He slammed the wheel with his fist. Now he’d have to wait till exit 42 to get off the Thruway. How far was that? he wondered.

But as he glanced back at the exit he’d just missed, he realized he actually had been lucky. There was a pileup on the ramp. It must have just happened. That was why the plow had switched lanes. If he had tried to get off there, he could have been stuck for hours.

Finally he saw a sign that informed him the next exit was in six miles. Even at this pace, it shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. The wheels were gripping the road better. This stretch must have been sanded. Jimmy felt for the gun under his jacket. Should he take it out and hide it under the seat?

No, he decided. If a cop tried to stop him, he needed it just where it was. He glanced at the odometer on the dashboard. He’d set it when he and the kid started driving. It showed that they had gone just over three hundred miles.

There was still a long way to go, but just knowing that he was this close to the Canadian border and Paige was so exciting a sensation he could almost taste it. This time he’d make it work, and whatever he did, this time he wouldn’t be dumb enough to be caught by the cops.

Jimmy felt the kid stirring beside him, trying to settle back into sleep. What a mistake! he thought. I should have dumped him five minutes after I took him. I had the car and the money. Why did I think I needed him?

He ached for the moment when he could be rid of the kid and be safe.

20

Officer Ortiz escorted Catherine, her mother, and Michael to the Fiftieth Street entrance to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. A security guard stationed outside was waiting for them. “We have seats for you in the reserved section, ma’am,” he told Catherine as he pushed the heavy door open.

The magnificent sound of the orchestra led by the organ and accompanied by the choir filled the great cathedral, which was already packed with worshipers.

“Joyful, joyful,” the choir was singing.

Joyful, joyful, Catherine thought. Please God, yes, let this night end like that.

They passed the crèche where the life-sized figures of the Virgin, Joseph, and the shepherds were gathered around the empty pile of hay that was the crib. She knew that the statue of the infant Christ child would be placed there during the Mass.

The security guard showed them to their seats in the second row on the middle aisle. Catherine indicated that her mother should go in first. Then she whispered, “You go between us, Michael.” She wanted to be on the outside, at the end of the row, so she could be aware the minute the door opened.

Officer Ortiz leaned over. “Mrs. Dornan, if we hear anything, I’ll come in for you. Otherwise when Mass is over, the guard will lead you out first, and I’ll be waiting outside in the car.”

“Thank you,” Catherine said, then immediately sank to her knees. The music changed to a swirling paean of triumph as the procession began-the choir, the acolytes, deacon, priests, and bishops, preceding the cardinal, who was carrying the crook of the shepherd in his hand. Lamb of God, Catherine prayed, please, please save my lamb.

Chief of Detectives Folney, his gaze still riveted to the map of the Thruway on the wall of his office, knew that with each passing minute, the chances of finding Brian Dornan alive grew slimmer. Mort Levy and Jack Shore were across the desk from him.

“ Canada,” he said emphatically. “He’s on his way to Canada, and he’s getting close to the border.”

They had just received further word from Michigan. Paige Laronde had closed all her bank accounts the day she left Detroit. And in a burst of confidence, she had told another dancer that she had been in touch with a guy who was a genius at creating fake IDs.

It was reported that she had said, “Let me tell you, with the kind of papers I got for my boyfriend and me, we can both just disappear.”

“If Siddons makes it over the border…” Bud Folney muttered more to himself than to the others.

“Nothing from the Thruway guys?” he asked for the third time in fifteen minutes.

“Nothing, sir,” Mort said quietly.

“Call them again. I want to talk to them myself.”

When he got through to Chris McNally’s supervisor and heard for himself that absolutely nothing was new, he decided he wanted to speak to Trooper McNally himself.

“A lot of good that’ll do,” Jack Shore muttered to Mort Levy.

But before Folney could be connected with McNally, another call came in. “Hot lead,” an assistant said, rushing into Folney’s office. “Siddons and the kid were seen by a trooper about an hour ago at a rest area on Route 91 in Vermont near White River Junction. He said the man matches Siddons’s description to a T, and the boy was wearing some kind of medal.”

“Forget McNally,” Folney said crisply. “I want to talk to the trooper who saw them. And right now, call the Vermont police and have them put up barriers at all the exits north of the sighting. For all we know, the girlfriend may be holed up waiting for him in a farmhouse on this side of the border.”

While Folney waited, he looked over at Mort. “Call Cally Hunter and tell her what we’ve just learned. Ask her if she knows if Jimmy has ever been to Vermont and if so, where did he go? There might be some place in particular he could be headed.”

21

Brian could tell that the car was going faster. He opened his eyes, then shut them as fast as he could. It was easier to stay lying down, curled up on the seat, pretending to be asleep, instead of having to try not to act scared when Jimmy looked at him.

He also had been listening to the radio. Even though the volume was turned way down, he could hear what they were saying, that cop killer Jimmy Siddons, who had shot a prison guard, had kidnapped Brian Dornan.

His mother had been reading a book named Kidnapped to him and Michael. Brian liked the story a lot, but when they went to bed, Michael told him he thought it was dumb. He had said that if anyone tried to kidnap him, he’d kick the guy and punch him and run away.

Well, I can’t run away, Brian thought. And he was sure that trying to hurt Jimmy by punching him wouldn’t work. He wished that he’d been able to open the car door earlier and roll out like he had planned to. He’d have curled up in a ball just like they taught the kids to do in gym class. He would have been okay.

But now the car door near him was locked, and he knew that before he could even pull up the lock and open the door, Jimmy would grab him.

Brian was almost crying. He could feel his nose filling up and his eyes getting watery. He tried to think about how Michael might call him a crybaby. Sometimes that helped him when he was trying not to cry.

It didn’t help now, though. Even Michael would probably cry if he was scared and he had to go to the bathroom again. And it said right on the radio that Jimmy was dangerous.

But even though he was crying, Brian made sure he didn’t make a sound. He felt the tears on his cheeks, but he didn’t move to brush them away. If he moved his hand, Jimmy would notice and know he was awake, and for now he had to keep pretending.

Instead, he clasped the St. Christopher medal even tighter and made himself think about how when Dad was able to go back home, they were going to put up their own Christmas tree and open the presents. Just before they had left for New York, Mrs. Emerson who lived next door had come in to say good-bye, and he had heard her say to his mom, “Catherine, no matter when it is, the night you put up your tree, we’re all going to come and sing Christmas carols under your window.”