Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel

by Frank Freudberg

  Hearing this, Lock had trouble swallowing. His throat dried up. Natalie also told Lock something he already knew—Witt was being held on a reckless endangerment charge.

  “I can slip away from the hospital for a few hours,” she said.

  Lock sat up in bed and ran his fingers through his hair. “How can you leave your child’s side at a time like this?”

  “Lock, I’m telling you, she’ll be fine. Plus, they have her sedated, so all she’s doing is sleeping.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said.

  “You’re ridiculous. I’m her mother. I wouldn’t leave if I thought it was wrong. I need to see you. I have a reservation at the Four Seasons. I’ll meet you there, and we’ll have room service bring us lunch.”

  “It’s too risky. If we’re seen together now—”

  “Who’s going to see us in the privacy of our room? We’ll arrive separately and leave separately. No one will notice either of us. Believe me, you need to relax, Lock. You’re freaking out over nothing. Dahlia looks great. I wouldn’t leave if I thought I shouldn’t. Take it easy.”

  “But you’re her mother.”

  Natalie laughed. “I have more maternal instinct in my pinkie than most women have in their whole bodies.”

  “I don’t know, Natalie.”

  “Get to the lobby by one. I have an early check-in. When you get there, call my cell and I’ll give you the room number.”

  Lock stood up and glanced at himself in the mirror. A haggard face looked back. He knew he should stay home and rest and get his mind right, but he felt powerless to say no. He wanted to see Natalie, and he figured that if there was any news, the hospital would call her immediately. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He shook his head and, as if it was someone else’s voice, he heard himself speak. “Okay, Natalie. I want to be with you, too. But only for a couple of hours. Okay? Then you get yourself back to the hospital.”

  “Call me from the lobby,” Natalie said. “Love you.”

  She hung up.

  Abner left the office promptly at five o’clock, something he rarely did. Usually, he could be counted on to stay behind his desk until 6:30 or 7:00 p.m., making calls and completing on-screen forms and assessment reports. But that afternoon, he was exhausted and more than a little concerned about the events of the day.

  As he drove home, he noted with some pleasure that he’d had the opportunity to insult Jacoby, but that was tempered by his concern about Lock. The whole matter was exhausting everyone in the office. He couldn’t wait to get his shoes off and get his feet up on the worn recliner in his living room.

  A re-run of a game show appeared on Abner’s television screen. He was glad the news didn’t pop up. He didn’t want to see any news, especially local news. He’d had enough of the media for one day.

  Something gnawed at him. Something didn’t seem right about the accident, but he couldn’t identify it. He got up and went to the kitchen, put just enough water for one cup of instant coffee in a kettle, and turned on the burner. He opened a glass-doored cabinet above the stove and reached for a mug and the can of Maxwell House.

  His eyes stopped for a moment on the unopened bottle of rare scotch he had kept there for over twenty years. That would solve the problem, he thought, knowing he’d never touch it. That would solve this problem, but create many others. He remembered what someone had once said at an AA meeting—Alcoholism is the only disease that tells you you’re not sick.

  He kept the bottle there as a souvenir of the war he’d fought with alcohol. He was stronger than the occasional urge to drink—an urge that still came after almost three decades of sobriety—and this was the kind of day when he needed to stay strong. He leaned against the sink and waited for the water to boil. While he waited, his mind gravitated to Natalie Mannheim. He didn’t know why, but he knew he didn’t like her. He didn’t like anything about her. He made a mental note to ask Lock more about her. After all, Lock was the one who knew her best.

  Abner had another thought then—she was a manipulator, and Lock was lonely. He knew that could be a recipe for trouble. He’d definitely have to have a talk with Lock.

  The kettle whistled as Abner dropped a level tablespoon of coffee crystals into the mug. He started to pour the hot water and stopped mid-pour. He mustn’t have added enough coffee, because, at first, the liquid in the bottom of the mug looked a lot like scotch.

  22

  The next day, Lock and Natalie sat in a nearly empty theater in the Art House Cinema in Old City Philadelphia.

  On screen, in black and white, a man made a call from a phone booth. He spoke in low tones to a woman on the other end of the line.

  At Lock’s insistence, Natalie had taken a seat a row behind him. She thought that was ridiculous. They had been hissing to each other in whispers since they got there.

  “She’s not getting sicker, Lock,” Natalie said. “She’s getting better a little more slowly than they first thought. That’s all.”

  “Abner said Dahlia’s not making the progress the docs were expecting,” said Lock. “And the hospital has her condition listed as guarded.”

  “I don’t care what that old goat says. I’m her mother. I’m the one who was there all night. I’m the one who’s talking to the doctors. I’m the one worried sick.”

  “Like right now?”

  Natalie laughed, leaned forward, and gave him a quick one-armed hug. Lock stared off toward the screen. A man in a long coat was walking down a lane at night. Shadows from the street lamp fell over him.

  Natalie looked away from the screen and at Lock.

  “You seem a bit stressed,” she said. “Dare me to sit next to you and put my head in your lap?” She leaned forward. “Right now, right here?”

  Lock didn’t respond. He sat stiffly upright, his fists clenched.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “No thanks.”

  They sat in silence, turning their attention to the screen. The man in the long coat sat across from a teenage girl at a restaurant table. The girl was sobbing.

  They watched for a couple of minutes before Natalie broke the lull. “How are you going to get Abner off the scent?” she asked. “You say he’s so smart.”

  “It’ll be tougher now. The publicity changes everything.”

  “But not us, Lock. We’re still rock-solid. Honey? Nothing’s changed with us, right?”

  “Yes, we’re rock-solid,” he said. Then his expression went flat. “Why are they keeping Dahlia again?”

  “The doctor said something about the bump on her head making her light-sensitive. At least that’s what he told me.”

  “What kind of doctor? And what else did he say?

  “A neurologist. They said she has MTBI.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Mild Traumatic Brain Injury. It’s medical double talk for a minor concussion. Nothing to worry about. And he didn’t say anything else. Nothing. I’m telling you, she’s fine,” Natalie said. “They’re being over-cautious for only one reason—so they can keep billing the insurance company.”

  Lock stared off into space. “Here’s Abby’s problem,” he said. “CPS backed off a case. I was the one who closed it, and a child got hurt because of a dad we could have been monitoring. That’s a problem for Abby, so it’s a problem for us.”

  Natalie sat back.

  “Being together now is too risky,” he said. “We have to slow it down for a while.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. Maybe I’m alone and scared and need you, and what do you do? You crawl under a rock and hide. How heroic.”

  “I thought you were cool, Natalie.”

  “It’s horrible at the house, even though he’s out on bail now and at the Sheraton. Edwina’s upset, and Witt calls me about the baby twenty times a day.”

  “So hang up twenty tim
es a day.”

  “Oh, he’s so sorry. Oh, he’s never going to have a drink again. He makes me nauseated.”

  “We have to lie low until this isn’t on the news all day, every day,” Lock said. “The only thing we have going for us is the media’s short attention span.”

  “Then why the pissed-off face?”

  “Abby wants a drink,” Lock said.

  “Can’t that work out for us?” she said. “Him wanting a drink. Why can’t you help him to—what do you call it—slip? I’m sure he’s got a long way down once he starts the slide.”

  A picture of Natalie’s snake tattoo rushed through Lock’s mind. In his imagination, the snake’s head came out of her throat and morphed into her head.

  Lock controlled his expression.

  “That would kill him, taking a drink,” he said. “He wants to drink, but he won’t, and the craving is his cue that something’s very wrong. He’ll stand there for a thousand years to figure out why he wants that drink.”

  She reached forward and squeezed his shoulder.

  “And I’m going to help him come to a satisfactory conclusion so he stops thinking about it,” Lock said. “I’m going to do it with a story that’s going to taste exactly like the truth—but it will be what we need him to think. Trouble is, I’ve never been able to lie to him very well. I’ll have to succeed this time. He knows me like a father knows his son. If he had a good a reason, he wouldn’t hesitate to have himself arrested—or me.”

  “You have to think of something,” said Natalie.

  “I know. Cool is how we play it. No small rooms.”

  “How long do we not see each other?” she asked.

  “I’m going home to think about that. Then we’ll see.”

  “So you’re taking the day off,” Natalie said, “while I do nothing but sit and burn a hole in my stomach.”

  “You have two children to take care of.”

  “You have hundreds.”

  Lock couldn’t see her face.

  “Dahlia will be home from the hospital soon,” he said, “and the spotlight on CPS will fade and other problems—newer, bigger problems—will pop up to distract Abby.” Lock stood up. “Goodbye, baby,” he said, so low she could barely hear him. “Wish I could kiss you.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  On screen, a couple argued and the man paced and made hand gestures, as if he were accusing her of something. She rushed to him.

  “Stay until the movie’s over. I’ve seen it. See how it ends.”

  When he left, Natalie was still sitting there, staring blankly at the couple embracing on the screen.

  23

  District Attorney Jacoby, bundled up against the cold and sitting on a bench in Glen Providence Park, alternated blowing into his gloved hands and shooing away hungry pigeons.

  Carlo, nineteen, skinny and nervous, walked toward Jacoby, accompanied by a middle-aged woman wearing a long coat against the chill.

  Jacoby gestured for the kid to take a seat and spoke a few words to the woman, who identified herself as Carlo’s attorney. Jacoby produced an envelope and handed it to her. She took her time reading the document enclosed, and a minute later handed it over to Carlo. He stared at it.

  From the sidewalk nearby, a police officer materialized. The kid’s eyes widened when he realized an officer was going to be part of the meeting.

  “What’s this?” Carlo asked to both his attorney and Jacoby. “I said I’m signing, didn’t I?”

  “Relax, Carlo,” said Jacoby. “Your lawyer won’t let us pull anything.”

  “You both set me up—he’s going to bust me,” Carlo said, pointing a finger toward the officer.

  “Take it easy, Carlo,” the attorney said. “You’re already arrested. I’m trying to get you unarrested.”

  “It’s as we told you,” Jacoby said to Carlo. He turned to the woman. “Okay for him to sign the statement?”

  The woman looked at Carlo. “Go ahead and sign it. It’s okay. Cooperating now will help you with the judge later.”

  The officer stood there, hovering. Jacoby handed a pen to the kid, who took it and signed the statement.

  “Nice and legible, Carlo,” said Jacoby, who then turned to the officer. “He’s a good kid. Don’t be too rough when you’re testifying against him in court.”

  “A good kid with a half-pound of marijuana,” said the officer.

  “Not for distribution, just for recreational use,” said the attorney. “Isn’t that right, Carlo?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Only to get high,” said Carlo.

  “That’s comical,” said the officer. “Anyway, what’s in that statement that’s so important? Arresting a kid with a half-pound looks good for me. Letting him slide looks bad. Why should I do that? Plus, I wouldn’t believe a thing this kid says. He’s telling you what you want to hear.”

  “He’s a key witness in another case,” Jacoby said. “And we all have to work together for the greater good.”

  Having witnessed the signature, the officer shrugged and walked away.

  Jacoby spoke quietly to the attorney, who put her copy of the statement in her briefcase, shook hands with Jacoby, and turned to leave with Carlo. Jacoby called to the attorney. “And please, don’t let your client move to Amsterdam. We need him for court.”

  24

  Hours before dawn, Lock’s eyes opened. He sat up, wide awake. He couldn’t stop thinking about Dahlia. He pictured her alone and whimpering in the pediatric unit in Brandywine Community Hospital, the nurses busy with other little patients. No one to hold her. No one to comfort her.

  And he imagined Natalie sound asleep in her own bed.

  He got up and put on some coffee. He paced in his tiny kitchen while it brewed. His mind raced, imagining the toddler’s fear and pain she experienced when the pickup truck smashed into Witt’s car, the flashing red and blue emergency lights, the ride in an ambulance and being attended to by strangers in uniforms.

  Lock tried to calm himself by taking a series of rapid breaths, hoping to get more oxygen to his brain. Maybe that would help him think more clearly and get his mind right. But then he worried that his mind was already right—that it was what he’d done that caused him so much distress. In all his planning, he’d never figured on this—an unforeseen crash. If he had only positioned Witt’s car better.

  Imagining that dark road gave him an idea. He’d go to the Poconos. Walk in the woods there. He knew he’d be able to get two or three days off. He had plenty of vacation days coming to him, and Abner would understand. He’d call him at home, but it was only five a.m., too early to wake his boss.

  Lock didn’t wait for the coffee to finish brewing. He turned off the coffee maker. He got into the shower and nearly scalded himself with the hot water, scrubbing himself violently with a cotton washcloth.

  As he dried himself, he realized the shower hadn’t worked to wash away his anxiety—the rushing thoughts returned. Running away to the mountains wouldn’t help, either. He needed to get to the office and do whatever good he could. He needed to help the children whose lives came across his desk in the form of messages, memos, reports, and phone calls. That was who Lock was, a guardian of children, not a monster who intentionally put them in harm’s way. It had been a horrible, horrible mistake.

  He’d get to the office early, work late, and do good things. He needed to have a sense of control, and that illusion was easier to acquire at the office.

  He left for CPS while it was still dark. Once there, he tore into his files. What more could he do to help the children he was assigned to? There had to be something, and he’d find it and do it.

  Several hours passed before other CPS employees began arriving. Around ten, Abby called him into his office. Lock headed over to the administrative wing where Abby worked, steeling himself. Had Abby learned something el
se about the Mannheim case? What could it be? Would he take a look at Lock and sense something was amiss?

  No, Lock told himself, he doesn’t know anything. He just wants to talk about the case. Lock pulled himself upright and took some deep breaths. He knocked on the glass window of Abby’s open door.

  “Come in, boy,” Abby said. He stood up from behind his desk and approached Lock, smiling. “A new day and another step closer to figuring out this Mannheim quagmire.”

  Lock took a couple of steps in and nodded.

  “Everything is slowly falling into place,” Abby said. “And I think the missus is up to her neck in this.”

  “What gives you that idea?” asked Lock. Shit. He could feel sudden sweat dripping down his back. He didn’t say anything to defend Natalie. Abby was too intuitive when it came to things like this. He was thirsty, so the only way to play it was to play along.

  “Mannheim hired a team of private investigators, that’s what. That guy’s worth a fortune. No expenses spared.”

  “What’s he know?”

  “Nothing much,” said Abby, “other than Mannheim wasn’t alone in his car when he left the Cavern Tavern.”

  “Who was he with?”

  “He was with a woman in the bar, but she went back in after Mannheim left. A cabby offered a ride to an obviously drunken Mannheim and saw another man trying to take his car keys away.”

  “What’d the cabby say he looked like?” said Lock.

  “Looked drunk as hell,” said Abby.

  “I mean what did the other guy look like, the Good Samaritan?

  “The cabby said he didn’t really see the other guy,” Abby said. “He was all bundled up and it was sleeting hard. A cigar was the only thing the cabby mentioned.”

  Lock kept his stony face, but his heart lifted with relief.

  “So now there’s a loose end,” Abby said, “and it’s making me thirsty, I tell you. I aim to know who that man is and why he gave Mannheim his keys back. Go out there and press the bartender. And while you’re at it, don’t come back until you know who that woman is. If she’s a regular there, the bartender should know who she is.”