“Asshole,” muttered Mary, deciding that Tennessee drivers were no more polite than the ones in Georgia. She started to turn her attention back to the photo strip when she noticed the rear end of the SUV. Rampant anti-abortion stickers covered it, making a garish collage of conservative political sentiment. “Abortion Stops a Beating Heart!” “I’m Pro-Life and I Vote!” “Every Child Is a Gift From God!”
Though she’d seen them all a hundred times before, one bright red sticker caught her eye. “ADOPTION NOT ABORTION!”
“Adoption.” She tested the word on her tongue as Ruth collapsed back into sleep. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Could Logan have given Lily to the Mexicans to adopt? No, that couldn’t be right. From what she knew of Logan, he never gave anything away. Or at least not unless his interests were served in the bargain. But maybe there was some other angle to adoption…She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, trying to pull up the details of a case her old friend Frances Pratt had prosecuted. Frances had been an ADA in Suffolk County, New York, when she prosecuted a pair of French Canadians for running a baby scam—buying babies low from naive girls in eastern Canada and selling them high in New York. Frances had to brush up on her French, which she despised, and had gone to bed with a throbbing headache every night. Avoid cases with children, Frances had warned Mary afterward. They never leave you alone.
Suddenly it fell into place! If French Canadians could broker children in New York, why not Mexicans in Tennessee? Children were readily available, easily disguised, and could cross the border without identification papers. And dark skinned Lily would look like she belonged with Mexican parents. But how could Stump Logan have gotten involved in that? You couldn’t just walk up and join illegal adoption rackets; you had to be connected, the players had to know you. When could Logan have made those kind of contacts?
She tried to come up with other reasons that Lily might be traveling in the care of Mexicans, but the idea of adoption kept niggling at her like a kettle left on the stove. She couldn’t put it out of her mind and finally gave up trying to. What would it hurt to see how many local adoption agencies there were? Most likely it would be a waste of time, but until they heard from Logan again, they had nothing but time to waste. And at least she would be satisfied that she’d left no stone unturned in the search for Lily.
She shook Ruth’s shoulder, hoping the good Ruth would open her eyes and leave demented Ruth in dreamland. Though the beleaguered woman startled at Mary’s touch, she woke up and looked at Mary with a clear, rational gaze.
“Did we get another phone call?”
“No. But we need to go back inside the mall.”
“Why?’’
“I need to look up something in the phone book.”
Ten minutes later they sat at an empty desk at the mall security office. With Ruth at her elbow, Mary turned to “Adoption Agencies” in the Yellow Pages. The directory listed fifteen—most in Nashville, with religious affiliations, a few sounding like state-run agencies. Picking up the receiver, she started at the top of the page. The calls went as she had feared; the people she spoke with were kind, concerned, and willing to help, but no one would admit to any recent knowledge of a baby fitting Lily’s description. In half an hour she’d worked her way down to the last one on the list.
“Is that all of them?” Ruth sat listening to every call, twisting her shirt into yet another knot.
“One more to go,” Mary said. Squinting at the last entry, something called the Tender Shepherd home, she dialed the number. The phone rang once, twice, then someone picked up. Mary heard rustling sounds, as if someone were juggling the receiver, then a high, breathy voice said, “¡Diga!”
Mary gasped. “Excuse me?”
“Por favor, llama después.” A woman began speaking hurried Spanish, then switched to English. “Please call back later. No one can talk now!” She spoke with great agitation, then the line went dead.
“Holy shit!” cried Mary.
“What?” Ruth’s eyes grew wild.
“Somebody at that adoption home speaks Spanish way too close for comfort!”
Quickly Mary rechecked the directory. The Tender Shepherd Home had a Franklin address! Suddenly she felt as if the phone had turned into a slot machine and all the coins were spilling into her hands. Could her wild hunch have actually played out? Stranger things have happened, she reminded herself, remembering that a cop stopped Timothy McVeigh on a traffic violation. Even her own pornographer Dwayne Pugh had originally been ticketed for vending food without a license. She grabbed Ruth by the arm.
“Come on,” she said. “We’re going to pay the Tender Shepherd Home a call.”
Thirty-nine
NOT TOO MANY miles away, three people at the Tender Shepherd Home watched as Bijan Khatar fed his new daughter a bottle. The baby had just begun to suck down the chalky white liquid when, without warning, she spat the rubber nipple from her mouth and vomited all over Bijan’s lap.
“What’s the matter with her?” Bijan demanded, alarmed.
“Oh, she ate too fast.” Edwina threw a linen napkin over her shoulder and scooped up the baby. “She needs to burp.”
Laughing, she patted the baby on her back and turned to Kimberly. “Why don’t I take care of her and you take care of your husband? There’s a powder room tucked in beneath the staircase. Maybe you can help him clean up in there.”
“Come on, Bijan.” Kimberly took him by the hand and led him, his dark trousers dotted with curds of milk, to where Mrs. Templeton had directed. As she opened the bathroom door, she noticed Mrs. Templeton’s two servants huddling together in the shadowy hall, frowns on both their faces.
“No se preocupe,” Kimberly hastened to reassure them. “Solo un accidente pequeño.”
The young woman started to reply, but the man grabbed her arm. Nodding obsequiously, he smiled, saying, “Sí, sí.”
“What’s with those two?” asked Bijan as he dampened a small hand towel.
Kimberly said, “What do you mean?’’
“They’ve been lurking in the foyer the whole time we’ve been here.”
“Lurking?”
“Yeah. Hiding in the shadows, watching. The girl keeps wiping her eyes, like she’s crying. The man looks kind of, I don’t know, ashamed.”
“They must not want Jennifer to leave. They’ve probably gotten attached to her.”
“Attached? In three days?”
Kimberly grinned. “You got attached in about thirty seconds, Mr. Let’s-not-get-too-excited-about-this-baby.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Bijan admitted as he hung up the towel and took his wife in his arms. “I am permanently attached to that little beauty. Just like I’m permanently attached to her mother.”
“Oh, Bijan.” Laughing, she kissed him, then wiped a rosy vestige of her lipstick from his mouth. “Come on. Let’s go hold our daughter again.”
Giggling like teenagers, they opened the door to find Mrs. Templeton standing by the front door, holding Jennifer in her arms.
“I might not have mentioned this,” she called as the pair emerged from the powder room. “But the State of Tennessee requires that all infants be transported in a car seat. I know you didn’t bring one with you, so I’ll be happy to loan you one for your trip to the airport. What airline did you say you’re on?”
“Delta,” replied Kimberly.
“Then just leave it at their counter. I’ll have Paz pick it up tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” Kimberly smiled. “That’s very kind.”
Mrs. Templeton handed the baby back to Bijan. “I know it seems early, but you three should probably leave now. Airports are crazy these days, and they’re always doing construction on the Nashville interstates. I had Ruperta pack this bag for you. All your papers, plus the baby’s records, are in here.” She held up a white diaper bag embroidered with p
ink elephants. “You’ll get an amended birth certificate from the state of Tennessee in a few weeks. You’ve also got formula, diapers, baby wipes, a binky, and an extra jumpsuit in case she soils the one she has on.”
Mrs. Hatcher chuckled. “That should certainly get us to Fort Lauderdale.”
Though Kimberly felt like they were being hustled out the door, she didn’t mind. Mrs. Templeton could hustle them to China, for all she cared. They had their amazing, wonderful little daughter. Their family was now complete. That was all that mattered. “I can’t tell you how grateful we are,” Kimberly said. “You and Mrs. Hatcher have made our dream come true.”
Mrs. Templeton smiled. “I’m just glad I was able to help out, dear.” She hugged Kimberly, engulfing her in a wave of flowery perfume. “God blessed us with this one. It doesn’t often happen this easily.” She released Kimberly and nodded at Bijan. “Mr. Khatar, take the new Miss Khatar home to meet your family and friends. I know they’ll find her just as enchanting as you.”
“Thank you.” Bijan knelt down and buckled the baby into the car seat. She seemed recovered from her bout of nausea, and gurgled up at him, her dark eyes once again bright.
“Come on, Jennifer Aziz,” he whispered, grinning down at her. “It’s time to go home.”
Bijan lifted the car seat by its handle, then he gave Kimberly a quick kiss. With a final wave at Edwina Templeton, they buckled their new baby in the back of their rental car and with Mrs. Hatcher in tow, drove away from Tender Shepherd Home, eager to begin their life as a family of three.
“Holy Jesus!” hissed Edwina, watching as the white car disappeared down her driveway. “I thought they’d never leave!” She knew, from the sticky feel of her camisole, that she’d sweated through most of her underwear, and that if she lifted her arms she would find fragrant damp circles darkening the pale beige silk of her suit. Illegal adoptions always made her nervous, and with those Arabs and that babbling idiot Hatcher added to the mix, it was a miracle she hadn’t jumped right out of her skin. And to top it all off, Ruperta had answered her telephone! She’d heard her wailing in Spanish just as the Khatars were had that moron chosen today, of all days, to break the first rule of her employment?
“Ruperta!” Edwina locked the door and turned around. “Come here!”
She heard a soft scurrying in the hall, as if mice had been listening and were now fleeing her wrath. “Ruperta!” she bellowed. “Right now!”
“Sí, Señora?” Soundlessly the young woman appeared in the doorway. Her eyes looked as if she’d been weeping, and she dabbed a wadded up tissue at her nose.
“Did the phone ring while my guests were here?”
“Sí, Señora.”
“Did the answering machine take the call?”
Visibly trembling, Ruperta backed up a step. “No, Señora.”
“Then who did?”
Ruperta’s chin quivered. “I’m sorry, Señora, but I did.”
Edwina peered at her with narrowed eyes. “Don’t you remember my first rule?”
“Sí, Señora. We are never to answer the telephone. But I was so upset about the baby, I just grabbed it without thinking!” Tears seeped from Ruperta’s eyes. “She was just so little. And so sweet. And it just isn’t fair to take her away—”
“From someone who doesn’t want her? I think that’s fair, Ruperta. I think that’s more than fair.” Edwina clenched her jaws together, furious. She expected this sentimental drivel from her teenage clients. She had no use for it in an employee. “Who was on the phone?”
“A woman. She did not say who she was. I told her no one could talk to her now and to please call back later.”
“You told her no one could talk to her?” Edwina’s outrage grew. What if it was one of the Christmas Tour ladies? What if one of them had called with an invitation to some nice tea or luncheon and Ruperta had rebuffed them with her babbling Spanish and sniveling tears? A fresh wave of anger engulfed Edwina. How dare these Mexicans show up at her house begging for work and then flagrantly disobey a simple rule that had been clearly stated, several different times? She had half a mind to fire both of them, right this very minute.
Edwina waggled her finger at Ruperta. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, let the answering machine pick up the phone,” she said loud enough so Paz could hear. “Now go to your quarters! I don’t want to see you until you bring my breakfast tomorrow morning!”
“Sí, Señora.” Turning, Ruperta fled down the hall, her sobs echoing through the otherwise silent house.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Edwina muttered, stomping down the hall to her office. “What a fat lot of trouble for one little bastard child.” She should have known that anything connected with Duncan would mean trouble.
She stormed into her office and locked the door behind her. Sitting down at her desk, she began to twist the tumblers of the safe located in the wall behind her desk. As she ran through the familiar combination, her anger began to abate. She’d just made a nice amount of money for not a whole lot of work, and that bed would look amazing once she got it up here from New Orleans. If the lost caller had indeed been one of the Christmas Tour ladies, maybe she would forget about Ruperta’s rudeness when she saw what a magnificent home this was. Maybe she would call back often, after that. Maybe they would become friends and have lunch together and one day laugh over the first day she called and a weeping Mexican house girl answered the phone, telling her no one was available to talk to her.
Forty
MARY AND RUTH pulled into a brightly lit gas station across from the mall, where Mary bought a map of Franklin and left a message on Jane Frey’s answering machine, telling her where they were going. Moments later they headed for Tender Shepherd Home for Girls, Mary driving as Ruth sat amazingly calm beside her. Thank God, thought Mary, her heart once again going out to the woman who’d endured so much.
“You don’t think Lily might have already been adopted, do you?” Only the slightest tremor in Ruth’s voice betrayed her fear.
“I don’t know,” Mary replied honestly. She didn’t want to frighten Ruth, but neither did she want to give her any false hope. “I’m just guessing here, Ruth. Like most leads, it’ll probably turn out to be a wild-goose chase.”
“That’s okay.” Ruth spoke with a quiet resignation. “Until I find Lily, I’ll be going on a lot of wild-goose chases.”
Aware that no less a fate awaited her, Mary sped down the highway. They drove with the map spread between them, Ruth reading the small print with a tiny flashlight as dusk deepened to darkness. She directed Mary first along a four-lane highway, then down a secondary road thick with commuter traffic. Finally they made a hard right turn at a green street sign that read “Hemlock Lane.”
“Okay,” Ruth said, peering at the mailboxes as they raced by. “We want three-forty.” With every passing mile the landscape grew more rural, and houses became just small dots of light, set far back from the road. Suddenly a large black mail box appeared around a curve.
“That’s it!” Ruth cried. “Three-forty Hemlock Lane!”
Mary skidded into the driveway. They wound through several acres of rolling pastureland, crossed a narrow bridge, then a large white house loomed ahead of them. Columned and two-storied, it looked like it could have once had slaves picking cotton in the back fields.
“This is an adoption home?” Ruth eyed the structure, amazed.
“According to the telephone directory.” Mary pulled up at an old hitching post, wondering if they’d truly stumbled onto something. All the adoption homes she’d ever seen were modest, unassuming places. This spread looked as if it could have a sign that read “Alternative Birth Options for the Rich and Famous.”
Ruth drained her cup of tea. “So what’s our plan?”
Mary gazed up at the house. No lights shone from any of the windows, and though it was just pas
t six p.m., the whole place had a two-in-the morning look about it—dark and silent and still. Wishing again that she’d been able to talk to Jane Frey in person, she turned to Ruth. “I’m going up there and find out as much as I can about what goes on here. I want you to stay in the truck.”
“Stay in the truck?” The calmness left Ruth’s voice. “Do you actually think I’m going to sit out here in this truck while you go search for my child?”
Again Mary’s heart ached for the woman who had, for the last four days, been riding the lead car on the emotional roller coaster from hell. “I’m not sure what we might be walking into here, Ruth. And you haven’t been totally yourself lately.”
“You wouldn’t be totally yourself either, if you’d lost your baby.” Ruth’s anger flared like a match. She unbuckled her seatbelt and grabbed her purse. “I’m not staying out here. Not if there’s the slightest chance anybody in that house could have seen Lily.”
Mary didn’t know how to respond. If Rational Ruth remained, they would have no problems. But if the Ruth who’d dumped her cousin on the interstate came back, she could easily blow whatever chance they might have of finding anything out. Nonetheless, she couldn’t think of any way she could forbid the woman to leave her own truck.
“Okay.” Reluctantly, Mary agreed. “But you’ve got to keep your mouth shut and let me do all the talking. You just look and listen.”
“To what?”
“To everything. Try to remember every detail about whoever answers the door. Every detail about what they say. If we get inside, look around the house and see if everything squares with what they’re saying.”
Ruth gave a sardonic laugh. “So I’m to play Watson to your Holmes?”
“You got it,” Mary said firmly.
“Terrific,” muttered Ruth.
They got out of the truck, Mary again taking comfort in the fact that she still carried Gabe’s gun. If they were indeed walking into a black market baby operation, things could get dicey, fast. A 9mm Glock had a nice way of calming the waters. She crossed in front of the truck and walked up the steps to the house, Ruth firmly in step beside her.
Call the Devil by His Oldest Name Page 26
