Call the Devil by His Oldest Name

by Sallie Bissell

  “Which one did he mean?” Ruth asked, twisting the front of her T-shirt.

  “Wolfe Camera is just film and equipment,” said Mary, recognizing the store from her shopping trips in Atlanta. “That leaves either Sears or KidShotz. We’re going to have to split up. Which one do you want?”

  “KidShotz” said Ruth. “Lily will be there. I just know it.”

  “Then I’ll take Sears. I’ll wait there five minutes, then I’ll meet you at KidShotz.” She looked at the woman who so desperately wanted to find her child. “If you get there and someone says they know something about Lily, get inside the store and call a security guard.”

  “What if somebody has Lily there?”

  “Then grab her and make as much commotion as you can. Yell, scream, do anything to get someone to come help you. I’ll be doing the same thing at Sears.”

  “Okay.”

  They raced to their respective stores, Ruth hustling up a flight of stairs, Mary hauling to the far end of the mall. At 12:00 she stepped into Sears sportswear department; by 12:01 she stood breathless in front of the portrait studio. Just as she feared, no one was there. She knew then she’d picked the wrong horse; Logan and Lily must be at KidShotz. She turned and raced back out to the mall, fighting her way up an escalator crowded with toddlers dressed in Halloween costumes, ready to take part in some kind of mall activity. As she rode up the moving steps, snugged in between a six-year-old ballerina and a pint-sized G.I. Joe, she scanned the crowd of people gazing down on them from the upper level of the shopping center. She noticed no men with beards, no eyes staring into hers; no face with that singular hard look of hatred and disgust.

  Damn, Mary thought as the escalator finally deposited her next to the food court. What the hell is he trying to do?

  She turned the corner, almost running into an adult dressed as Spider-Man. In between the mothers and their wildly dressed children, she caught sight of the KidShotz storefront. She thought she saw a small crowd gathering in front of the store, then she realized it was a small crowd of people avoiding the front of the store. She pushed her way closer, then gasped. Ruth was on her knees in the entrance to the store, surrounded by security officers, clutching something to her chest and keening in a high, loud pitch that only meant despair.

  Oh, my God, Mary thought, struggling to reach her friend. All at once she heard her cell phone, its silly ring issuing from her purse. As she ran toward Ruth, she fished it out and held it to her ear.

  “You blew it, Mary.” The male Appalachian voice rumbled on. “You didn’t pay attention to my directions. Damned if you aren’t as dumb a fuck as your dad.”

  Thirty-five

  KIMBERLY KHATAR SQUEEZED her hus­band’s hand as the plane began its final descent toward the Nashville International Airport. Bijan had booked them in adjoining seats on the same flight from Atlanta, and now they sat, three peas in a pod, strapped in a Boeing 757. Kimberly capped off her morning by splurging on three in-flight phone calls—one to her parents and one to each of her two sisters. Though everyone had sounded stunned by the news, all had squealed with joy over the prospect of welcoming Jennifer Aziz Khatar into their family. Kimberly’s parents had immediately started packing for a trip down from St. Pete, while her sisters began planning a baby shower.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to call your folks?” She waggled the phone at Bijan.

  He turned from the window, then shook his head as if he’d had too much to drink. “I’ll surprise them. My mother hasn’t boarded a plane in twenty years. She probably wouldn’t get past the fact that I was calling her from midair.”

  “Just think of how happy you’re going to make them, honey.” Kimberly hugged Bijan’s arm.

  “You’re going to love Edwina Templeton,” Mrs. Hatcher brayed from the seat beside Kimberly’s. “She’s had amazing luck at finding just the right baby for the right parents.”

  Kimberly nodded at Mrs. Hatcher as the plane’s landing gear dropped into position. Actually, she didn’t give two hoots about Edwina Templeton. All she cared about was wrapping her arms around the baby who would become her new little girl.

  After they landed, Mrs. Hatcher told them that Edwina’s place was too far out of town for a taxi, so Bijan went to the Hertz desk and came back twirling the keys to a Lincoln Town Car.

  “Why did you get such a big car?” asked Kimberly as they walked toward the huge white sedan. “You usually get Toyotas.”

  He shrugged, embarrassed. “More protection in case we have a wreck. You know, precious cargo and all.”

  Kimberly smiled. In the course of a three hour flight, Bijan had already begun to make the change from carefree husband into responsible family man.

  Mrs. Hatcher directed them to the small town of Franklin, twenty miles south of Nashville. After exiting the highway and driving through a blur of fast-food restaurants, gas stations, and car dealerships, they turned down a road that led through miles of rolling pastures dotted with grazing cows. They crossed a narrow creek on a bumpy, two-lane bridge, then arrived at a grav­eled driveway that led to a white antebellum mansion with a wide front porch and silvery tin roof.

  “This is Edwina’s,” announced Mrs. Hatcher from the backseat. “Looks like Tara, doesn’t it?”

  Bijan pulled the car up in front of the house. Kimberly hopped out and hurried up to the wide porch, trembling with excitement. When she next rode in that car, she might be holding her own baby in her arms.

  The top half of the front door was leaded glass; the doorbell was an old-fashioned twist kind. After waiting for Bijan and Mrs. Hatcher to join her, Kimberly twisted the bell three times. She cringed as its coarse ring echoed through the house, not wishing to awaken any napping babies. For a moment, nothing hap­pened, then she saw a blur of movement on the other side of the glass. The door opened, reveal­ing a young Hispanic woman exactly her height. Like many of the sirvientas who worked for the affluent of Fort Lauderdale, the woman wore a gray uniform that gave her the look of a nurse-in-training.

  “Buenos días.” Kimberly shifted into the Floridian Spanish that had, over the years, become her second language. “Es la casa de la Señora Edwina Templeton?”

  “Sí, Señorita.” The young woman smiled, no doubt pleased to address a stranger in her native tongue.

  “Es un huerfano?”

  The woman shook her head. “Un hospital de maternidad.”

  “Me Ilamo Kimberly Khatar, de Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Mi esposo y yo estamos aqui para ver a la nena.”

  “La nena? No lo entiendo.”

  “La nena para adopciÓn…”

  The woman shook her head again. She was about to close the door when an older, harsher voice sliced through the air.

  “Ruperta? Is that Mrs. Hatcher?”

  The young housemaid’s eyes grew wide as she tried to formulate her reply.

  “Ruperta, who is it?” the harsh voice demanded brusquely.

  A short, dumpy woman appeared behind the sirvienta. She wore a camel-colored suit over a creamy silk blouse; impressive diamonds twinkled from her ears. Although the clothes were obviously expensive, they fit the woman too tightly, and made her look as if she’d been thrown fully dressed into a washing machine and dried at too hot a setting. She peered past Kimberly, then smiled. “Myrtle? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Edwina. We’re here!”

  “Come in, come in,” the woman said, then dismissed the sirvienta with a toss of her head. “I’m Edwina Templeton. Welcome.”

  Kimberly and Bijan stepped into a spacious foyer where a graceful staircase curved up to the second floor. As the housemaid disappeared down a back hall, Edwina Templeton led them into a large sitting room that looked like a cover of Architectural Digest. Papered in an eye-popping red silk moiré, the room was stuffed with the kind of antiques sold at Sotheby’s to people with bottomless pocketbooks. Mrs. Templeton had ex
pensive taste, Kimberly decided as she gazed at the opulent furnishings. But then, at a hundred thousand dollars a child, Mrs. Templeton could afford to.

  “Introduce me to your couple, dear,” Mrs. Templeton demanded after the two older women shared a perfunctory hug and kiss.

  Mrs. Hatcher beamed. “Edwina Templeton, this is Kimberly and Bijan Khatar.”

  “How do you do.” Bijan nodded stiffly. Kimberly could tell he was nervous. Her palms grew sweaty, too, as Edwina Templeton appraised them carefully, as someone might look over a yearling racehorse that showed some speed. Kimberly prayed that Mrs. Templeton’s sharp eyes would not find some invisible flaw and discard them in favor of the couple from Chicago.

  But the older woman was nodding. “Come sit down. We’ll chat in here. Ruperta’s bringing tea.”

  In the living room, Kimberly, Bijan, and Mrs. Hatcher perched on an ornate sofa like birds on a wire. Edwina Templeton took the wing chair opposite them. Soundlessly the uniformed girl returned, bearing a silver tray with a china tea service. As Mrs. Templeton poured them all tea, the girl brought in a tray full of cookies and triangular-shaped sandwiches. Kimberly took a cucumber-and-cream-cheese while Bijan opted for tea alone, the cup rattling softly as he took it from the tray.

  “There’s no need to be nervous,” Mrs. Templeton said, smiling. Her voice was husky and she spoke with a drawl so thick, it sounded almost like Hollywood’s idea of a Southern accent. “If this one doesn’t work out, there’ll be others.”

  Not for us, Kimberly thought, remembering all of Bijan’s requirements. We’re not your average family, not by a long shot.

  “How shall we proceed, Edwina?” Mrs. Hatcher set her tea down on the table and snatched a chocolate cookie off the tray. “I know these two young people are eager—”

  “I like to bring the baby out and watch how the prospective parents interact with it,” Edwina interrupted. “I can tell pretty fast if there’s going to be a bond there.”

  “Are you the sole judge of that?” Bijan spoke for the first time. Kimberly winced at his unintended arrogance, but Mrs. Templeton’s smile did not falter.

  “Yes, Mr. Khatar, I am. As a private adoption counselor, I’m afraid I do have the last word in cases like this.”

  “I see.” Bijan stared into his tea cup, humbled.

  “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourselves? What kind of business are you in?”

  “Kimberly is an insurance broker. She started her own company five years ago,” Bijan said proudly. “I manage business properties for my father.”

  Edwina Templeton’s gaze flickered over the Bulgari watch on Bijan’s wrist. “So I assume you don’t find the cost of raising a child today daunting?”

  “Mrs. Hatcher has all our financial information,” Bijan replied. “But no, money is not a problem. We’ve worked hard and we’ve been lucky. Our child will have a comfortable home and an excellent education.”

  Mrs. Hatcher gave a hen-like cackle. “I can vouch for that, Edwina.”

  “Is religion an issue between you?” asked Mrs. Templeton, ignoring her colleague.

  This time Kimberly spoke. “I was raised Catholic, Bijan is Muslim. We’ve attended the Unitarian Church ever since we married. We intend to raise any child we adopt in that faith.”

  “A nice compromise.” Mrs. Templeton’s smile broadened. “Rational. Respectful.” She studied them a moment longer, then she set her teacup down on the tray. “Would you like to see the baby now?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Kimberly quickly. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take. Al­ready she wanted to leap up from the sofa and scream with impatience.

  “Good. I’ll have Ruperta bring her in.” Mrs. Templeton rang a small silver bell. They waited. An antique clock in the hall ticked off seconds that seemed like hours, then the sirvienta reappeared at the door. Looking as if she wanted to weep, she now carried a baby wrapped in a soft white blanket. From the couch, Kimberly could see only the top of the infant’s head, a dark patch of straight hair.

  Edwina Templeton got to her feet. “Mr. and Mrs. Khatar, meet the child who was born Be­hbaha Jane McIntosh.” She prodded the house­maid with a chill nod. “Give her to them, Ruperta.’’

  Ruperta obediently crossed the room and held the bundle out to Kimberly. The latter took the child in her arms, astonished at how light and insignificant human infants feel. As she settled the child against her chest, she moved the blanket away from the small face it swaddled. The little girl did not doze, but lay wide awake and very composed, looking up at her with dark eyes that seemed to stare into some part of her that Kimberly didn’t know existed.

  “Oh, my God,” Kimberly breathed. “She’s beautiful.”

  The baby continued to stare at Kimberly, working her little cheeks, blowing a plump bubble of saliva on her lips. Kimberly fought an urge to undress her, to see if she had the proper number of fingers and toes. But even if she didn’t, who cared? Who could look into those eyes and not fall instantly in love?

  She tore her gaze away from the baby and turned to Bijan. “What do you think?”

  He didn’t reply. Instead, he reached around her and touched the baby’s hand with his forefinger. Instantly the infant grasped it, and held on tight. “Hello, baby girl,” he said softly.

  The baby squirmed in Kimberly’s arms, then her eyes found Bijan’s. She studied him with her strange, old-soul gaze, then she flung her arms up and gave a little squeal of glee, as if Bijan was the most utterly delightful being in creation.

  Everyone laughed. Bijan tentatively put one finger against her tummy and the baby laughed again, sending funny little bird chirps into the air. Kimberly laughed, fighting tears even as she did so. For her, there was no doubt. Taking a shaky breath, she lifted her face to Bijan.

  “Well, honey?” she asked. “What do you think?”

  She felt his kiss on the top of her head, then she felt his breath against her ear. “Kim, I think you and I have just become parents.”

  Thirty-Six

  “THIS IS WHO I am and this is what I’ve got.” Mary dug all her ID cards from her wallet and laid them on the desk. Then she pulled Gabe’s pistol from her jeans, removed the ammo clip, and laid it beside the pile of IDs. She and Ruth sat in a small, unused office of Cool Springs Galleria Security, where they had been given bad coffee, a moment to calm down, and a much longer moment to explain the situation to the Franklin, Tennessee, cops.

  Detective Jane Frey fanned Mary’s IDs like a deck of cards, reading and discarding her driver’s license, her handgun license, then the card that identified her as an assistant district attorney for Deckard County, Georgia.

  “You always shop with a Glock nine?” Frey asked as she slipped a pack of Marlboros from her purse. “I just carry Visa.” A tiny woman with bright blue eyes and bright red hair, she wore tight jeans and a green sweater under a rumpled Burberry trench coat. Mary liked her immediately.

  “The gun is not mine. It belongs to Gabriel Benge, a professor at the University of Tennessee,” Mary explained.

  “In Knoxville?” asked Detective Frey, one pencil-thin brow lifting.

  Mary nodded.

  “And how did you come by Mr. Benge’s weapon?”

  “I borrowed it from him. Gabe’s undergoing treatment at Vanderbilt Hospital.”

  “For what?” Frey lit a cigarette, then contorted her mouth around in an amazing curl to avoid blowing smoke in Mary’s face.

  “The paramedics didn’t know,” replied Mary.

  “We were at a Civil War monument in Nashville—he got sick there.”

  Frey stared at the array of items, taking long drags on her smoke, then she scooped up all the IDs and the gun and stepped into another office. Mary knew that she was running her numbers through a computer, checking to see if Mary’s credentials checked out in cyberspace. Minutes later Frey returne
d, her cigarette gone, but her blue eyes sharp as ever.

  “Okay, Ms. Crow,” she said, returning the gun and IDs. “You checked out, and there is a Gabriel Benge registered at Vandy.” She sat back down and pulled a pen and notepad from her purse. “Now give me the details of all this once again. Slowly.”

  Mary was tempted, for an instant, to tell Jane Frey the whole story—about Logan and her belief that this was really all about her rather than Lily. Then she realized that she would have to further explain that everyone else in law enforcement thought Logan was long dead. At that point Frey would probably close her notebook and discount her as a lunatic DA up from Georgia on a tear. Better to just repeat what the local police could verify, and keep her true suspicions to herself. Anyway, Lily was the important one, and she and Ruth needed all the help they could get in finding her.

  So she began with Saturday, when Ruth had called her from Tremont, and ended with the events of an hour ago, when she’d found Ruth in front of KidShotz, crying like someone tortured by demons. What had upset her so was a strip of photo-booth pictures taped to the front window of the store. The pictures had been of Lily, sullen and short-haired, held by a woman who wore a pale blue T-shirt, a small, filigreed crucifix, and turquoise earrings. Whoever had arranged the subjects had made sure the woman’s face did not appear in any of the four photos, rendering her basically unidentifiable. Still, mall security had swung into action at Mary’s insistence, questioning all the merchants around the photo booth. Nobody remembered seeing any woman and child resembling this pair.

  “That’s quite a story, Ms. Crow.” Frey scribbled with her right hand, fumbled for another cigarette with her left.

  “Yes, it is,” Mary answered. “Sheriff George Dula, of Nikwase County, can corroborate everything.”

  Frey lit up a smoke. “Just tell me this. You of all people should know procedure—why didn’t you call us when you got the phone call this morning?”