"All right," he said resignedly. "You win. Merry Christmas, Father Bill."
Bill hung up and walked down the hall to check on the kids. The dormitory was quiet. Excitement had filled these halls all week, rising ever higher with the decorating of the tree, reaching a fever pitch here a couple of hours ago as he'd overseen the hanging of the stockings by the old never-used fireplace in the dining hall downstairs. But all the boys were in bed now and those who weren't already asleep were trying their best to doze off. Because everybody knew that Santa didn't come until the whole house was sleeping.
Christmas. Bill's favorite time of year. And it was being around the boys that made it for him. They were so excited this time of year, especially the little ones. The bright eyes, the eager faces, the innocence of their euphoric anticipation. He wished he could bottle it like wine and decant off a little at a time during the year to get him through the times when things got low and slow.
God knew there were periods since the fire last March when he could have used a couple of bottles of the stuff. Tomorrow was a milestone of sorts, a dread marker along his personal road: the first December 25th in his life when he wouldn't be able to call his folks and wish them a Merry Christmas.
An aching emptiness expanded in his chest. He missed them. More than he'd ever thought he could or would. But he'd weather tomorrow. The boys would carry him through it.
Satisfied that everyone was asleep or very nearly so, Bill padded downstairs and began unloading the gifts from a locked pantry closet. Most of them had been donated by the local parishioners and wrapped by the sisters who taught the orphans at Our Lady of Lourdes elementary school next door. Good people one and all, pitching in to see that none of the boys went without a couple of presents on Christmas Day.
When the gifts were arranged under the tree Bill stepped back and surveyed the scene: A scraggly limbed balsam laden with a motley assortment of hand-me-down ornaments and garish blinking lights stood guard over piles of brightly wrapped boxes, each tagged with a boy's name. He smiled. Bargain-basement decor, to be sure, but the real giving spirit of Christmas was there. It looked as if Santa had risked a hernia on his trip to St. F.'s this year. Bill was beginning to feel a bit of the old Christmas excitement himself, looking forward to tomorrow morning when he'd be standing in this same spot and overseeing the frenzy of paper-tearing as the overexcited boys unwrapped their gifts with trembling hands. He could hardly wait.
He unplugged the tree lights and climbed the stairs. Halfway up he heard his office phone ringing. He ran for it. If this was Nick again—
But it wasn't. It was Danny. And he was hysterical.
"Father Bill! Father Bill!" he screeched in a high-pitched voice bursting with terror. "You gotta come get me! You gotta get me outta here!"
"Calm down, Danny," he said, keeping himself calm with an effort. Even though he knew it was just another adjustment terror, the real fear in the boy's voice was sending his adrenals into high gear. "Just calm down and talk to me."
"I can't talk! He's gonna kill me!"
"Who? Herb?"
"You gotta come get me, Father! You just gotta!"
"Where's Sara? Put her on and let me speak to her."
"No! They don't know I'm on the phone!"
"Just get Sara—"
"No! Sara's gone! There ain't no Sara! He's gonna kill me!"
"Danny, stop it!"
"Father, please come and get me! Pleeeeease.1" He broke down into sobs but his words were still intelligible. "Father, Father, Father, I don't want to die. Please come and get me. Don't let him kill me. I don't want to die!"
The fear and abject misery in Danny's voice tore at Bill's heart. He was going to have to abort the adoption, cancel the whole thing. The boy simply was not ready to leave St. F.'s.
"Put Sara on, Danny… Danny?"
The line was dead.
Bill yanked open his file drawer and looked up the Loms' number. His hand was shaking as he punched it into the phone. A busy signal buzzed in his ear. He hung up and went to dial again, then stopped. If the line was busy, maybe Sara or Herb was trying to call him. If they both kept dialing, neither of them would get through. He sat back and made himself wait. And wait.
The phone didn't ring.
He forced himself to wait a full five minutes. It seemed like forever. Finally he'd had it. He snatched up the receiver and dialed their number again.
Still busy. Shit!
Bill slammed the phone down and wandered around his office, walked the halls. Over the course of the next half hour, he called the Loms' number a couple of dozen times, and each time the line was busy. Over and over he told himself there was nothing to worry about. Danny was in no danger. It was just the boy's imagination, his damned overactive imagination. Sara and Herb would never harm him, never allow anything bad to happen to him. Danny had just worked himself up into a panic and Sara had probably calmed him just as she had this afternoon.
But why couldn't he get through on the damn phone? An idea struck him and he called the operator. He told her it was an emergency and asked her to break in on the line; she came back and told him there was no one on the line. Nothing but dead air.
Had Danny left it off the hook? That had to be the answer.
But Bill could take no comfort in the explanation. He pulled on his coat, grabbed the car keys, and headed for the street. He knew he'd never sleep until he'd actually spoken to Danny and made sure he was all right. Imagined fears were just as frightening as real ones. So no matter how certain he was that Danny was in no danger, he had to be sure that Danny knew it. Then maybe he could rest tonight.
It was a beautiful night, snow falling on a gentle slant, the flakes flaring as they passed through the cones of illumination under the street lamps. The sounds of the borough, already subdued because it was Christmas Eve, were further muffled by the inch or so of white insulation that had already fallen. A white Christmas.
Bill wished he had time to appreciate the scenery but the inner urgency to get to the Loms' house overrode the esthetics of the night.
He guided the old station wagon down the Loms' street, past snowcapped houses trimmed with strings of varicolored lights, then pulled into the curb before number 735. The house was dark. No Christmas trim, no lighted windows. As he hurried up the walk to the front door, he noticed how perfect the layer of snow was, unmarred by a single footprint.
He pressed the doorbell button but didn't hear any chime within so he used the brass knocker. Its sound echoed through the silent night. He rapped it again. Twice. Three times.
No answer.
He stepped back off the front porch and looked up at the second story. The house remained silent and unlit.
Bill was worried now. Really worried. They had to be home. Their car was in the driveway. His were the only footprints on the snow.
What the hell was going on?
He tried the front doorknob and it turned. The door swung inward. He called out a few hellos but no one answered, so he stepped inside, still calling out.
Standing in the dark foyer, lit only by the glow from the street lamp outside, Bill realized it was as cold inside as it was out. And the house felt… empty.
A terrible, inescapable sense of dread crept over hirrk
My God, where are they? What's happened here?
And then he realized he was not alone. He almost cried out when he glanced to his right and spotted the faintly limned figure sitting in a chair by the living-room window.
"Hello?" Bill said, his hand searching for the light switch. "Herb?"
He found it and flipped it. It was Herb, sitting square in a straight-backed chair, staring into the air.