Call the Devil by His Oldest Name

by Sallie Bissell

Mary grabbed her arm. “Not now, Ruth. We need to wait till the sun comes up.”

  “But why? They might have left some clues—”

  “Which we could overlook or trample in the dark,” Gabe interrupted, “Mary’s right, Ruth. We need to do this when we can see.”

  “So now you’re now an expert on finding stolen children, huh?” Ruth’s voice was caustic.

  Gabe gave an edgy laugh. “I’m not an expert on anything, Ruth. I just happen to agree with Mary.”

  “I know, I know. Everybody always agrees with Mary.” Ruth walked in a tight little circle.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I think I just need something to eat. Or maybe to drink.”

  “Come back to the van, honey,” said Mary. “I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  Ruth hesitated a moment, then agreed. “Let me fix us a pot of sassafras tea. It’ll make us all feel better.”

  “Okay.” Mary didn’t want any tea, but she thought it best to tread lightly, given Ruth’s mercurial temperament. “We’ll fix sandwiches. You bring us some tea.”

  A little while later they sat at the dinette.

  Ruth had handed them individual cups of tea, while they had fixed her a grilled cheese sandwich. Mary smiled as the tea took her back to her childhood, when her mother would serve cold sassafras tea in the summertime, with little sprigs of mint in each glass.

  “This tastes great, Ruth,” Gabe told her, sipping from the cup she’d poured for him.

  “The old Cherokees regarded it as a curative,” she replied, once again her old self. “It does kind of make the world seem a little better.” She gazed out the window toward the statue. “Sometimes, anyway.”

  “We’ll go out at first light.” Mary glanced at her watch. It was ten past four. “Now, let’s at least get a couple of hours of sleep.”

  Ruth turned from the window and gave Mary the saddest look she’d ever seen. “Do you really think we’ll ever see her again?”

  “I don’t know, Ruth,” Mary answered honestly. “But I promise you that neither you nor I nor Jonathan will ever stop looking for her, for as long as we live.”

  Thirty

  SOME THIRTY MILES away, in an antique­ studded bedroom at the Tender Shepherd Home, Edwina Templeton lay propped against six down pillows, sipping a predawn cup of Earl Grey tea. A laptop computer lay across her thighs, and her fingernails clacked on the keys as she fabricated a completely new biography for her newest client. Though she’d always had a flair for drama and a small talent with words, turning Logan’s little misbegotten offspring into a half­ Iranian princess had taken some real creativity. First she’d had difficulty finding an Iranian web­ site written in English, then, when she’d finally navigated to a collection of baby names, she’d had trouble picking one out. “Meshia” was a pretty name that would fit so pretty a child, but it meant “butter made of sheep’s milk.” “Fojan,” which meant “loud voice,” suited Logan’s baby in a different way, but it sounded like something you’d name a German shepherd. Finally, after hours of searching, she found the perfect name. It was both pleasing to the ear and represented all her hopes for this child. Logan’s baby, who had arrived nameless, would hereafter be called “Behbaha,” which meant “best price.”

  With the rest of the family history, Edwina was less obsessive. She named the fictional mother “Mahvash Ankasa,” simply because the names were Iranian and she liked the way the syllables flowed together. She made Mahvash a twenty-five-year-old naturalized citizen from Tehran, a bright, progressive young woman who had eschewed the black chador in favor of a white nurse’s cap.

  The father, she decided, should be from Tennessee, mostly because she had a friend up in Nashville who could cover for her if the adopting couple looked at this too closely. John, she wrote on the line below Mahvash. John Winston McIntosh. She put him down as being born in the county of her own birth, Sullivan, and made him twenty-four years old, the same age as her own father when she was born. She stopped typing for a moment as an odd little thrill of power swept through her. She could give this baby any kind of parents she wanted. Ones like her own—an overworked doormat for a mother, and a father who too often fell over drunk on the supper table. Or ones like the parents of the little girls who’d grown up to command the Christmas Tour of Homes—mothers who led Girl Scout troops, fathers who wore silk neckties and drove their children to school in shiny cars.

  “I could go either way here,” she said, staring at the computer screen, energized as if she were beginning a novel. For a moment she was tempted, just to spite Duncan, to give his daughter a sordid background of drunkenness and shame. Then she remembered that paying parents preferred children with untroubled histories, babies of nice girls who’d made a single, egregious, nine-month-long error in judgment. And smart. Very smart. Above all else, the biological parents had to be smart. Nobody wanted a dull child.

  “Let’s see, Behbaha,” she muttered, beginning a new paragraph. “Your mother was a nurse, a pretty little thing who drowned, two months af­ter you were born. A Labor Day picnic turned tragic. She got in a canoe with friends to paddle across a lake. The canoe capsized halfway across. She could not swim. Your father tried desper­ately to save her, but the poor thing sank like a stone. He tried to keep things together, but with little money, two more years of medical school, and a tour in the Navy ahead of him, he decided that the best thing would be to find someone who could give you a better home.”

  She filled up a whole page, adding the little details that brought poor, bereaved Dr. McIntosh and the doomed Mahvash to life. When she finished, she studied the screen and smiled, pleased and not unmoved by her work. It would surely bring a tear to the driest of eyes, move the coldest of hearts.

  “Okay, Behbaha Jane McIntosh,” she said, saving her file. “You’ve had a tough beginning, but things are beginning to look up. In no time at all, you’re going to get new parents, I’m going to get a big fat check, and we’re both going to sleep better than we’ve ever slept before—you in a comfy new crib, me on my new forty-eight thousand-dollar bed.”

  Downstairs, in far less opulent quarters, Paz lay on his own bed, listening to the darkness outside the window. Last night, when he stepped back into this room he thought he’d never see again, he felt as if some priest had granted him sanctuary. For the first time in days, he was not speeding down a highway, trying to mollify Ruperta, Gordo, or a screaming infant. When he finally lay down here upon his cool, clean sheets, he’d longed to take Ruperta in his arms and explain why he’d acted like such a maniático. She, however, would have none of it. She’d put Gordo’s baby in a little crib in the corner of their room and turned her back to him in bed, without so much as bidding him goodnight. Now, though his eyes burned with exhaustion, he knew Scorpions waited. Soon they would come. Per­haps even now they stood, hiding in the shadows, tossing their little brown bottles up like coins, in wait for his wife.

  “Ruperta!” Paz whispered, blowing softly on the back of her neck. He must explain all this to her before Señora awoke. Perhaps together they could work out same kind of plan. All by himself, he was coming up dry. “Ruperta, wake up!” She mumbled two words in Spanish and yanked the sheet up to her ear.

  “Ruperta!” he whispered urgently. “I have to tell you something!” He reached over and squeezed her breast, rubbing her nipple until he felt it grow hard. He felt a corresponding ripple of desire deep in the pit of his stomach, but he ignored it. As much as he wanted to thrust him­ self deep inside her, he had to tell her about the Scorpions. “Ruperta!”

  “What is it?” She turned all of a sudden, wide awake, her voice angry.

  “I need to talk to you—” The words stuck in his throat.

  “About what, Paz? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “We have to make a plan, Ruperta,” he said sternly, trying to sound as if he always pondered life-altering decisions
long into the night. “And we have to make it now.’’

  “A plan for what? More little babies to steal from their mothers? More candy-eating monsters to tour America with?”

  He sat up and ran the back of his hand along her face. The soft hair on her cheek felt like down. “I have but one monster, Ruperta,” he whispered. “It does not want candy, but it will eat your eyes.”

  “Eat my eyes? What are you talking about?”

  He drew a shaky breath, wondering if he dared repeat the Scorpions’ threat. As obscene as it felt to give voice to such a thing, not to let Ruperta know would be far worse.

  “The Scorpions came last week, Ruperta. They still think I have their money.”

  For a moment she said nothing, then she sat up and pulled her knees up under her chin. “How many came?”

  “I saw only one. More, of course, were hiding.”

  “Did you explain that you never had their money? That Jorge lied?”

  “I did. The Scorpion did not believe me.”

  “What did he say?”

  Paz swallowed. “He said if I did not give them their money in three days, they would put acid in your eyes.’’

  She looked at him in stunned silence, then, to his horror, she began to cry, hastily covering her mouth lest her sobs wake the baby. Her tears broke his heart. “It’s Tuesday morning,” she sobbed. “How could you have kept this from me for so long?”

  “I had not wanted to tell you at all,” he said. “I thought Gordo could be our escape! We could slip away from him and go someplace the Scorpions could not find, then all this baby business began.”

  “Oh, Pacito!”

  She collapsed against him, weeping. He held her, miserable, as her body trembled against his. What a wretched husband he was! Unable to protect his wife from such monsters! He wished they were here now, every one, in this room. He would kill them, one by one, with his bare hands.

  “Sshhhh!” He held her tight, burying his face in her hair. Soft and freshly washed, it smelled like flowers in early spring. “Don’t cry! I won’t let them do it!”

  “But how can you stop them? We thought we escaped them in Nogales, then in Atlanta. Al­ ways, they show up.”

  “I will stop them, Ruperta,” he vowed, cover­ing her wet face with kisses. “I swear before God I will.” He slipped his hand down the front of her gown, then gently laid her back on the bed and pushed her nightgown up.

  He lay on top of her. “You are my wife,” he whispered, his lips against hers. “As long as I live, no Scorpion will harm you.”

  “Oh, Paz,” she wept, threading her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. He kissed her until she squirmed with pleasure, then thrust himself inside. You will have this many more times to pleasure your wife, he seemed to hear a voice whisper inside his head. This many and no more. As he felt himself dissolve into her he tried to disregard the voice, wishing that he could stay in this little room forever, looking into the dark liquid stars of Ruperta’s eyes.

  They lay like that for a long time, her breath­ing comforting him like the soft, low swuush of the waves at Vera Cruz. Finally she stirred beneath him.

  “Paz?”

  “Sí?”

  “What are we going to do?”

  He rolled off of her, his stomach once again a hard knot of fear. “I don’t know.”

  She nestled against his chest. “You know what we did is wrong, don’t you?”

  “Running from the Scorpions?”

  “No. What we did with Gordo.”

  “You mean taking the baby.”

  She nodded. “Do you know what Señora is going to do with her?”

  Paz glanced at the little crib in the corner. It and its contents loomed like yet another hurdle to clear before they could escape the Scorpions. “Give her to rich people with no children of their own.”

  “She’s going to sell her, Paz. Señora does not give anything away. Señora sells. Señora is a comerciante.”

  “That is not our problem, Ruperta. It’s between Gordo and Señora.”

  For a while Ruperta lightly stroked the scar on his stomach. Then she raised up on one el­ bow. “Paz, we cannot let that happen.”

  “What?”

  “The baby being sold like a goat or a parrot. She has a mother who loves her. We must return her.”

  “Ruperta, are you crazy? We have no car, no money, no way of even finding again the place we took the baby from. Even if we could take her back, the American cops would arrest us for being secuestradors! And for what? To return a child to a woman who ran off and left her in the care of a puta?”

  “Paz, we’ve committed a great sin. We must make it right.”

  “It’s a sin to interfere with things that are not your business! You will bring down even worse trouble than the Scorpions! I am your husband! You must do as I say!”

  Suddenly they heard a noise. Paz leapt to his feet, at first thinking the Scorpions were at the door, but then he realized it was only the hoarse clack Señora’s great clock made just before it struck the hour. Still, Ruperta got up in a swirl of sheets and nightgowns and hurried over to the crib. She scooped the baby up before the first whimper left her lips and held her close.

  “Put her down, Ruperta,” Paz commanded. “You need to be concerned for us, now. Gordo’s baby will have a happy life with rich parents who will buy her everything.”

  But Ruperta stood there in her nightgown, her beautiful eyes bright and defiant. “What this child needs is her own life back, Paz. With her own mother. Even a dog deserves that!”

  Thirty-one

  Tuesday, October 15

  EDWINA TEMPLETON SWIRLED her last crust of toast through the remaining egg yolk on her plate and popped it into her mouth. Washing it down with a slurp of coffee, she removed the white wicker tray Ruperta had brought in and placed it on the floor next to her desk. Ruperta could pick it up later, she decided, provided Ruperta could tear herself away from that baby.

  She looked at her watch: 5:25 here in Ten­nessee, 6:25 in Florida. Five more minutes and she would call Myrtle Hatcher. Six-thirty was an indecent hour to call to most people, but adop­tion counselors were accustomed to phone calls in the middle of the night from distraught par­ents, sobbing girls. Even to wait until dawn was a true act of kindness.

  She swiveled in her chair and looked out the window. The cows had left the shelter of the barn and were standing in the little paddock, waiting for Paz to let them out into the fields to graze. Her eyes narrowed as she saw a tall, thin figure skulking past them, up toward the tree line at the end of her property. From this distance the figure looked male, but it was too tall for Paz and way too skinny for Duncan. Probably some juiced-up hunter, she decided. All she needed was some idiot mistaking one of her cows for a deer.

  “I’ll send Duncan up there to check it out,” she muttered, watching as the figure vanished into the trees. Then she remembered that Duncan had taken all her guns and was still off completing whatever business he had and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Oh, well, she thought. If she heard any gunshots, she’d either send Paz or call the sheriff. As far as she was concerned, with all the money she’d make from his baby, Duncan could take six months off. She would miss him only in her bedroom, and she already had several personal appliances that could accomplish most of what Duncan could.

  She put the hunter and Duncan out of her mind and turned back to her desk. Her watch now said 6:30. She flipped through her Rolodex and punched in the area code for south Florida.

  Several rings later, Myrtle Hatcher mumbled hello, sounding as if she’d been brought unwillingly out of a coma.

  “Myrtle?” Edwina spoke loudly, hoping to jar the woman into sensibility. “This is Edwina Templeton, calling from Tennessee.”

  “Edwina, how are you?” In six syllables Myrtle’s voice rose from groggy Brooklyn
fishwife to alert Florida businesswoman.

  “Fine, Myrtle. I know it’s early, but if your Iranian couple is still interested, I’ve got the most beautiful little girl in the world here.” Though Edwina pretended that this deal was still up in the air, she knew quite well that Myrtle’s couple was still interested—Myrtle had foolishly blath­ered on for most of Sunday afternoon about their “stringent requirements,” tipping her hand that the number of acceptable babies was quite narrow.

  Myrtle hedged. “Of course they’re interested, but they’re also considering other children. Tell me more about this baby.”

  “She’s very healthy,” Edwina said, impatiently tapping a pencil at Myrtle’s bullshit. “Thirteen pounds, eleven ounces, three months and four­teen days old.” She went on, telling Myrtle all about her normal development and extraordi­nary intelligence, deftly omitting the fact that the child came in with diaper rash, an ear infec­tion, and hair that looked as if it had been cut with a chain saw. Silly to point out the minor flaws when so much else was perfect.

  “Is she cute? Intelligent? Does she look Iranian?”

  “Lovely dark eyes, straight, black hair.”

  “What about her skin?” Myrtle lowered her voice, as if someone might be eavesdropping. “She’s not real dark, is she?”

  Edwina smiled at the true question—She’s not part Negro, is she?—but she knew she had to be truthful here, too. It would serve none of them to try to pass off a black baby. “Her skin is very light olive. I think she would blend in with your couple nicely. How about I e-mail you a photo?”

  “That would be good.” Myrtle sounded somewhat mollified. “Let’s say this works out, Edwina—how much is your part of this?”

  Edwina frowned. Myrtle had let it slip early on that her couple was well-to-do. Of course, all couples who got babies like this had to come up with at least fifty grand, but it was more of a struggle for some than others. Still, for Myrtle to indicate that these people had deep pockets meant that there was a lot more money to be had. Edwina stilled her pencil and took the plunge.