“Here,” Heather said, unwrapping a sandwich. “It’s turkey and cheese.”
As she bit and chewed, she kept her focus on Heather. What could be going through the woman’s head? She swallowed. “You’re pissed off,” she said, and took another bite.
Heather met her gaze, but didn’t say a word.
She finished the sandwich, then drank from the water bottle Heather held against her lips. Her thirst quenched and her belly full, she let out a sigh. “I understand. It’s not every day you kidnap a pregnant heroin addict.”
“I’ve done some thinking and praying,” Heather began, tossing the sandwich wrapper and water bottle into an empty grocery bag, “and I don’t believe you.”
The nausea returned and she regretted drinking the water so quickly. “Then you really are stupid,” she said, shifting her body onto the mattress and curling on her side.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I think you’re desperate and will say anything to help yourself out here.” She picked up a water bottle and opened it. “You can’t afford food or a place to live. How could you afford drugs?” she asked with a triumphant, dimple-revealing smile, then drank from the bottle.
Oh, my God, the woman was beyond clueless. She started to laugh at Heather’s stupidity, but a cramp seized her stomach. She bit her lip. When the pain subsided, she said, “Open my backpack if you don’t believe me. Just be careful you don’t prick yourself on the needle.”
Heather’s eyes widened. She quickly set the water bottle down and grabbed the backpack. As she rummaged through it, Chloe wondered if she was digging her own grave. Yes, if Heather followed through with her plan, she’d likely die anyway, but at least her baby would live. But if Heather worried that her drug use had affected the baby to the point she no longer wanted him, the crazy bitch could leave her in the unit to die. She wanted her son to have a chance at life, but what kind of life would he lead with Heather as his mother?
Heather gasped and dropped the backpack. “How could you?” she asked, her voice full of accusation. “How could you do this to your baby? How could you even afford to?”
“Up until about a week ago I had a job.” As her stomach cramped again, and the urge to use the bucket grew strong, she decided to lay a huge dose of reality on the woman. “It’s amazing what men will pay to get laid.”
Sputtering incoherently, Heather kicked the backpack and began to pace. When she fisted her hands to her sides, Chloe realized what the woman was wearing. “It that a maternity shirt?” she asked, then snorted and laughed. “You’re so fucked up. You’re actually pretending to be pregnant?” In a way, this was good. If Heather was telling people she was pregnant, she wouldn’t let her and the baby die. How could she possibly find another pregnant woman on such short notice?
Heather stopped pacing and stalked toward her, wagging her finger. “What I’ve done is nothing compared to what you are, you filthy whore,” she said, her quiet tone contradicting the outrage contorting her face.
Chloe hardened her jaw. Screw this bitch. “At least I can change who I am. You on the other hand will always be a murderer.”
Tears began to stream down Heather’s pudgy cheeks. She blinked several times before her face crumpled with misery. “I’m not a murderer.”
“Bullshit. You killed a woman for her baby.”
She shook her head. “No. God took her.”
“Right. After you dissected her,” Chloe said, remembering the kit.
Heather swiped at her tears. “God gave me—never mind.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t owe a lowlife whore an explanation.”
“Yeah, well, this whore is carrying the baby you want.” She cocked her head and decided to really fuck with her. With no means of escape, she was screwed. But the more she thought about it, she’d rather have her baby die with her than live with Heather. What if one day the woman decided she didn’t want her baby anymore? What would she do then? Kill him? And what about Heather’s so-called husband? If he existed, what if he was abusive, or a sick pedophile?
“How many men have you lain with?” Heather asked.
“Lain with? Call it what it is. Fucking. Screwing. Fornication. Sex.”
Heather covered her ears. “Stop it and shut your filthy mouth.” She dropped her hands and, in a flash, she was in her face. “Who’s the baby’s father?”
Chloe caught the smell of the woman’s body odor, watched as her beads of sweat mingled with her tears. Her eyes bulged with hatred and her mouth was set in a snarl, her upper lip twitching. For the first time today, fear settled into the pit of her stomach. A sure sign that the heroin was working its way out of her system. Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed Heather. Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut and waited. Bided her time until—until what? Until she killed her? God, Heather was treating her like a Thanksgiving turkey. Holding her in her pen, trying to fatten her up for the day she could carve into her.
She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want her baby to, either.
“Tell me, or I’m going to get the hammer and start smashing your toes,” Heather threatened.
“What was it you told me about lying lips?”
A slow smile curved Heather’s mouth. “‘Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but those who act faithfully are his delight.’” She shook her head. “You don’t want to lie to me, Chloe. Now tell me the truth.”
She winced when her stomach cramped again. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Heather kept her eyes narrowed. “After you tell me what I need to know, I’ll help you.”
“I mean it. I really have to go.” Bad. Something wasn’t right. If she didn’t make it to the bucket, she’d shit herself like a baby.
“I’m waiting.”
Hoping to ward off the inevitable, she moved her knees toward her stomach. Despite the sweat coating her skin, she shivered and goose bumps rose along her skin. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know how many men I’ve been with and I don’t know who the father is.” The acrid taste of bile invaded her mouth. Her throat muscles worked on their own accord. “I…I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Just thinking about how many men used your body makes me want to vomit, too.”
“I’m—the bucket. Hurry!”
The woman’s eyes widened, before she grabbed the bucket and held it in front of Chloe’s face. After she vomited the turkey sandwich, oranges and water, she rested her head against the mattress. “I don’t feel good,” she said, and closed her eyes. Her head swam and she knew what she needed to make it go away. The H in her backpack would do the trick. But she didn’t want that. She also didn’t want to feel like shit, either.
“I’m still waiting for an answer,” Heather reminded her.
“I told you the truth. I don’t know who the father is.”
“Then tell about the men you’ve…lain with. What color are they?”
Color? A Bible-thumping racist. Classic. “Every color under the rainbow.”
Heather rubbed her forehead. “Be specific.”
“Look,” she said, wincing again as the urge to relieve herself came on strong. “My pimp didn’t discriminate. I’ve been with black guys, white guys, Asian and Hispanic.” There was an Indian guy, too, but that had been way before she could have become pregnant.
Heather sat back on her heels, defeat in her eyes. “So the baby could be mixed?” she asked, childlike.
If Heather called someone on the street mixed, she’d have her ass handed to her. “Biracial is more PC. But I suppose that term isn’t in your Bible.”
Heather mumbled something about her husband, then quickly stood. “I have to go.”
“No. Wait. I have to go to the bathroom.” So bad. If felt as if something was gripping her intestines and twisting them around. “Please.”
“You can make it to the bucket on your own.”
She looked to the bucket, then to where Heather had strapped the belts
around her upper thighs. “I can’t pull my pants down. You have to help me.” God, she hated being helpless and at Heather’s mercy, but crapping herself wasn’t an option. Sitting in her own filth, in this hot as hell room—she hadn’t been around babies in a long time, but knew if that happened, she’d wind up with sores all over her butt.
“Fine.” Heather shoved her onto her back, then produced a key from her pocket. She unlocked the two padlocks, then unbuckled the belts. With surprising strength, she lifted her into a standing position, then pulled down her cutoff leggings. Keeping her forearms underneath Chloe’s armpits, Heather held her over the bucket. Within seconds, Chloe relieved herself. If she wasn’t so damned miserable, if the cramping and the nausea weren’t incredibly unbearable, she would have laughed at the way Heather gagged. The bitch had no one to blame but herself. She’d forced Chloe into this demeaning situation.
After she finished with the bucket and Heather cleaned her, Chloe sat on the mattress and waited for Heather to pull up her leggings. Instead, Heather dumped the contents of the bucket into one of the empty plastic grocery bags, tied the handles in a knot and tossed it into the corner of the room. She then applied hand sanitizer and, after gathering the Gymboree bag and her purse, walked toward the garage door. She stopped, came back to the mattress and placed the gag over her mouth.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” Heather said, tears in her eyes. She reached down and touched Chloe’s stomach. “Lie back down.” After she did, Heather retrieved the bags of ice from the cooler and set them around Chloe’s body. “This should help keep you cool.” Then she stood and, without another word or a backward glance, Heather left.
The L raced by, rattling some of the boxes in the unit. The ice had already started numbing her skin. The stench in the unit reminded her of a Porta Potti that had been baking in the hot sun. She could deal with the smell, though. Since Heather hadn’t bothered to secure the thigh straps, her mind was already working out ways she might be able to free herself.
She tugged on the cord connected to her back, tried wriggling from the straps belted under her stomach. They didn’t move. The bags of ice did, though, and were now slipping under her. While the idea had been a good one, the execution hadn’t worked very well. Lying on a bed of ice would become seriously uncomfortable.
Her stomach spasms had her curling into a ball. She was going to have to go again. Without Heather here to help her, she didn’t know if she could do it by herself. Maybe she could hold out until Heather returned.
Closing her eyes, she fought another wave of dizziness. Her nose itched almost as bad as her body and started to run. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, only she couldn’t. She kept replaying what had just happened and how Heather had left.
Without any indication she’d come back.
A new kind of fear had her heart racing and tears stinging her eyes. Heather had mumbled something about her husband. If he was real, based on Heather’s reaction to a mixed baby, he was probably white. What if she’d pushed the woman too far? What if she didn’t come back? After all, how would Heather explain a biracial baby as her own?
*
Sobbing, Heather stripped out of the maternity top, then shoved it and the Gymboree bag under the bed. When she rushed into the small bathroom, she caught her reflection in the mirror and cried harder. She was meant to be a mother. This had always been God’s plan. He’d given her Chloe.
He also gave you Missy.
She looked to her shaky hands and remembered how bloodied they’d been after she’d pulled Missy’s dead baby from her body. She’d been disappointed, but had known in her heart that Missy had been a test of her faith. Her mama had once told her that faith grew through suffering.
She turned on the shower and finished undressing. Oh, how she’d suffered. God had taken her mama too soon, striking her down with cancer. He’d taken Elton from her before she’d had the honor of even holding him. He’d given her Missy, only to welcome her baby into His kingdom before he’d had the chance to know the world. She stepped under the warm water and washed away her tears. Though it all, she’d maintained her love and faith, knowing that, in the end, God’s design would work in her and Wayne’s favor. But Chloe…
Another sob tore through her. How could Chloe have taken drugs during her pregnancy? Knowing the baby could be born addicted scared her. She might not be able to care for the baby properly and would be forced to take him to the hospital. Which wasn’t an option. The medical staff would wonder how she had an addicted baby when she’d never taken a drug in her life. Before she went to the storage unit again, she’d go to the library and search for advice on the Internet. There had to be home remedies that could help her keep the baby healthy until the drug was out of his system.
She soaped up the washcloth and began rubbing it over her body. When she reached her stomach, pushed the thin terrycloth over her rolls and caught the stretch marks along her skin, fresh tears streamed down her face and mingled with the shower water. Those stretch marks were a brutal symbolization of what she could never have—a child of her own body. Chloe’s baby was her chance at being a mother again. But what if the baby was half black, or Asian, or Hispanic? No one would believe the baby was hers and Wayne’s. Or, if they did, they might assume she’d committed adultery against her husband. The only man she’d ever lain with or kissed, for that matter, had been Wayne. And what would he do if she brought home a baby they couldn’t pass off as their own?
As she rinsed her hair and body, she pictured his face. How hardened and distanced he’d become toward her. He would be furious. He might possibly hate her for what she’d do to Chloe, and for bringing a child of mixed race into their home.
She loved Wayne so much and couldn’t bear to have him hate her. She couldn’t bear not having a child to love, either.
She thought about who had seen her in the maternity top. Other than the clerks at the stores she’d visited today, she hadn’t run into anyone from her building. No one who would raise questions knew she’d been pretending to be pregnant, and she could easily solve her problem and not return to the storage unit. Let Chloe die from the heat and dehydration, and her baby along with her.
She stepped out of the shower and, after wiping the steam from the mirror, stared at her reflection again. She couldn’t set Chloe free. The girl had seen her face, knew her first name and the apartment building where she lived. Chloe might promise to not tell the police, but she didn’t trust her. And if Chloe did go to the police, and she was arrested, the authorities might learn about her other Eltons. She and Wayne would be separated and sent to prison. Her chest burned with terror. She couldn’t do that to her and Wayne. They had too many plans for the future, and she loved him too much to allow him to face a life sentence—or worse. But if she let Chloe die, she would be a murderer, which she wasn’t. She hadn’t killed Missy, God had taken the woman—and for good reason. She understood the pain and suffering that went along with losing a child. But she’d had Wayne by her side to help her through those agonizing days. Missy had no one, and would have suffered alone. Now, surrounded by God’s love, the woman no longer knew suffering.
Letting Chloe die was wrong. Her daddy had been a hunter. He’d died in an accident when she had been about nine, but she remembered him well, along with the deer he’d brought home and dressed in the shed on the back of their property. He’d once told her that he despised men who hunted only for the thrill of it and for the trophy. Daddy had known plenty of men who would kill a buck and only keep the head to display on their walls, leaving the carcass to rot in the woods. Her daddy believed that if you killed an animal, you took from it as much as you could. Otherwise the animal’s death would be a waste. Comparing Chloe to a deer was ridiculous, but, in a sense, worked. To let Chloe die without taking her baby would be a waste of a life.
And she desperately wanted the life growing inside the girl. She wanted to hold and love that baby boy. She needed him to complete their family and b
ring Wayne closer to her again.
He might be white.
A small amount of excitement pierced her aching heart. Chloe might not know who the baby’s father was, but there was a one in four chance he was white. She could be worrying over nothing. Or she could destroy her marriage.
She brushed her hair, then dressed. Wayne would be home in an hour and she needed to search deep into her heart and soul for answers. Dropping to her knees, she folded her hands and rested her forehead against their bed. She prayed for guidance, for answers.
Fifteen minutes later, she stood and went into the kitchen to make the sloppy joes she’d planned for dinner. Although still plagued with indecision, she would go see Chloe again. At least one more time. As she’d prayed, she had searched deep within her soul and had found her answers.
She would follow through with her plans. If the baby ended up not being white, or too sick for her to care for at home, it would be time for Wayne to get the shovel.
*
Wayne dropped his keys in the basket, then took off his ball cap. His mouth watered from the aroma coming from the kitchen, while his stomach clenched with the uneasiness that had been plaguing him throughout the day. While he’d been at work, his wife had never been far from his thoughts. He’d meant what he had said last night. If she didn’t find a job, he’d demand that they leave Chicago. They needed a fresh start, just not here. He didn’t like the city or the congestion. The passing train made the apartment vibrate. And he hated their apartment, too.
With a sigh, he entered the kitchen. Dimples stood at the stove, stirring whatever was in the pan with a wooden spoon. Sloppy joes, by the smell of it.
“How was your day?” she asked with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She let the spoon rest against the pan, walked over and kissed him on the cheek.
Ultimate Fear (Book 2 Ultimate CORE) (CORE Series) Page 32
