Where Are My Children? The True Story of a Mother Who Risked Her Life to Rescue Her Kidnapped Children Read online

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  475 Park Avenue South

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 1991 by Cassie Kimbrough

  Some names have been changed in the interest of confidentiality.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Second printing: October, 1991

  Printed in the United States of America

  Where Are My Children?

  By Cassie Kimbrough

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  One Chance

  The Kidnapping

  The Plan

  The Recovery

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  ONE CHANCE

  The school was having some kind of fiesta. Crêpe paper streamers were strung across the basketball court and children and adults milled around refreshment stands. Quickly I scanned the crowd for Jane and Michael, but couldn't find them.

  Then a familiar movement on the far side of the court caught my eye: a little boy and girl hugged each other, and then the girl impatiently wiggled free. My fingers dug into the back of the old sofa I was sitting on.

  "My babies!" I said to no one. "My beautiful children!"

  How I ached to run down and touch their hands through the steel fence. As it was, all I could do was look down at them and watch helplessly.

  I had to wait for just the right moment. There was no room for mistakes. I would only have one chance to get them back.

  The Kidnapping

  Chapter One

  Friday, November 13, 1987

  It was six o'clock in the evening of Friday the thirteenth. I wasn't superstitious, but still it was a relief that the day was almost over, and nothing bad had happened.

  My soon-to-be ex-husband, Federico, would be here any minute to pick up Jane and Michael. They were in their room choosing the toys they wanted to take on their weekend visit. Michael, four years old and all boy, was deciding which He-Man figure to take. Jane, six, looked up at me and asked, "Mommy, where's my Barbie doll?" She would be tall like me. What a contrast to her brother, who would have his father's dark hair and sturdier build.

  There was a rap at the door, then a chorus of "Daddy! Daddy!" Federico swept Michael into the air and hugged Jane. I knew this display was partly for my benefit--he hadn't been this affectionate with the children before our separation—but I was glad they still had a loving relationship. In spite of the bitterness of our pending divorce and custody battle, it was my fervent hope that Federico's and my problems would remain just that—his and mine—and not spill over onto the children. But that hope seemed more and more unlikely as time went on.

  Federico had demanded a jury trial to decide who should get custody of Jane and Michael. It was set for December, only a month away. I was pretty sure I would be granted custody, in spite of Federico's attempts to paint me as a bad mother. The trial would be ugly, but it would be over soon. Then we could all pick up the pieces and live normal lives again.

  "Don't forget you promised to take them to the matinee on Sunday to see 'The Ugly Duckling,'" I reminded Federico.

  "Sure. I can buy the tickets from you now," he said. I could hear the forced amiability through his thick Spanish accent. Federico was Bolivian, but with his green eyes and aquiline nose, he looked more like a citizen of France or Spain than Latin America. He paid for the tickets and pocketed them. The smile on his face was more like a smirk, but I considered it an encouraging sign anyway. Maybe things were settling down and he was regaining a margin of sanity. Was it my imagination, or had he been more cooperative for the past few weeks? Could I hope he would give up his insistence on a jury trial?

  As I looked at him I found it hard to believe that this was the same man I had married nine years before. Nine years. Amazing, that two so very different people had stayed together that long. We had met at the University of Texas at Austin, and after a tempestuous courtship that had lasted two and a half years, we were married. Two weeks later we'd gone to Bolivia to live. Federico promised that we'd live there only two years. But the two years had stretched into six and a half. Finally, in 1985, we had come back to Texas. That was two years ago. Now here we were, two continents and two children later, strangers again.

  I hugged Jane and Michael goodbye and shut the door behind them. Turning, I saw the toys they'd forgotten in the hubbub over their father's arrival. I shouted out the door at them and they came running back, Jane's dark blonde hair flying.

  Quick hugs and they were gone again, this time clutching the toys as they ran down the sidewalk. Having a favorite plaything nearby would be a comfort when they woke up in an unfamiliar place, I thought. After all, they had spent the night with Federico only a few times since he'd moved out.

  At first, he would pick them up on Saturday morning and have them back in time for supper. Lately, for some reason, he'd started keeping them all weekend. But I considered this a positive sign too.

  Anyway, this weekend it would be convenient for me that the kids were gone. I was going to be busy with three performances of the ballet "The Ugly Duckling." In it, I danced the role of the mother swan to a half dozen adolescent cygnets. The first performance was that night.

  I set about getting ready to go to the local theater, pulling on tights and leotard and twisting my hair into a chignon. Jane and Michael had come with me to most of the rehearsals. They were excited now about seeing the full-fledged ballet, complete with costumes and scenery. I was probably every bit as nervous as the young girls who would be dancing on stage for the first time that night, but my excitement was tinged with sadness. After the Sunday matinee, this would be my last performance, the final laying to rest of a childhood dream.

  At one time or another nearly every girl yearns to be a ballerina, but I passed up an opportunity to give that dream a chance. When I was fourteen I had been offered a scholarship at a ballet school in New York City. Daddy had been alarmed at the idea of his daughter going off to the big bad city all by herself. He'd been even more alarmed at the possibility of my becoming a professional dancer. It was a narrow life, he'd said, grueling, competitive, and harsh. So I didn't go.

  But my love for dance had persisted through the years, and I'd kept it up now and then between college and babies. Now the strenuous routine of class and rehearsal was just not possible anymore. I was thirty-four years old, not fourteen. Even so, age was not as much of a factor as the fact that my time was filled with having a job and family. And soon I would be a single mother with even less free time. So I danced that Friday night with awareness that it would be one of the last times.

  Late that night, just before falling asleep, I remembered again that it was Friday the thirteenth. It had passed without incident.

  The next day was unseasonably warm for November—even for the semi-tropical climate of McAllen, Texas, in the Rio Grande Valley—and I kept thinking that the sweaters I'd packed for Jane and Michael would be too hot. I made a mental note to call Federico and go by his apartment with lighter clothes for them. Instead I was needed at the theater to sew last-minute feathers onto swan costumes. There were so many details to take care of for the ballet that night that I completely forgot about calling the kids.

  At the matinee performance on Sunday afternoon, a little thrill of pleasure wen
t through me as I thought of Jane and Michael in the audience. "The Ugly Duckling" turned out to be delightful—touching and funny at the same time. They'd love it. Once on stage, though, I could see nothing but blackness beyond the footlights.

  As soon as I got home, my friend Susan called. She had gone to the matinee with her two young children. "It was adorable. My kids loved it. But," she added, "we didn't see Jane and Michael. They weren't there."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm positive. We went up and down the aisles looking for them during each intermission."

  I was irritated. It would be just like Federico to buy tickets and then not take the kids, just to annoy me. I resisted the impulse to call him and demand an explanation. Besides, I had a hands-off policy for the weekends that Jane and Michael spent with him. It was their time together, and I made it a point not to interfere. So I didn't call.

  By six o'clock that evening I was restless for them to be home. It was always like this on their weekends away. On the first day, I enjoyed the luxury of having time to myself. But by the second day, the apartment seemed empty without them.

  Six-thirty came. No knock on the door. Well, he was always a little late. I waited awhile, and then phoned his apartment. No answer. At seven-thirty there was still no answer. They were probably visiting one of his friends, I told myself. Nevertheless, a nagging worry began to grow in my mind.

  The summer before, Federico had taken the children all the way to Miami to see his mother and sister who had flown up from Bolivia, and he'd brought them back safe and sound. At the time my lawyer had said I wasn't under any legal obligation to let Federico take Jane and Michael with him. But I didn't want to cut them off from their Bolivian relatives. And Federico was planning to take them to Disney World. Besides, maybe if I showed him some trust and goodwill, he'd see that he could have them anytime he wanted and give up his demand for custody. But I hadn't let him go without some guarantees. Before leaving, he'd signed notarized statements promising to return the children by 6 P.M. the following Sunday. The statement spelled out flight numbers and hotel names and included his written promise to have the children call me every night they were away.

  The day they'd left, Jane had stood by Federico's car crying, her thin shoulders hunched.

  "I don't want to go," she had sobbed. Her green eyes pleaded with me. "Mommy, don't make me go. I want to stay with you."

  I tried to reassure her. She would have lots of fun. I would talk to her every night and she'd be back home in just a few days. I had felt responsible for her fearfulness. One night, weeks before that, I had started to cry in front of her. She'd never seen that before. When she asked what was wrong, I'd blurted out that I was afraid her daddy would take her and Michael away from me and never bring them back. I'd regretted that outburst many times, because it had planted the same fear in her. Several times when Federico had come to pick the children up for the weekend, she had begged me to tell him she didn't want to go, and I'd say that she had to tell him herself. But she couldn't bring herself to disappoint him. I sometimes worried that she was too obedient, too eager to please.

  All that week they were in Miami, I felt uneasy. Had I been foolish? After all, it was the perfect opportunity for Federico to take off for Bolivia with the children and never come back. Each night I'd be relieved by the sound of their chirping voices over the phone. When he came back with them a week later I nearly wept with relief—relief that they were home and, even more important, relief that I'd never have to worry about Federico kidnapping them again. If he hadn't done it this time, I thought, he never would.

  But now I wasn't so sure. He was two hours late. By eight o'clock I had called every friend of his I could think of. No one had seen him. By nine o'clock I knew something was very wrong. I called my lawyer at home. He was surprised to hear from me on a Sunday night.

  "Is anything wrong?"

  "He hasn't brought the kids back yet. I'm worried."

  Mr. Rosenthal's voice was calm. "Have you called every place where they might be?" Yes, I had.

  "Don't panic. Just hang tight. Wait until ten o'clock, and if he hasn't brought them back by then, call me."

  I hung up the phone. As I waited, my stomach slowly squeezed itself into an icy ball. The minutes crawled by. Finally it was ten o'clock. Hand shaking, I dialed Mr. Rosenthal's number again.

  "They're still not back." My voice was shaky, too.

  "Okay. I'm coming over."

  I waited outside in the parking lot. It wasn't cold but my teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. In a few minutes he pulled up. I slid into the front seat and immediately felt reassured just being in his presence.

  Mr. Rosenthal was a bundle of contradictions. He came across as a good old boy, yet he was Jewish. Born and raised in a tiny town south of San Antonio, he'd become one of the most respected civil attorneys in the state. He was brash and outspoken, yet there was another side to him that was soft and kind.

  For the past five months he had been not only my lawyer, but also my friend. He was like a kindly uncle. He was also my boss. I worked as a paralegal in the law firm that he ran along with three other partners. Mr. Rosenthal didn't normally handle divorces, but at the request of Kathy, his secretary and my friend, he said he would oversee my divorce case. I knew that my simple divorce had turned into a messy custody battle and a colossal pain in the neck. But he had never made me feel like an imposition. His eyes twinkling beneath bushy eyebrows, cigar clenched in his teeth, he had a way of making an irreverent comment that cut straight to the heart of a matter. He had enabled me to see things in perspective. He even made me laugh about things that weren't laughable. But tonight his impish grin was absent, his mouth under the iron gray mustache unsmiling.

  First we drove across town to Federico's apartment complex and circled the parking lot. His car wasn't there. I didn't know which apartment was his, so we couldn't investigate on our own. Next we drove to the police station. He explained the situation to the officer at the front desk, who promised to send a patrolman to check out Federico's apartment. They'd call us as soon as they knew something. We drove to the law offices to wait for news. It was after midnight.

  In Mr. Rosenthal's modern chrome and leather office, I sat across from him as I had many times before. He leaned back in his chair, his feet on the desk, and took out a cigar. It was a familiar scene, except that instead of a tailor-made suit and Gucci shoes he was wearing a Mexican guayabera shirt, shorts, and sneakers. And instead of the constant interruption of his telephone, the office was eerily quiet.

  He produced a deck of cards and we started to play gin rummy, but without much enthusiasm. The clock on his wall was ticking loudly.

  "I wonder when that policeman is going to call," I finally said.

  "We should be hearing something pretty soon," he said, shifting the cigar in his mouth and laying down some cards

  "He promised me he'd never do this," I thought aloud. I remembered the scene clearly. One week after Federico had moved out of our apartment and filed for divorce, he had sat across from me at the kitchen table, begging me to let him have one of the children.

  "Please, just give one to me and you can keep the other. We could live with my mother in La Paz." Like the story of King Solomon and the baby. I couldn't bear the thought of it.

  No, I had said.

  For the first time a terrible fear took shape. What if he decided to take one of them anyway, or even both? I would be helpless to stop him. He had a legal right to see them. What if some afternoon when he took them for an outing he didn't come back?

  "Please don't ever take them away from me," I had begged, and started to cry. Federico knew that I didn't cry easily, and it took him by surprise. For a moment the hard look on his face softened.

  "I wouldn't do that to the kids. I know what it was like for you, growing up without a mother. I wouldn't do that to them."

  Now, back in the law office, I said, "After he brought them back from Miami last summer, I thought I
could trust him."

  Mr. Rosenthal's eyes were cynical as he looked up from his cards. He could have said, "I told you so" but didn't. How many times had I heard him mutter that he didn't trust the "slimy bastard"?

  Instead, he said patiently, "You don't know for a fact that he's taken them. Maybe he went to visit somebody out of town, in Harlingen or Brownsville or somewhere, and couldn't get back."

  He went on with a few other possible explanations, but I was only half listening. Did he really believe any of it? I studied him. Undisciplined salt and pepper curls framed his broad face. His nose had been broken and reconstructed so many times—the first time after a childhood accident—that he now had the look of a boxer who'd been in the ring too long.

  His thick eyebrows were drawn together and he wore a look of concerned reassurance. But I could tell that he was hiding something from me now. Could it be that he was as worried as I was? But, so desperately did I want to believe him that I seized on his reassuring words. We turned back to the card game. I struggled to concentrate, but the cards in my hands became a jumble of numbers and colors. The clock ticked on.

  Finally, around 2 A.M., the phone jangled. Mr. Rosenthal answered it. His face began to tighten as he listened, and the ball of ice in my stomach turned to lead. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Nothing, huh? Well, you have my number. If y'all find out anything, let me know." He hung up and looked at me with baleful eyes.

  "That was the police officer they sent out to check on Freddy's apartment. He said the door was open, and everything had been cleaned out—clothes, dishes, everything."

  "Everything?" I echoed.

  He nodded.

  I had been steeling myself for this news for hours. But his words skimmed across my mind like rocks skipping water. I covered my face with my hands, not to cry, but to shut out the room and force the meaning of his words into my brain. Why didn't I scream, why didn't I beat the walls with my fists? Instead I felt hollow, stunned, frozen in time and space, as if a balloon inside me had popped and everything had collapsed in on itself. Mr. Rosenthal came around his desk and patted me awkwardly on the back.