Karla radioed for detectives, then tried to calm Maria with little success. They walked to the police cruiser where Karla used the computer to check motor vehicle records. She confirmed that Karla’s car was an S Class Mercedes sedan and obtained the license number. With all the information in hand, Karla radioed to request an immediate Amber Alert. By the time the detectives arrived and the Amber Alert was issued, nearly an hour had elapsed.
After several minutes of silence, it was Kevan who spoke. “We gotta get this car off the street.”
“Tony’s garage isn’t far from here. We can take the back streets. He’ll take this off our hands. Maybe he can loan us a car for a couple of days, too.”
“But what about the kid?”
“We’ll figure it out. But we gotta get rid of this car.”
On the way to Tony’s, they hit three ATMs. Using care to make sure their faces weren’t caught by the security cameras, they used the cards and pin numbers from Maria’s purse to drain $3,000 from her accounts. They split the money.
Fifteen minutes later, Cedrick drove the Mercedes down an unlit alley in an area of largely abandoned commercial buildings. He stopped in front of a ramshackle concrete block building with an oversized garage door. Cedrick blew the horn in two sets of three long bursts. It was a signal they had used before. With a clanking of metal on metal, the door slowly raised. As soon as the door was high enough to clear the roof, Cedrick pulled forward into the dim grease-stained garage.
Tony Wells walked toward them, wiping his hands on a shop towel. Nearly 60, short and round, wearing oil-stained coveralls, he was a throwback to another time when cars and life were less complex. Behind him, two men noisily worked under a late model Honda CRV that was up on a lift.
As Cedrick and Kevan got out of the car, Tony gave a low whistle. “Damn, where’d you boys pick that up?”
“Gas station,” Cedrick said. “Woman went in and left the car running.”
“S Class. Looks cherry.”
“It is,” Cedrick said. “But we got a problem.” Cedrick opened the back door, revealing the car seat. The racket in the garage woke the baby, who began to fuss.
Tony stepped back like he had been punched in the chest. He waived his open hands at arm’s length as if trying to ward off an apparition. “No, no, no, no. I’m not touching this. I ain’t getting involved in nothing to do with snatching a kid.”
“Com’on Tony,” Cedrick said, a touch of pleading in his voice. “We’ll take care of the kid. We ain’t gonna hurt him. But this car’s worth six figures. We can’t just give it back. We’ll even take a discount. You just give us one of your junkers so we can get back home, then you can pay us later after you off-load this.”
Tony seemed to reconsider, then again shook his head. “I’ve been handling hot cars for forty years, but I don’t touch nothin’ else. No drugs. No violence. No snatching kids. That’s how I stay out of jail and alive. I want you two out of here. Now.”
Kevan and Cedrick looked at each other. Their dreams of a twenty-grand score were gone. Cedrick ran a hand through his hair. There was desperation in his voice. “Man, at least let us use one of your cars. We’ve brought you some good business. You can do that. We’ll dump the Mercedes someplace on the way home.”
Tony stood with his hands resting on his ample belly, looking upward. After a long minute, he walked over to a pegboard loaded with maybe twenty sets of keys. Using his shop towel, he removed a set of keys from the board, wiped them down, then flipped them to Cedrick. “There’s a piece of junk silver Caravan parked on the street about half a block down. Dinged up right side. You take it, but you were never here. You understand? You get caught, you heisted it off the street.”
“Sure, Tony. Thanks.”
“I’m serious. You were never here. And make sure you don’t leave that Mercedes anyplace close to here.”
Without another word, Cedrick and Kevan got back in the Mercedes and backed out of the garage. The Caravan was easy to spot. Kevan got out and slid behind the wheel. It smelled like three-day-old puke, but there wasn’t going to be an Amber Alert for it.
Kevan followed the Mercedes through a series of two-lane residential side streets. Two miles from Tony’s garage, Cedrick pulled the Mercedes behind a dilapidated commercial building with a fading sign for what had once been a local hardware store. Kevan put the van in park, but kept the engine running, afraid that if he shut it off, it might not restart. He watched Cedrick moving around inside the Mercedes. After several minutes, Cedrick got out carrying a small bag in one hand.
Kevan exited the battered Caravan and walked up to Cedrick. They stood in the dark among the rubble from the building. It smelled like piss and spoiled food, the remnants from the homeless vagrants and crack whores who had found a night’s shelter in the lee of the building.
“What do we do now?” Kevan asked.
“We got almost $4,000 cash. And I grabbed this.” Cedrick held up the Tiffany’s bag in his hand. “It’s a Rolex. We ain’t getting twenty thousand for the car, but it ain’t bad for one night. I wiped down the car. We just leave it here.”
“What about the kid?”
“What about him? We didn’t leave him in the car. The mother did. Let her worry about that. I ain’t doing time ’cause some mom left a kid in a running car. That’s on her.”
“I don’t know, Ced. It’s just a baby. It’s cold out here. Gonna get colder tonight. That kid might freeze to death.”
Cedrick walked close to Kevan, their faces separated only by inches. “I told you, that’s not my problem. If the mom didn’t care, why should I. If the cops don’t find that baby in time, it ain’t my problem, neither. I didn’t cause ’em to be so stupid.”
Kevan looked down and shook his head. There was a long silence before he spoke. “I ain’t leavin’ no baby to die in the cold.”
“Don’t be a pussy, Kevan.”
Kevan looked up. “I ain’t a pussy. But I ain’t no baby killer, neither.”
Cedrick walked past Kevan and got into the driver’s seat of the Caravan. “I’m leaving. You comin’?”
Kevan just stood there, his chin tucked into his chest. He heard the van slip into gear and drive away. He did not look up.
Maria sat in her living room, her face buried in her hands. There were no tears. She had cried them all out. Her husband, Carter, paced across the expansive formal living room. He had been doing so for the past two hours, ever since the policewoman brought Maria home. Two couples, friends who lived nearby, kept a silent vigil.
Karla Houseman, notebook open, sat in a straight-back chair that was carried in from the adjoining dining room. The detective in charge ordered her to drive Maria home and stay until someone arrived to relieve her.
Karla stood by as Maria broke the news to her husband. Carter Wafford responded first with disbelief, then shock, and finally with unrestrained anger. “How could you be so stupid? What kind of mother leaves her baby in the car with the engine running? Don’t you have any brains at all? If anything happens to him, it will all be your fault.” It was ugly.
As time passed, Carter made some effort to control his anger. He even made a meager effort to console his distraught wife. But there was no consoling her.
Karla couldn’t help but think how awful it would be if the child was found dead. It would taint every Christmas for Maria and her husband for as long as they lived. It would undoubtedly destroy their marriage, if it had not already done so.
The ring of Karla’s cell phone went through the room like a shockwave. Karla dug the phone from her utility belt. “Houseman.”
Karla listened for several minutes. “Thank you. Keep me posted.” She clicked off and turned to face the tense looks of everyone in the room.
“They found the car.” Karla could see the instantaneous relief on the faces but knew it would not last. “Your baby wasn’t there.”
“Oh, Jesus.” It was one of the neighbors.
Karla tried to provide some o
ptimism. “There’s some good news. There was no sign of violence. The car seat is gone. You said there was a blanket in the backseat?”
Maria nodded.
“It’s gone, too. So is the diaper bag. Those are good signs. Someone is at least looking after the baby. The detectives and crime scene guys are there checking over the car. Patrolmen are out banging on doors, waking people up to see if anyone saw something. We’ve got all our resources on this.” After a pause, Karla added, “We’ll find your baby and bring him home.”
Karla wished she felt more confident in what she was saying.
Kevan walked through the night chill, aimlessly wandering along a cracked sidewalk in some nameless neighborhood. Kevan had lost track of how long he had been walking, or where he was. His right arm was numb from carrying the car seat. Under the blanket, with a winter coat snugly in place, the baby was asleep. Kevan didn’t want to risk waking the baby by switching arms, so on he walked.
Solitary tears slid down his cheeks. He told himself they were from the wind in his face. Someplace inside, he knew better.
As he approached an intersection, he saw dim lights streaming from the windows in a large building. At first, he thought it was some type of warehouse. It was only as he drew closer that he recognized it as one of those old-fashioned churches—deep red brick with a bell tower stretching upward into the darkness. Concrete steps led to an arched entrance with two oversized wooden doors. From inside, there was a faint sound of music. He heard an organ, then a choir with the strains of a Christmas carol he had heard in childhood but didn’t remember.
Kevan stopped and listened for a moment. He looked at the baby resting in the car seat, then headed up the steps. He eased open one of the doors that creaked ever so slightly. Light projected through the church from the front where the choir was singing. Kevan stood behind the last row of pews as music continued. A soloist was singing:
Mary did you know that your baby boy is heaven’s perfect Lamb?
This sleeping child you’re holding is the great I Am
The choir repeated the refrain “Mary did you know?” until the music faded. It was only then that the woman conducting noticed the stranger.
“Can I help you,” she said, her voice carrying to the back of the church. When there was no response, the woman repeated her call.
Kevan said nothing, but his sobs became audible, echoing through the sanctuary. Patricia Holmes put down her conducting baton. She signaled the choir to stay in place and walked the length of the church to where Kevan stood, shoulders slumped.
Patricia tried to make her voice soothing. “I’m Reverend Patricia Holmes. Everyone just calls me Patricia.” She looked at the car seat Kevan was holding. “What have we here? A baby?”
Slowly, Patricia leaned down and eased back the blanket. A baby with dark brown eyes, a full head of wiry black hair and deep cocoa-colored skin looked back, just a hint of a smile on his face. It was obvious that the child did not belong to the young ruddy-skinned teenager standing in front of her.
“He’s so precious. What’s his name?”
Kevan could barely get the words out. “I…don’t know.”
Patricia took the car seat from Kevan and eased the diaper bag off his shoulder. She directed him to a seat in the nearest pew. “Come sit. How did we sound? This is our last practice for our Christmas Eve program tomorrow night. That’s why we’re here so late. We just want to make it perfect.”
Kevan nodded. “Pretty good, I guess,” he mumbled.
Patricia turned toward the choir. She raised her voice to be heard. “That sounded wonderful. I think we’re ready. I’m going to talk to this young man for a while, but I think we can call it a night. Thank you all. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The choir began to mill about, putting on their coats. But no one left. They would not leave the pastor alone with this stranger who just wandered in.
Patricia sat next to Kevan. Her voice was now soft. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
So Kevan did. He told the entire story, only leaving out Cedrick’s name and the visit to Tony’s garage.
Patricia put her arm around Kevan as he talked. When he was done, they sat silent for a long time. Finally, Patricia said, “You did the right thing, you know that? Not hurting the child, I mean.”
Kevan gave a small nod.
“You need to be proud of that. But we need to get in touch with the child’s mother. She must be worried sick.”
Kevan nodded again.
They sat in silence for several more minutes. Patricia nodded toward the front of the church where a nativity was set up near the alter. “You know why we celebrate Christmas don’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess. I seen the stuff on TV.”
“We celebrate the birth of a baby, much like this baby. That baby came to us to bring peace, to forgive us and save us from our sins.”
A small tear ran down Kevan’s cheek, but he said nothing.
“I think maybe that’s what this baby has done, Kevan. Just like Jesus, this baby touched you. Touched those good places in you.” She paused. “I think this baby is here to save you.”
Tears flooded down Kevan’s face. He made no effort to wipe them aside. “I ain’t nothing but a doper and a thief. That’s all I am.”
Patricia gave Kevan a long hug, then whispered in his ear. “You know, the last man Jesus saved while he was on the cross was a thief.”
Patricia stood. She slung the diaper bag over her shoulder and picked up the baby. “There’s a changing table in the restroom. Let me change this child’s diaper, then we can make some phone calls and get this baby back with his mother. I’ll be right back.”
Kevan nodded but didn’t say anything.
Five minutes later, Patricia walked back into the sanctuary, the freshly-diapered baby nestled in her arms.
She looked out across the pews.
The church was empty.
Momma’s Gotta Pea Soup
2 tablespoons butter
2 medium onions, chopped
2 large celery ribs, including leaves, chopped
2 large carrots, peeled and diced
1/4 teaspoon dried thyme and/or marjoram
1 1/2 to 2 pounds smoked ham hocks
2 cups dried split green peas
6 cups low low-sodium chicken broth & 2 cups water (or 8 cups water)
2 large bay leaves
1 beef bouillon cube
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
(optional) pinch of ground cayenne pepper
Melt butter in heavy large pot or Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add onion, celery and carrots. Sauté until vegetables soften. Add thyme and/or marjoram; stir 1 minute. Add smoked ham hocks, split peas, then water / broth, bay leaves, bouillon, salt, black pepper, and cayenne pepper (if desired). Bring to boil. Reduce heat to medium-low. Partially cover pot; simmer soup until peas are falling apart, stirring often, about 1 to 1 1/2 hours, being careful not to allow soup to scorch.
Transfer hocks to bowl. Puree some or all of soup for smoother texture. Removed meat from hocks, dice and return to soup. Taste and adjust seasoning. Even better the second day.
CONTRIBUTOR BIOGRAPHIES
Joan Bruce is a pseudonym for D. B. Reddick, a short story writer with a dozen published stories to his credit. He is a former newspaper reporter/editor who worked at three daily papers in his native Canada before moving to the United States to become a college journalism instructor. He also worked two dozen years in the insurance industry. Reddick is now an American citizen and lives with his wife Rebecca in Camby, Indiana.
J. Paul Burroughs is a former teacher retired from the Indianapolis Public Schools. He and his wife, Ronda, live in Greenfield, Indiana with their adorable pug, Pip. He is currently working on a paranormal mystery series, Karma and Crime, a second series, Dead and Circuses, about a traveling circus in the 1850’s, and further novellas on the adventures of Nick Mahoney, PI introduced in this
anthology. The Reindeer Murder Case is his light-hearted look at the Noir genre set in the post war era of the late 1940’s.
Ross Carley has been a military intelligence officer and an engineering professor. He is a cybersecurity consultant. His novels feature Wolf Ruger, an Iraq vet with PTSD, who is a private investigator specializing in cybercrime. Wolf solves murders and cybercrimes, undeterred by beautiful women and organized crime: Dead Drive is a private investigator murder mystery. Formula Murder is set in the fast-paced racing industry. Cyberkill, is a cyberthriller featuring casino hacking in Las Vegas, a cybercrime network in Chicago, and high-stakes cybermurder in Indianapolis.
Diana Catt has sixteen short stories in multiple genres in anthologies published by Blue River Press, Red Coyote Press, Pill Hill Press, Wolfmont Press, The Four Horseman Press, and SpeedCity Press. She was co-editor of The Fine Art of Murder. Her collection, Below the Line, is available now. She’s an environmental microbiologist living and working in Morgan County, Indiana.
MB Dabney is an award-winning journalist whose writing has appeared in numerous local and national publications. He spent two decades as a reporter in Philadelphia, working first for Business Week magazine as a business correspondent and later for United Press International and the Associated Press. As an editor at The Philadelphia Tribune, the nation’s oldest continuously published African -American newspaper, Michael earned national and state awards for his editorial writing. He lives in Indianapolis with his wife, two daughters, and dog Pluto.
Lori Rader-Day was the recipient of the prestigious 2017 Eugene & Marilyn Glick Indiana Authors Regional Award. She is the author of the Anthony Award-winning debut mystery The Black Hour, the Mary Higgins Clark Award-winning mystery Little Pretty Things, The Day I Died (2018 Anthony recipient, and a nominee for the Mary Higgins Clark, Thriller, and Barry Awards), and Under a Dark Sky. Lori is a member of Speed City Indiana Sisters in Crime as well as the Chicagoland Chapter of Sisters in Crime, the Midwest Chapter of Mystery Writers of America, and International Thriller Writers. In September she became the Vice President of Sisters in Crime National. She lives in Chicago, where she is the co-chair of the mystery reader conference Murder and Mayhem in Chicago.
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