Read Online My Gal Sunday by Mary Higgins Clark - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
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hadn’t cried then. And she wouldn’t cry now. Although then there had been some boys standing around who had seen her fall, so she couldn’t cry in front of them, and now she was alone.
No, don’t give in, she admonished herself. Think; just think. When had the accident happened? She mentally retraced the steps they had taken. Art had opened the back door of the car for her and waited until she was inside. He’d then slipped in beside Leo, who sat behind the steering wheel. She had waved to Larry and Bill, who were waiting in the follow-up car behind them.
The snow had stopped falling, but the streets were still messy and treacherous. They had passed a couple of fender benders. Despite the hour, it was dark outside, and she had turned on the backseat reading light and had been studying the notes she had taken during the Speaker’s speech earlier that day, and then there had been a loud noise, like a muffled explosion. Yes, that was it, an explosion!
And she had looked up. She remembered that they had been passing the Kennedy Center and were almost to Watergate. Art’s face. She remembered that he had been looking back at her, then past her, out the back window at the follow-up car. He had shouted, “Step on it, Leo!” But then his voice had faded. Sunday couldn’t remember if he had stopped shouting or if it had been she who had stopped hearing, because she remembered feeling weak suddenly.
Yes, she remembered trying to sit up because the car was slowing to a stop. And then the driver’s-side door had opened. And that was all she remembered.
It was enough, though, to make her understand that she wasn’t in a hospital. Because there hadn’t been an accident. No, obviously this had happened on purpose. She had been kidnapped.
But who had done it? And why?
Wherever she was, it was damp and chilly. The cloth over her head was so disorienting. She shook her head, trying to clear it slightly. Whatever the kidnappers had used to knock her out was wearing off, but its residue was leaving her with a powerful headache. What she did know was that she was securely tied down to what felt to be a wooden chair. Was she alone? She couldn’t be sure. She sensed that someone was nearby, perhaps even watching her.
She thought suddenly of the Secret Service guys, Art and Leo. Were they there too? If not, what had happened to them? She knew that they would have done anything to protect her. Please, God, don’t let them have been murdered, she said in silent prayer.
Henry! She knew he must be frantic. Or does he even know yet that I am missing? How long has it been? For all she knew, it could have been anything from a few minutes to several days since she had been kidnapped. And why has this happened? What benefit can someone get by kidnapping me? If it was money, then she knew that Henry would pay whatever it would take. Somehow, though, she sensed that this wasn’t about money at all.
Sunday’s throat closed. There was someone there, in the room, with her. She could hear faint breathing, coming closer. Someone was bending over her. Thick, insistent fingers were tracing the contours of her face through the heavy fabric, caressing her neck, reaching up into her hair.
A low, hoarse voice she had to strain to hear whispered, “They’re all looking for you. Just like I knew they would. Your husband. The president. The Secret Service. By now they are sniffing all over. But they’re like blind mice. Yes, like three blind mice. And they won’t find you. At least not until the tide comes in, and by then it won’t matter.”
Henry did not speak on the flight to Washington. He sat alone in the private compartment of the plane, forcing his mind to focus on what was known about Sunday’s kidnapping and on what could be deduced from it. He had to distance himself from the emotional turmoil he felt inwardly and make his mind analyze the situation as he had analyzed dozens of intensely critical situations during his time in
No, don’t give in, she admonished herself. Think; just think. When had the accident happened? She mentally retraced the steps they had taken. Art had opened the back door of the car for her and waited until she was inside. He’d then slipped in beside Leo, who sat behind the steering wheel. She had waved to Larry and Bill, who were waiting in the follow-up car behind them.
The snow had stopped falling, but the streets were still messy and treacherous. They had passed a couple of fender benders. Despite the hour, it was dark outside, and she had turned on the backseat reading light and had been studying the notes she had taken during the Speaker’s speech earlier that day, and then there had been a loud noise, like a muffled explosion. Yes, that was it, an explosion!
And she had looked up. She remembered that they had been passing the Kennedy Center and were almost to Watergate. Art’s face. She remembered that he had been looking back at her, then past her, out the back window at the follow-up car. He had shouted, “Step on it, Leo!” But then his voice had faded. Sunday couldn’t remember if he had stopped shouting or if it had been she who had stopped hearing, because she remembered feeling weak suddenly.
Yes, she remembered trying to sit up because the car was slowing to a stop. And then the driver’s-side door had opened. And that was all she remembered.
It was enough, though, to make her understand that she wasn’t in a hospital. Because there hadn’t been an accident. No, obviously this had happened on purpose. She had been kidnapped.
But who had done it? And why?
Wherever she was, it was damp and chilly. The cloth over her head was so disorienting. She shook her head, trying to clear it slightly. Whatever the kidnappers had used to knock her out was wearing off, but its residue was leaving her with a powerful headache. What she did know was that she was securely tied down to what felt to be a wooden chair. Was she alone? She couldn’t be sure. She sensed that someone was nearby, perhaps even watching her.
She thought suddenly of the Secret Service guys, Art and Leo. Were they there too? If not, what had happened to them? She knew that they would have done anything to protect her. Please, God, don’t let them have been murdered, she said in silent prayer.
Henry! She knew he must be frantic. Or does he even know yet that I am missing? How long has it been? For all she knew, it could have been anything from a few minutes to several days since she had been kidnapped. And why has this happened? What benefit can someone get by kidnapping me? If it was money, then she knew that Henry would pay whatever it would take. Somehow, though, she sensed that this wasn’t about money at all.
Sunday’s throat closed. There was someone there, in the room, with her. She could hear faint breathing, coming closer. Someone was bending over her. Thick, insistent fingers were tracing the contours of her face through the heavy fabric, caressing her neck, reaching up into her hair.
A low, hoarse voice she had to strain to hear whispered, “They’re all looking for you. Just like I knew they would. Your husband. The president. The Secret Service. By now they are sniffing all over. But they’re like blind mice. Yes, like three blind mice. And they won’t find you. At least not until the tide comes in, and by then it won’t matter.”
Henry did not speak on the flight to Washington. He sat alone in the private compartment of the plane, forcing his mind to focus on what was known about Sunday’s kidnapping and on what could be deduced from it. He had to distance himself from the emotional turmoil he felt inwardly and make his mind analyze the situation as he had analyzed dozens of intensely critical situations during his time in
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