimmy isn’t facing the death penalty. Cally told herself. They can’t execute him now for the cop’s death three years ago. He’s smart. He won’t take a chance on murdering the little boy once he knows that the guard isn’t going to die. He’ll let him go.

The announcer was saying, “In other news, early this evening, seven-year-old Brian Dornan became separated from his mother on Fifth Avenue. The family is in New York because Brian’s father…”

Frozen in front of the radio, Cally listened as the announcer gave a description of the boy, then said, “Here is a plea from his mother, asking for your help.”

As Cally listened to the low, urgent voice of Brian’s mother, she visualized the young woman who had dropped the wallet. Early thirties at the most. Shiny, dark hair that just reached the collar of her coat. She’d only caught a glimpse of her face, but Cally was sure that she was very pretty. Pretty and well dressed and secure.

Now, listening to her begging for help, Cally put her hands over her ears, then ran to the radio and snapped it off. She tiptoed into the bedroom. Gigi was already asleep, her breathing soft and even, her cheek pillowed in her hand, the other hand holding the ragged baby blanket up to her face.

Cally knelt beside her. I can reach out and touch her, she thought. That woman can’t reach out to her child. What should I do? But if I call the police and Jimmy does harm that little boy, they’ll say it’s my fault, just the way they said that the cop’s death was my fault.

Maybe Jimmy will just leave him somewhere. He promised he would… Even Jimmy wouldn’t hurt a little boy, surely? I’ll just wait and pray, she told herself.

But the prayer she tried to whisper-“Please God, keep little Brian safe”-sounded like a mockery and she did not complete it.

Jimmy had decided that his best bet was to go over the George Washington Bridge to Route 4, then take Route 17 to the New York Thruway. It might be a little farther that way than going up through the Bronx to the Tappan Zee, but every instinct warned him to get out of New York City fast. It was good that the GW had no toll gate at the outgoing side where they might stop him.

Brian looked out the window as they crossed the bridge. He knew they were going over the Hudson River. His mother had cousins who lived in New Jersey, near the bridge. Last summer, when he and Michael spent an extra week with Gran after they came back from Nantucket, they had visited them there.

They were nice. They had kids just about his age, too. Just thinking about them made Brian want to cry. He wished he could open the window and shout, “I’m here. Come get me, please ^!”

He was so hungry, and he really had to go to the bathroom. He looked up timidly. “I… could I please… I mean, I have to go to the bathroom.” Now that he’d said it, he was so afraid the man would refuse that his lip began to quiver. Quickly he bit down on it. He could just hear Michael calling him a crybaby. But even that thought made him feel sad. He wouldn’t even mind seeing Michael right now.

“You gotta pee?”

The man didn’t seem too mad at him. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt him after all. “Uh-huh.”

“Okay. You hungry?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jimmy was starting to feel somewhat secure. They were on Route 4. The traffic was heavy but moving. Nobody was looking for this car. By now, the guy who parked it was probably in his pj’s watching It’s a Wonderful Life for the fortieth time. By tomorrow morning, when he and his wife started to holler about their stolen Toyota, Jimmy would be in Canada with Paige. God he was crazy about her. In his life, she was the closest he had ever come to a sure thing.

Jimmy didn’t want to stop to eat yet. On the other hand, to be on the safe side, he probably should fill up the tank now. There was no telling what hours places would keep on Christmas Eve.

“All right,” he said, “in a couple minutes we’ll get some gas, go to the john, and I’ll buy sodas and potato chips. Later on, we’ll stop at a McDonald’s and get a hamburger. But just remember when we stop for gas, you try to attract attention and…” He pulled the pistol from his jacket, pointed it at Brian, and made a clicking noise. “Bang,” he said.

Brian looked away. They were in the middle lane of the three-lane highway. A sign pointed to the exit marked Forest Avenue. A police car pulled abreast of them, then turned off into the parking lot of a diner. “I won’t talk to anyone. I promise,” he managed to say.

“I promise, Daddy,” Jimmy snapped.

Daddy. Involuntarily, Brian’s hand curled around the St. Christopher medal. He was going to bring this medal to Daddy and then Daddy was going to get better. Then his dad would find this guy, Jimmy, and beat him up for being so mean to his kid. Brian was sure of it. As his fingers traced the raised image of the towering figure carrying the Christ child, he said in a clear voice, “I promise, Daddy.”