Chapter 14
"Unexpected Visitors"
Four months. Lane could probably be a bit more precise than that, if she really tried, but she didn't understand what the point would be, unless for some reason she felt like showing off her latest case that was rapidly becoming a dead end.
She'd barely slept in weeks, but even the extra added hours that other people spent resting had turned up nothing. How could it have come to this? She never took this long on cases - it was why she'd earned her position over so many other people in the first place!
She didn't like admitting it - she hated it with a passion, as a matter of fact - but, much to her shame, she was stuck.
And her being stuck meant that C.C.'s family was stuck, too. They were scrambling desperately for options, and had asked for another press conference because they had another announcement to make.
They were upping the reward, from half a million dollars to two million. It broke Lane's heart to know that - they were relying on too much all at once from the public, who might not be able to provide the information they wanted purely because they hadn't seen anything.
Not that she could tell them that. She wasn't going to crush the hope they had - it was her job to keep it alive, even if she felt like she was failing them.
She was the last one there, in the little waiting area behind the conference room. She'd be opening the talk with the media, of course, but she was mostly just there for support. She was going to tactfully try to avoid questions which told the world that there hadn't been any updates.
They should be there to focus on Mr and Mrs Babcock, who gripped each other's hands and rose to their feet from their seats when they saw her coming.
Mr Brightmore was sat with them - just as he always was, for anything that involved C.C.. He'd probably elected to be a little bit more emotional support that day.
She greeted them all with a simple nod, "Good morning", and a brief handshake. She knew better than to ask how they were all doing - she already knew that, and the dark circles under her eyes probably told them she was better off not being asked, either.
"Are you both ready to get started?" she asked the couple instead. "Everything's been set out, and everyone's seated."
There was no sense in dragging out what they'd already done before and knew how to do, even if by now the case had gathered national attention and there were more cameras and reporters out there than ever before.
It was for the best that they didn't waste time, either - who knew, they could hit a lucky strike that time, with the increased audience, and someone with information could be watching right that moment...
So, after sharing a deep and thoughtful look with his wife, Stewart turned gravely back towards Lane, "As we'll ever be, Detective."
Lane nodded, knowing it couldn't possibly be getting any easier to do all of this. They really were just as ready as anybody could ever be, going onto national television to beg for their daughter's safe return...
She gestured with an arm, ushering them slowly towards the doors to the conference room, "Step this way, then..."
The Babcocks nodded and looked over towards Niles once more, who assured them that he'd wait where he was until the whole thing was over.
Lane suspected that the Babcocks weren't the only people he was waiting for, once it was all over.
But she couldn't mind about that now. She had to escort C.C.'s parents into the conference room, shielding her eyes from the camera flashes that went off as the doors opened, and directing them to the table so they could take their seats.
Four months. She wondered if they'd be doing the same thing again, only for more reward money, another four months down the line.
The journalists and photographers were all on their feet, to begin with, but as the three occupants of the stage came to their little table, set out with three individual glasses of water and a large microphone stand. The reporters hadn't wasted any time in filling the stand-up, either - they'd probably all been elbowing each other for the right to get their own mic in close for an exclusive of some kind...
Everybody had to make their living somehow, she supposed.
"Good morning ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats," Lane's commanding voice was enough to get them to sit, and she leaned forward a little bit to make sure she was heard in the mic before she began to speak. "Now, you all know the basic facts of this case, but for those who don't know who I am, my name is Chief Detective Christine Lane of the New York Police Department, I am in charge of this case, and I'm here to support Mr Stewart and Mrs B.B. Babcock in their public announcement today."
She checked briefly out of the corner of her eye, making sure that Stewart and B.B. were ready before she even tried to let the reporters get on. Even if they had done this before, it wouldn't be fair just to set the room on them before they'd prepared.
When Stewart gave a nod back (having slipped his left hand under the table to hold B.B.'s), Lane finally opened the floor.
The hands shot up immediately, and Stewart pointed out one reporter to give the first question.
"Hello there, Mr Babcock - David Spader, from the LA Times - what new developments have been made in this case that have led you to bring us all here today?"
Stewart frowned a little, looking out of the corner of his eye at Lane. She was the one who handled questions about developments in the case, usually, and there just... hadn't been any recently...
But right then, he knew he couldn't stop what he was doing and despair over that. The chance of changing all that - finding something or someone and making a breakthrough - was the reason they were all here.
He gripped B.B.'s hand a little tighter before he answered.
"We, um...don't have any new developments in the case itself," he answered, feeling rather lame for the first time in one of these things. "We're here to make a repeated plea for information, and to let everyone know that the reward money has gone up from half a million dollars to two million."
The decision to up the reward money had been an easy one. When nothing else seemed to be working and all other leads looked like they'd gone cold, it was their failsafe decision.
No amount of money was too small. They'd give away everything they had, as long as it meant that C.C. could come home.
Just as expected, his announcement caused a stir among the gathered press – hands were soon in the air, and all of them were crying out their names, practically begging them to listen to and answer their questions. Stewart disliked having to make a spectacle out of their own personal tragedy, but the more people they reached, the higher their chances of finding C.C. would be.
All of the journalist's questions seemed to circle around the same issues:
"Have you got any new leads?"
"Who do you think did this?"
"Do you think this amount will encourage people to speak out?"
Stewart didn't really have the answers to their queries. The only one he did have – who they suspected – couldn't be answered aloud, given the fact that they had nothing against Thomas except a little bit of circumstantial evidence. It was frustrating; knowing that he'd done it, but not being able to even point in his direction for fear of legal retaliation.
Not that he was afraid of Thomas suing them for libel. He had the best team of lawyers money could pay for, but Lane had advised them against doing so, for it could make that bastard feel cornered and cause him to retaliate, which could, in turn, translate to their daughter ending up worse off than she already was. It was best, as much as Stewart disliked to say so, not to incite his anger. For C.C.'s sake. They had to be smart about it – wait until they could hit while the iron was hot, so to speak.
"We certainly hope that this…monetary prize will encourage all those who know or have seen something to come forward," said the businessman, trying very hard not to cry. "We…we beg you, if you know something, please talk! It's been four months without her already, and there is nothing we want more than to have our daughter back home…"
His words were too much for both he and B.B. to bear, and soon both of them were openly weeping, and not caring one whit about it. What kind of parents would they be if they didn't show any emotion while their child was missing?
Not that they knew so, but their tears were touching all those who were watching the broadcast deeply – well, almost everybody.
Among the bulk of honest viewers (most of them parents themselves), was the one man who knew where their child was. The one man who had caused their suffering in the first place – and he was relishing in it.
The look and sound of it were almost as sweet as the cake he'd had Claire bake for him. It was the first one she'd made that hadn't earned her even a little bit of correction and for that, Thomas was happy. It proved that his methods were working.
He laughed to himself as he thought that he could do this for money - maybe set up a training course to teach other husbands how to correct their wives...
Of course, Claire still had a long way to go, but under his hand, she'd be the perfect image of a woman in no time. She was already far better at all of the chores he'd set her - she didn't burn food anymore, the cleaning didn't leave spots or stains behind, and corrections across the board were fewer with every passing week.
Of course, he still did random "corrections" to make sure she didn't forget who was in charge around here. A man had to keep discipline in his home, otherwise who knew what could happen?
A woman left to her own devices was an unacceptable thing. The man ruled, and he being the perfect specimen of one, knew how to rule with an iron fist.
He might even choose to break her a little more that day, by telling her about all of this. Crushed spirits made for better subservience, in his mind.
And better subservience led to better food, and less crying when he took her to his bed.
That was something else he had to work on. But he was enjoying himself as it was, so he wasn't in a hurry to change anything there.
He was still going to lie low about all of this, too. He was sure that that Lane bitch still hadn't quit sniffing around, and the last thing he wanted was for all his hard work to go to waste.
In a year's time, everything would be perfect, and no one was going to take it away.
With that, he took another forkful of the black forest gateau he'd had her make. It was his favourite cake in the entire world. It had taken his bitch a couple of tries to get it right (the first three attempts had been disastrous, to say the least), but this time she'd outdone herself.
Clearly, she'd been reading the cooking manuals he'd bought for her.
Again, this was yet another proof that his method was working, and that Claire was on her way to being the perfect wife he'd always wanted and deserved.
The abrupt, shrilling sound of the bell ringing put an abrupt end to Thomas' gloating. He frowned, lowering his plate down on the coffee table – he wasn't expecting any visitors. He never did. He had no friends, his family lived out of state and that Lane whore was currently busy – who could it be?
Lucky Claire was tucked away safe in her room - he couldn't have just anybody coming to the door and seeing her. What if they recognised her from that fucking press conference her pathetic little family had set up?
Two million dollars...as if Claire was worth that amount! He'd given her her place, and it wasn't a place reserved for somebody who was worth two million dollars!
He was still thinking about it as he went to the door - he'd probably shake his head and laugh a little, if he didn't know that he'd probably still be doing that when the door was open and it might look odd.
Not that it would've mattered. His face immediately took on a look of surprise when he saw who was stood on his doorstep.
An elderly couple, both of them wearing the finest clothes (and jewellery) that money could buy. The difference in stature between them was probably the first thing anyone noticed when they looked at the couple – she was a shrivelled, old lady of about 5' 1" with kind blue eyes and a beaming smile. She had her (dyed) blonde hair carefully styled in a French twist and her perfectly manicured nails were of a deep red colour. Unlike his wife, the elderly man was a staggering 6' 2", he had a perennial stern expression on his wizened face, and his receding hairline had long since turned grey-white, a fact that simply didn't seem to bother him. Neither was he bothered by the fact he needed the assistance of an ornate cane to get his feeble body around. He'd always been fit, but as the years had gone by, his middle had expanded without him really trying.
These were his parents…
"Mom...Dad," he looked between them and tried to look happy. "Hi...! I...well, I wasn't expecting you...!
He hoped his laughter didn't sound too nervous when he said that last part. It was an often-irritating fact that his parents sometimes just seemed to know when something was up, and he didn't want to give them a helping hand in any way by acting strangely.
"Well, we didn't think we needed to book an appointment to stop by and say hi to our boy," his father joked, reaching forward and giving him a hearty slap on the arm. "We came down to Jersey for a medical convention and we thought we'd just come over and see how you were doing!"
Just fine, without any interruptions, Thomas thought to himself. Having Claire in the house at last had made everything the way he wanted everything he wanted it to be.
Well, as he'd thought to himself, nearly entirely the way he wanted it to be. But he didn't need to get that specific with his parents.
He certainly wasn't going to tell them that-
"You look like you're doing well," his mother smiled, seeming to follow up to his father's statement. "You're certainly smiling a lot more than I've seen you in recent years!"
"The boy's probably been keeping himself busy, Martha," his father grinned. "There's nothing like some good, honest hard work and money in the bank from it to put a smile on a guy's face!"
They really had no idea.
It was hard work, putting Claire in her place and getting what he wanted out of it. That he would never deny and he would always be proud of accomplishing. Turning a stubborn nag into a prizewinning filly was no mean feat, but somehow he was managing.
Just thinking about it more now was...relaxing.
Not that he was going to explain any of it to his parents. They wouldn't understand his notion of perfection - hell, they might even agree with that Lane bitch!
That would never do. They might've been his parents, but he wasn't above getting them both to keep quiet if it came down to it.
He was their little boy, he was sure they'd believe anything he said without having to resort to...greater measures, anyway.
"Would you like to come in?" he told them, gesturing over his shoulder, towards the inside of the house, "I was having some cake."
"You just said the magic words!" jested his father as he wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders. "You know I have a massive sweet tooth!"
"And by that, he means he is pre-diabetic," Martha interjected, grinning devilishly at her husband and nudging him on the side.
Thomas had to make an effort not to screw up his face at the way his parents related to one another. He'd never agreed with his mother being allowed to poke fun at his father, it wasn't becoming on a respectable woman like his mother. Had it been his wife who'd made fun of him, she would have been slapped silly.
Not that she'd dare. She knew who was in charge around here, even if his mother seemed unaware that she belonged to his father.
He took them into the kitchen, where he'd left the rest of the cake under the glass-lidded serving dish that he'd first made Claire wash and shine until it gleamed. He wasn't about to let her put the delicious, homemade, completely unburnt and flavourful (he'd stressed that last part by screaming at her) Black Forest gateau in a dirty serving dish. It would reflect badly on him to guests if he let her do that.
It wouldn't even be as though he could blame his wife if she got it wrong. They didn't even know that she was there, and he was planning on keeping it that way for a long time.
She could start being seen by other people when her fucking family and that stupid know-all butler thought she was dead.
"Would you like some coffee as well?" he asked as they made their way into the kitchen, the tv he'd neglected to switch off still blaring away from its position by the wall. The cake stood proudly in its dish on the side, and Thomas felt his chest swell a little at knowing he was the reason it was there. "I can put on a fresh pot."
"Absolutely," his father stepped over to admire the cake, probably practically salivating already. "A large cup, and a large slice of this will be exactly what this doctor ordered!"
Thomas nodded, smiling a little at his father's use of his favourite catchphrase. He'd never gotten bored of it and had been using it non-stop for the past forty-something years Thomas had been a part of the Jones family. His father was a no-nonsense kind of man, but he did have a penchant for bad puns and witty wordplay.
It was part of his charm, he supposed.
Edward Jones was nothing like his birth father, whom Thomas had despised. That bastard had thought himself o big and powerful – used his size and strength to intimidate and hurt Thomas, but the joke was on him. He was free of him now, and while he rotted in jail, Thomas was having the time of his life. He'd always wanted to impress his adoptive father, he'd done anything and everything to gain his praise and favour. Luckily for him, gaining it hadn't been too hard – in Edward's eyes, he could do no wrong. He was the golden child, and Thomas was all-too-aware of this.
He supposed it could be said that he loved his father, but since he had little to no experience where love was concerned, Thomas couldn't really tell. Not that it was a matter for concern – he wasn't one for thinking about his feelings. He found it both pointless and rather bothersome.
"Sit down, pops, while I'll get started on your meal," he said, gesturing towards the kitchen table. He then looked over at his mother, who'd been oddly quiet since they'd arrived in the kitchen. She was stood right in front of the TV, eyes glued to the screen and to Claire's weeping parents.
"I feel awful for those two, every time I see them doing something like this," she said aloud, and probably not to anybody in particular. "They must be so desperate, to put on another conference like this and to put up the reward by so much...! They just want her home, the poor dears..."
Had it not been too obvious a gesture, Thomas might've rolled his eyes. He didn't get why his mother felt she had to care so much - it wasn't like they were anything to do with her! They weren't her patients, she'd never meet them, and there wasn't any point in feeling sorry for somebody who just wasn't going to get what they wanted, anyway.
Not that any of that stopped his father from craning his neck to look at the screen.
Edward frowned deeply, "It's a sad thing, when somebody just goes missing like that. I can't even imagine how I'd feel if we were going through what they're going through..."
That was when Martha finally peeled herself away from watching the conference, turning towards her son.
"Have you heard about any advancements in the case, or anybody else at work?" she asked. "They must keep you all informed with what's going on, right?"
Thomas stiffened – he hadn't really told his parents that his old boss had called off the production. He had already gotten another job at the theatre, of course (and this time he'd been promoted to stage manager!), but he knew that, perhaps, he should have told his parents.
He knew it would seem a little bit off, given that he usually told them everything about his work. Still, he didn't really have any other option apart from simply telling them (part of) the truth and hope that they didn't push the issue.
"I really wouldn't know, mother," he said, cutting three thick slices of cake and carefully placing them on three different plates, which he then carried to the kitchen table.
"How so?" asked the woman, reaching over for her own plate. "Don't they tell the staff what's going on?"
Thomas shrugged as he went back to the kitchen counter to retrieve the freshly made pot of coffee from the coffee machine. "Oh, they usually do, but I am not longer working for Sheffield Productions. When she disappeared they called the play off."
Martha stopped reaching for her plate, her jaw dropping open a little.
"You're not?"
Thomas shook his head, grabbing the coffee and bringing it back with him to the table.
"Thomas, you never told us this!"
Yeah, in case you made a connection between the two, Thomas thought. His parents, despite not exactly being the ideal married couple (or even ideal parents) in his mind, were both extremely clever and it wouldn't have taken them long to work out that his leaving timed...well, so well with the disappearance.
"Exactly; that's not like you at all," his father agreed, sounding sterner than his more incredulous mother. He probably considered it some kind of desertion, or something. "You're always telling us about your job. What's so different about this time?"
Thomas seated himself at the table and shrugged, pulling his plate towards him. He'd have preferred to keep it all to himself for another day, but needs must and part of him couldn't help but want an outside tester for how well Claire was coming along.
It was really all her fault this conversation was happening in the first place...
"Nothing, really - it just...I just didn't make a big deal out of it this time. Everybody was going once the play was cancelled, anyway," he said, starting to pour his coffee. "Besides, it wasn't as though Miss Babcock was that well-liked around the place..."
Martha audibly gasped. It reminded Thomas of when he'd been younger and she'd seen either him or somebody else do something bad in the house. And that had included the neighbour's dog, when it had decided to take a dump on their front porch right after his father had finished sweeping it off.
Not that he should've been doing that, anyway. Sweeping was a woman's job.
That was probably one of the reasons Claire hadn't been liked around the theatre. She'd taken a man's job, lorded it over everybody and then expected superior beings to do dogsbody work for her. They were all probably glad that he'd taken her, and that he was now putting her to her proper use.
He took a bite of his cake as his mother cried out in his direction.
"Thomas Jones, I don't care how old you are, you take that back right this instant! The poor woman is missing, and even if it isn't nice to say it out loud, she could even be dead!"
Fat chance, Thomas thought to himself. There was no way he was going to let his first choice for a wife just die on him like that. What would he do with the body? And he might already have the room set up, but what if it took him time to find another one that he'd then have to train and correct, until she got to where Claire was?
No. He wasn't going to allow that to happen. Claire needed his permission for everything and that included dying.
"I don't think she is dead, Mother," he replied flippantly, taking yet another forkful of cake to his mouth. "You know the saying – only the good die young."
Martha made a disparaging noise. She'd never heard her son talk about someone with such spite! It wasn't like him, and it certainly was not how they'd educated him while growing up. She didn't know much about this Babcock girl apart from the little her son had told her, but she was sure she couldn't be that much of a horrible person! And even if she was, no one deserved to be snatched away from the streets, as she had.
Martha looked over at her husband, giving him the kind of pointed look that says "help me here!" that most parents seem to understand. Edward had always been the breadwinner and, to the outside world, the head of the family. But in reality, it was Martha who captained their family life with an iron grip. Which was just as well – Edward and Martha had always agreed that, even though Martha would still continue to work after their children were born, she was to be the homemaker and Edward the main provider.
He was more than happy to lie back and let his wife take the reins, and that had made for a wonderfully harmonious family life throughout their fifty-seven years of marriage. She'd lovingly and carefully scheduled his and their children's lives throughout the years, always finding the time in her own busy schedule to spoil them rotten with delicious home-made family meals and elaborate family outing plans.
In Edward's eyes, she was the most wonderful woman and wife that there would ever be. To quote one of the founding fathers she was the "best of wives and best of women" and what she said, went. They were one of those couples that actually supported each other when co-parenting, and no matter how old they became or how grown their children were, that would never change.
Those first facts were why he had no trouble in backing his wife up, combined with the fact that what their son was saying was perhaps one of the worst things you could possibly say about a missing person (and it didn't matter who that person was).
And that last point, combined with the fact that he would always parent all of his children, was why he had no trouble in putting his son in his place.
"You know, son; one of these days, you're gonna have to learn some manners," he said, making sure his voice had that hard edge to it that he'd always put on whenever any of the kids acted up when they were young. "This kind of thing is not a joke, so you shouldn't be treating it like one!"
He couldn't understand where the attitude was coming from - the thought they'd raised their boy better than to go around almost openly laughing at people who were missing! They were both doctors, for crying out loud, they had patients and case studies of hurt people around them all the time, and even when they hadn't brought work home they'd always taught their kids to be kind.
So why was Thomas, all of a sudden, lacking empathy? He wasn't even showing the removed kind of sympathy that you saved for seeing someone get hurt on television!
By all rights, he should've been showing the kind of empathy that was supposed to come when you'd known a person. Like everyone else at the theatre probably was…
He obviously couldn't speak for how well-liked Miss Babcock was or not, but Edward knew people. Whether or not they liked her, he knew that they'd feel something, knowing that she was missing.
Even if that "something" was guilt, for things ending up the way that they had.
Thomas, meanwhile, was staring at his father and silently wondering why he was doing this to him. He was his son - his boy - and he hadn't spoken to him like that in years! Not since he'd last gotten into trouble!
Then again, he didn't understand a lot of what his father did; he let his wife tell him what to do, including making him do chores around the house even though it was women's work, and now...
Now, he was telling him what jokes he could and couldn't make about one inferior being that wasn't even a very well-liked example of other inferior beings!
She didn't matter. She was only there to be of use, and now she was being put to use. Why did everybody else have to make such a big deal out of it when he made one comment?
But he didn't want to make his parents upset. The last thing he needed was having them on his back – he had enough with the Lane bitch already. He had to do what he did best: be deceitful. It had always worked for him before. Repentance was not something he bothered himself with; it was pointless. But for some reason pretending to be sorry when he wasn't, seemed to put people at ease and, usually, got him out of the unwanted limelight.
Thomas lowered his fork, face contorted into what Thomas had always identified as a mildly embarrassed expression, and hung his head. He even stayed silent for a few extra moments to appear to be thinking about what he'd said. It had always worked when he was a child, and the results were immediate – there was a softening in Edward's angry look.
His father seemed to be reassured by the (erroneous) conviction that his parental disapproval had prompted change within his youngest offspring. It fed his fantasy that each and every one of his children had grown up to be decent, law-abiding citizens with his same wishy-washy sense of morality. Thomas found this rather sad.
He regarded nowadays morality and infuriating political correctness as nothing but two big, fat frauds. Mankind had maintained a harmonious status quo for millennia: men on top and women on the bottom, mere pawns to use and dispose of when they'd outlived their use.
But suddenly, for God knows what moronic reason, the script had been flipped and now the natural order had been disrupted by modern-day deluded ethicality.
Thomas could spit on modern society's ethos. Social Justice Warriors were always so keen to look down at everyone else from their high horses and to put a metaphorical muzzle on anyone who disagreed with their preposterous stance. God knows he'd been forced to keep his true feelings under wraps – still was, since he didn't fancy becoming a social outcast.
He could just carry on with his views in private. Scumbags on the Internet could stop him from writing out a whole manifesto on why women had to be kept exactly where they were otherwise the natural order of things would tip out of balance (it would - could you imagine if women got to be in charge? If one ever snuck into the White House and stole the Presidency from a man?!), but they couldn't make him stop what he was doing in his own home to his own wife.
One little liberal bitch on some chatroom had had the nerve to say that he probably lived at home in his mother's basement. She had no idea how successful he was, or what a perfect specimen of a man he was when you got to see him in person.
She thought him sad and pathetic; a lonely virgin who'd never find anybody to make him a man and would never amount to anything.
Well, that wasn't him, and he could prove it.
And that was all because he'd taken steps to ensure that he got himself a wife. He couldn't be this sad, bitter loser (like virgins were and would always be until they weren't virgins anymore. It seemed everyone on the Internet knew it and it was the only thing everybody could agree on, these days) when he'd done something grown up and taken control.
Claire wasn't perfect yet, but she would be. And his parents were never going to find out that their comments were hitting too close to home to be comfortable.
They even looked like they were buying his ruse.
But he thought he'd better drive it home, just to be sure.
"Maybe I was a little rough on her...she wasn't that bad a boss. And it's not really like anybody deserves to go missing," he mumbled his lie. "Sorry...I'll shut up about it now."
His father pursed his lips, before grasping his cane to get up from the table, "Well. Let's just hope that someone finds her soon. Then we can put all of this behind us. I'll be right back."
With that said, he began to head off in the direction of the bathroom.
It left him and his mother alone, and Thomas felt relieved that the worst part of their visit today now had to be over.
Why would it not be? She had already said boo to a goose with her husband's backing once by telling him off over the whole non-issue about Claire. For the sake of it not turning into an argument, Edward would obviously not let her keep going on at him about what he'd been saying (not that he was going to take back his word and start pushing his luck).
It was over now. It had to be.
But it wasn't over, in Martha's mind. She had too much going on inside that she needed to get out, simply to be at peace with herself.
And maybe at peace with her son, too...
Edward going to the bathroom was the perfect opportunity to ask, though. She hadn't told him - and she wasn't going to tell him, either - about the phone call that she'd gotten from the police, regarding this Miss Babcock's disappearance.
Her disappearance, and whether or not they owned a white Ford Bronco.
It had been a few months ago, back when Miss Babcock had just been kidnapped. Edward had been out at a Doctor's appointment while she'd stayed home, watching TV while doing some knitting. Normally, she would have gone with him, but since she'd been feeling a little under the weather and Edward had insisted that she stay put since it was only a routine check, Martha had caved.
She'd been in the middle of watching Oprah when the phone had rung. She'd very nearly let the answering machine get it, but with Edward out and about on his own (and considering his limited mobility) she'd thought better of it and answered the phone.
Much to her surprise, it wasn't her husband on the other end, but rather NYC's Chief Detective, Christina Lane. The woman had gotten straight to the point and told Martha that she was investigating Miss Babcock's disappearance, and that her son was currently being looked into as one of the potential suspects.
It had nearly sent Martha to the floor then and there, learning that her son was being investigated! Her boy had promised her that crime wasn't the life he wanted to lead, after his last time in juvenile detention. He'd certainly never go so far as to kidnap a person! It seemed impossible that he could be involved in any way whatsoever, even if he did work at the theatre where Miss Babcock was the producer!
That was when Detective Lane had asked if they had a white Ford Bronco, and if they'd loaned it to their son recently for any reason.
And it had struck Martha that they had. Thomas had been involved in a car accident, and he'd been waiting for a new Rolls Royce to arrive, but as he'd still needed to get around and they didn't need the car so much, they'd given it to him for that time.
And that had sent a feeling like knots twisting in her stomach, which (even though it killed her to admit) Martha still occasionally got when she thought too deeply about it.
This was her son she was thinking about this way, connected even just a little bit to a horrible crime...
But she hadn't been able to do anything other than tell Detective Lane the truth, had she? She'd never lie to a police officer, especially about something as important as an investigation into a disappearance...
So, she'd told her that they did have a white Ford Bronco, and that Thomas had been using it at the time Miss Babcock had disappeared.
Lane had seemingly taken that all down, and had gone on to ask Martha a bit about what her son was like. Of course, after feeling a little confused by that question, Martha had replied that her son was quiet and usually kept to himself. There wasn't a lot more to say about him, other than his whole thing about cleanliness.
But that had seemed to be enough for Lane, who'd thanked her and hung up almost straight afterwards.
That had brought the knots on again full-force, and they hadn't relaxed any until weeks had passed and it had become apparent that the police weren't contacting her again.
But now...now, with Thomas not telling them everything like he used to - not telling them that he wasn't working at that theatre anymore...
Well, Martha could feel the knots tightening back up again, and she didn't know if they'd relax this time. She looked up at the man she and her husband had raised as their own; he had stood up to take his empty plate and cup to the sink. Years had gone by, but Martha could still see the frail, scared boy they'd met when first visiting the orphanage from where Thomas had been adopted. He'd been but a scrawny little thing, small for his age and in way more pain than any child should ever be.
She remembered Thomas had been playing on his own, away from all of the other children, and there had been a painfully obvious aura of sadness around him. Their appointed social worker had explained to them that the boy had gone through extensive trauma and would most probably pose a challenge for any adoptive parents, but both Martha and Edward hadn't cared one whit.
They'd loved him since the moment they'd seen their little boy, and they'd taken him home, making a vow to make him the happiest and most well-loved child in the entire world. They'd obviously encountered many obstacles along the way – it hadn't been easy to try and erase the print of abuse in Thomas – but little by little they'd seen progress in their adoptive son until he'd become a cheerful and incredibly charming little child.
He was the apple of his family's eye. The golden child. And yet, all of that love and care hadn't been enough to keep the darkness at bay. It had grown in him, like a disease, until it had nearly taken him over completely during his troubled teenage years. Martha remembered the many sleepless nights she and Edward had spent together, despairing over Thomas' choices. After his second stay in Juvie it had become obvious to them that he wouldn't follow in his sibling's footsteps – no Ivy League college, no successful career, no nothing…
That's why they'd taken the hard decision to send him to military school for a year. So, at the tender age of fifteen, he'd been shipped away to some isolated camp, where he'd spent the better part of his junior year.
They'd thought that it might do him some good. He'd said he'd wanted to try and have a structure after coming back out of the correctional facility, so they'd made that executive decision.
And it seemed to have worked - they didn't hear a peep out of him or his previous criminal record after that. It had given him the structure and the discipline that he'd so desperately needed, but for some reason, he hadn't been able to find in his parents.
That sometimes made Martha sad, thinking that she'd failed her son that way. But Edward had reminded her of the difficult place Thomas had come from, and of all the things their boy had seen that they'd never understand. It had obviously all caught up to him, and that was why they hadn't been able to deal with it by themselves.
He'd said that there was nothing wrong with getting a little extra assistance when it was needed. And after all, that's what those places were for...
That had convinced her enough to stop feeling quite so worried.
And when she'd seen the results, she thought it had worked entirely - their boy was so calm and polite after! He barely said boo to a goose unless he had to, and he stopped staying out late with no warning or without telling them where he was going. All the fighting stopped, too, and he got to working hard.
So hard, he ended up going to Yale and getting a degree. And seeing that happen had healed up the cracks in Martha's heart, which had opened in despair at the thought of her son never making anything of himself.
He'd come through, even if it had taken some hard decisions to make it happen.
Again, he'd never been much of an intellectual and they had had to provide him with money for him to stay in the way of life he was used to since his line of work didn't exactly pay well, but Martha had been sure that his life had finally straightened up – that he'd left the darkness behind…
She prayed to God he had…
She'd always worried about his lack of a long term partner, and at this stage in his life, she knew it was unlikely that he would ever form a family of his own, but other than that she wanted to believe her boy was a good, decent human being.
Perhaps she only needed to talk to him to finally put her fears to rest – hear from him that he really had nothing to do. He'd never lie to her, would he? He hadn't done so in decades, so she didn't see why it should change now!
"Thomas," she spoke softly, getting to her feet as well and going over to where her son stood, "Can…can I ask you something?"
Thomas glanced up at her from where he was washing his plate until it gleamed before he stacked it neatly on the drying rack. He didn't trust dishwashers - he never really had, and he always insisted on washing up his own cups and plates and knives and forks by himself.
At least, that was what she'd been led to believe. Thomas was actually finding it a little bit frustrating that he was having to do it by himself this time, instead of getting Claire to do it.
But he supposed it couldn't be helped this time. And the nervous way his mother had just asked her question made his mind put all other thoughts to one side for a moment, while he dealt with whatever was going on.
It sounded like it was something important. And he wasn't sure in the slightest whether he liked that or not. His mother's attempts at important conversations had a fifty-fifty chance of ending up bad for him.
Like being told that they'd support him, seeing as his job wouldn't let him keep his house. Or that they were sending him to military school.
But he couldn't just tell her that he didn't want to hear it, either.
"Of course, Mother," he said, inspecting his coffee cup to check how deep the stains were before he squirted a generous amount of dish soap onto it and filled it with water. "What is it?"
It took a moment for her to gather up all her courage, and she fumbled at her hands all the while, but eventually, Martha managed to speak.
"I...a few weeks ago, there was a call. From Detective Lane of the New York Police Department..."
Thomas nearly dropped his cup in the sink, just about managing to hold onto it and not give the impression that he'd just had a moment of panic, or that he had any idea of what that whore Lane could possibly want from him.
Or his parents. He couldn't believe that that bitch had had the nerve to go to them! Who the hell did she think she was, passing by him to talk to his parents?!
"What did she want?" he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.
Martha shuffled her feet, part of her feeling like this was perhaps a bad idea.
"She wanted to know about the car, and if you had it the week of...well..."
She hesitated, looking to the floor before sighing and directing her eyes back up at him again.
"Did...are...are you absolutely sure that you had nothing to do with Miss Babcock's disappearance?"
The question was so direct, Thomas nearly dropped his cup again. But this time, he gripped it harder - like he could crush it in his hand with the rage that was starting to build just beneath his skin.
It was Claire's fault that it was happening. She'd drawn the police and that slut Lane into this. They'd gone to his parents as though they had any right to interfere and that had made his mother suspect and that made her upset.
And somebody was going to have to pay for making his mother upset.
It was Claire's fault, so Claire would pay the price for it.
But that had to wait. His mother's peace of mind came first, and he alone had to see to that. Preferably before his father came back. If he knew his mother, he was certain she hadn't told his father about the call. She'd always been…lenient with him, and would keep some things from his father to spare him being in trouble with Edward. Still, she would always insist on talking about it with Thomas herself, but it was easier than getting Edward involved.
Thomas disliked many of his mother's attitudes (the woman certainly needed to learn to be a better, more obedient wife) in regards to her wifely duties to her father, but he had no complaints about her as a mother. His parents' marriage was surprisingly strong despite its flaws, so he was not going to barge in where he wasn't being called. No, he'd keep his opinions to himself.
He already had his own marriage to think about for him to be troubling himself with his parents'!
No, what truly mattered here was casting away the shadow of doubt and suspicion that was suddenly hovering above him thanks to his no-good bitch of a wife and that police slut. He wanted his mother happy and completely oblivious to what was going on. Martha Jones was anything but stupid, so her doubting his innocence was a liability. A loose end that needed tying up.
"Oh, mother," he said, gently depositing the cup on the kitchen counter so he could wrap an arm around Martha's shoulders. "Of course I had nothing to do with it! I mean, I know I've screwed up plenty of times in the past, but I'd never do anything as heinous as kidnapping a person."
Thomas took great care to never break eye contact with his mother, and he smiled reassuringly at her, just as he'd do when he was a child. He'd dubbed this his "puppy face" and it rarely failed where his mother was concerned. Again, he was her golden boy – what evil could he do?
"I'm sure it was only a routine procedure, since I worked with Miss Babcock to start with," he insisted, squeezing his mother's shoulders. "The police are doing a wonderful job, I'm certain."
Martha couldn't detect it, but Thomas words were dripping with sarcasm. And he relished in it.
Inconspicuously gloating over his triumph over NYPD's mediocre police department was one of his favourite pastimes.
But Martha didn't know that. She didn't know that he had everything to do with it. She didn't know that he often sat there, watching police reports and reading newspapers, laughing to himself over the fact that they were going around in circles, whilst he was on his way to having everything just the way he wanted.
She didn't know that he wasn't planning on stopping until the day when he felt that everything was just perfect.
It was precisely her unwitting ignorance (and, of course, the love and confidence she had for Thomas as her son) what resulted in her heaving out a long, tired sigh and nodding at what Thomas had said – a physical attempt at convincing herself that she really and truly believed in her son's words.
"Okay, son" she conceded, "I guess I was just overthinking..."
Thomas shrugged, always keeping the warm smile directed at his mother on his face, "Happens to us all."
Martha then brought her son into a quick hug, establishing that all was forgiven.
Even if, deep within, she still couldn't get the idea (or rather, the uncertainty) out of her head.
She knew that she wanted to believe him. This was her son she was thinking about! Her son, who might have done bad things in the past, but never anything like that!
They hadn't raised a monster, hadn't they?
No, her boy couldn't be a cruel, cold-hearted bastard – there was no way he and that son of a bitch were the same person. How could they, when Thomas clearly was a kind, loving son? No, there simply was no way.
Not her son, who was currently discussing some sports game or other with Edward, who'd just shuffled back into the kitchen. Thomas said he hadn't managed to catch the ending of the game, and Edward (just as he'd always do when discussing Football) was more than happy to describe every touchdown, field goal and pass in extreme detail.
He looked so ordinary, their boy. Just stood there at the counter, describing passes and goals with his dad like any other man on the planet might...
That wasn't the look of a man who kidnapped people, and held them against their will. Most of Martha was certain of that.
But a small part of her, lodged firmly in her heart where it refused to budge, doubted. Did the police really check up on everyone who worked with people who went missing? Ask about their cars at the time?
Something just wasn't adding up perfectly, and the knots were coming back again - twisting and tightening their way in, where they would stay until they found some reason to be relieved.