Empty Cradle

The widow nodded to the uniformed guard sitting behind the security desk then punched the UP button on the elevator. The wait was short tonight since most of the tenants were still out on the town. Only hard working mothers came home before midnight. When the doors slide open on the sixth floor, Camille strolled to the end of the hallway and unlocked the corner apartment. Besides being close to her office in the courthouse, the view from her living room windows let her enjoy the lights shining in the downtown area. Closing the door, she latched the chain but an odd silence in the apartment alerted Camille Henderson that something was wrong. It was way too early for Mignon to have gone to bed. That fact alone filled her mind with alarm and kicked up her heart rate. “Mignon, I’m home.” When there was no answering “Bonjour”, the lawyer opened the nursery door, but there was no sleeping cherub to be found. Next, she went to check the chalkboard mounted on the door of the kitchen pantry for a note, which was her nanny’s way of posting her whereabouts if she was out of the house. The words written in big block letters made her heart still for a long beat then pound in terror. WE HAVE YOUR CHILD YOU WILL BE CONTACTED SOON DO NOT CALL THE POLICE “No!” The cry of anguish that issued from her mouth sounded like the voice of an alien being, but it brought a moan from inside the walk-in pantry. Grabbing a carving knife from the counter, the distraught but determined mother turned the knob slowly. Jerking the door open, she discovered Mignon Broussard bound and gagged on the floor. She was trussed up like a Thanksgiving Day turkey, but otherwise, appeared to be unhurt. Camille quickly sliced the cords that bound her hands and feet. The servant slipped the kerchief from her mouth. “Mon Dieu! Please forgive me, Madame. I could not stop the bad people from taking le petit.” Bursting into tears, the nanny rocked back and forth in distress, speaking French so fast it was impossible for the attorney to understand her. Walking from the pantry, the mother picked up the portable receiver and punched in a single digit. She spoke one sentence to the voice that answered. “I need your h-help.”