Dark Harvest (A Holt Foundation Story Book 2)

by Chris Patchell

  Dr. Frank let the words settle before speaking in a soothing voice.

  “It’s going to take time. Patience. Is there someone besides you and Kelly she trusts?”

  The first person Marissa thought of was Brooke’s ex-boyfriend, Jesse, and how happy she’d been to see him in the hospital the days after the attack.

  “Yes. Jesse Morgan. They were close. But she’s been ducking his calls since she got home.”

  “She’s afraid leaving the house will trigger another anxiety attack,” Dr. Frank explained. “Here’s the hard part. Facing her fear is an essential part of overcoming it. She may well have another attack, but eventually she’ll learn that she can make it through these episodes. Once she realizes that her panic attacks aren’t the end of the world, that she will survive them, they will become less frequent. Less intense.”

  “How many times are we talking about? Two? Twenty?”

  “There’s no hard and fast rule. For some patients, it’s as little as three. For some patients, it’s substantially more.”

  Marissa groaned. Witnessing the attacks was terrifying. Living through them must be a thousand times worse.

  “I know,” Dr. Frank said as if reading her mind. “Nothing about this situation is easy. Is there any chance you could convince Jesse to come see her?”

  “I can try. You think it would help?”

  “I do. We have to break Brooke’s routine. The longer she isolates herself, the harder it will be for her to work through her fear.”

  “Okay, I’ll call him and ask.”

  She had to do something.

  Chapter 15

  Dr. Xander Wilcox removed a blank pad of notepaper out of the desk drawer. Along the top, he scrawled his name and the date in black ink. Below he drew the face of a clock. Along the perimeter, he numbered the hours from one to twelve. Glancing at the digital readout on his computer, he checked the time. Two-fifteen. Carefully he drew in the short hand, then the long on the clock face.

  A tremor traveled down the length of his arm. The long hand jagged across the page like the unsteady readout from an EKG monitor. He dropped the pen and frowned. The tremors were becoming more frequent.

  An image flashed into his mind: rows of shiny high school students impeccably dressed in hats and gowns, all looking at him. He was standing at the microphone, poised to give his valedictorian speech. He saw his father standing in the aisle. Laughter rippled through the crowd. Only then did Xander realized that his father was wearing frayed pajama bottoms.

  He pushed the image from his mind. It was just an off day. The damned baby had cried most of the night, and he’d barely slept.

  The baby didn’t seem to bother Tory. She rose every two hours to change and feed him, and never once complained. Xander found it impossible to sleep with all that racket.

  It didn’t matter.

  Everything would be back to normal soon.

  Gritting his teeth, he tore the paper off the pad, crumpled it up and pitched it at the recycle bin. It bounced off the rim and landed on the newly installed carpet.

  He swore. With a heavy sigh, he rose from the chair and crossed the room to retrieve the wadded ball and disposed of it. From the other room, he heard the baby fuss, and checked the time again.

  He tugged his starched white lab coat smooth and ran a hand through his curly hair. He would have figured them for the type of people who would arrive on the dot.

  Sick of waiting, he pressed the intercom button.

  “It’s past two o’clock. They should have been here by now.”

  “They’re not due until two-thirty,” Tory assured him.

  Gripping the mouse, he checked the calendar. He could have sworn the appointment was for two o’clock. But there it was, scheduled a half hour later. Tory was right.

  He hated not being fully on his game. Today of all days, he needed to be sharp. Xander opened his desk drawer and fished out a pill vial. Shaking an orange capsule onto his palm, he popped it in his mouth and washed it down with a sip from his water bottle.

  Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the back of the chair and waited for the pill to kick in. A full ten minutes passed before the buzz of the intercom jarred him from his rest.

  Xander crossed the spacious office, opened the door, and ushered the couple inside. Well dressed in their early forties, they fit the demographics to a tee: wealthy, white, and barren.

  “Mr. Binghurst, good to see you.”

  He shook hands with the husband first. An investment banker from New York City, Jared Binghurst had earned his money the old-fashioned way—he’d inherited it. Xander clapped Jared on the shoulder, then turned to shake the wife’s hand.

  Blonde and pretty, Sara’s face was china-doll perfect. She showed no signs of aging. Xander recognized the work of a master when he saw it. Whoever had done Sara’s facelift had left no fingerprints behind, not a single, solitary trace to mar her perfection.

  Why was it so easy to fix the visible imperfections of a body and yet nearly impossible to fix the hidden imperfections of a mind?

  Xander released Sara’s damp hand. He could tell she was nervous. Excited.

  Who wouldn’t be?

  She stopped in front of the collage on the freshly painted wall, mesmerized by the dozens of snapshots of happy parents holding happy babies. Xander smiled. The look on her face was exactly as he intended. Her gaze lingered on the photos until Jared tugged her hand.

  Xander gestured to the deep leather guest chairs and the Binghursts sat. Jared plucked at the sharp hairline crease in his trousers and crossed his legs. He scanned the wall of carefully cultivated certificates and diplomas displayed in a framed array behind Xander’s desk. Like any good businessman, Jared was checking his credentials. Finding everything in order, he gazed back at Xander.

  “I can’t tell you how happy we were to get your call,” he said.

  He gripped Sara’s hand. She shot him a tremulous smile.

  “We couldn’t believe our good luck,” she said. “We’ve wanted this for so long, I’d almost lost hope. You’ve been a godsend, Dr. Wilcox. A miracle.”

  “Any problems with the birth mother?” Jared asked in a guarded tone.

  Xander knew this wasn’t the Binghurst’s first rodeo. The birth mother of the last baby they were set to adopt changed her mind at the last moment. They’d spent the majority of their first meeting telling him how heartbroken they were, and how it took Sara months to recover from the disappointment.

  “The birth mother signed over her rights without a hitch,” Xander assured them. “She wants the best for her baby, and lucky little boy that he is, that means the two of you. That’s what you paid for—a guarantee, right?”

  From behind the door, Xander heard the baby give a small cry. Sara half rose from her chair, but her husband’s gentle grip restrained her. The baby cried louder. Reluctantly she resumed her seat, looking more edgy than ever.

  Jared held Sara’s hand tight. “It’s just . . . we couldn’t stand to have another situation fall through.”

  “I know this is hard. You’ve had your lawyer review the paperwork. Did he find anything you should be concerned about?”

  “No,” Jared admitted.

  The baby stopped crying. Feeding time. Xander smiled and Sara let out a breath.

  “Trust me, Jared. This is going to be one investment you will never regret.”

  He tapped a key on the computer and his monitor sprang to life. He was already logged into his Cayman Island bank account.

  “Now there’s just the small matter of payment.”

  “Of course,” Jared said. He slid the cell phone from his pocket and went to work.

  Xander studied the perfect couple seated before them. For so many people, having a baby and raising a child to adulthood was the culmination of a life’s accomplishments. If humankind put one fraction of the effort or energy they spent in childrearing into doing something that had meaning, like curing disease, or safeguarding the economy
, or learning how to survive global climate change, mankind could transcend its current state and change the future in unfathomable ways. But that’s not why they were here.

  Xander gazed back at the computer monitor. The transaction had posted to his account. He stared at the amount and rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of it. He could read the numbers just fine, but he couldn’t seem to grasp what they meant. Were they right?

  “Is everything okay?” Binghurst asked.

  Xander didn’t know. Binghurst was a smart man. There is no way he would risk disappointing his wife again by not sending the correct amount, he reasoned. It wasn’t logical.

  Xander tore his gaze away from the screen and turned his attention back to his clients.

  “You have the finalized paperwork?”

  “Signed, sealed and blessed,” Sara said. She removed a fat envelope from her purse and slid it across the slick surface of the desk.

  Xander picked it up. He didn’t give a damn about the paperwork. The sole critical part of the transaction had occurred in his offshore back account, but he knew he had to keep up appearances.

  Xander made a show of opening the envelope and thumbed his way through the stack of legal documents. Running a finger down each one, he paused at each place it was initialed or signed, taking his time.

  Milking the moment.

  The baby cried again, and Xander’s lips curved into a faint smile. With every passing second, Sara’s anxiety grew. She squirmed in her seat and inched up until she was perched on the edge, leaving Xander with an unfettered view of her perfect legs.

  Sara was a beautiful woman—pampered and perfectly maintained, an excellent representation of her species, but then he imagined that a man like Jared expected nothing less than perfection.

  Jared’s hand rested on his wife’s bare knee.

  Fully satisfied, Xander set the papers aside. He folded his hands on the desk and smiled at the couple.

  “Well now that we’ve gotten all the formalities out of the way, what do you say we get to the fun part? How would you like to meet your son?”

  Like a race horse loosed from the starting gate, Sara sprang from her chair. Jared rose more slowly and placed a steadying hand in the small of his wife’s back. Xander stabbed a button on the phone.

  “You can bring him in now,” he said.

  A door to the right of his desk opened, and in walked Tory. The sleepless night barely showed on her face—one of the benefits of being twenty-six, he surmised. She looked pretty and professional with her red hair pulled back into a bun. The black pencil skirt flattered her hips, and there wasn’t a speck of spit-up on her cream-colored blouse. She was the perfect chameleon—capable of blending into any environment, from horny college student to medical professional. Of course, she could have been stark naked for all the notice the Binghursts paid her. They only had eyes for the baby she held in her arms.

  Sara’s lips quivered, and tears spilled onto her cheeks. She blinked them away, oblivious to the slick mess her mascara was making beneath her eyes. She reached for the baby. He made a cooing noise and flung his arms wide, like he knew Sara was his new mama.

  A contented smile stretched across Xander’s lips. He couldn’t have planned the scene any better if he tried.

  “He’s beautiful,” Sara breathed.

  She buried her face into the fragrant blue bundle of blankets and baby. Her shoulders shook with sobs as she cradled her newly adopted son close to her chest. Jared’s arm circled his wife’s shoulder. Tears shone in his eyes too as he glanced over at Xander and Tory.

  He cleared his throat, his voice thick with emotion.

  “How can we ever thank you?”

  Xander cast his gaze toward the computer screen. He’d have Tory verify everything as soon as the Binghursts left. With a smile, he swept his gaze back to Jared and pumped the man’s outstretched hand.

  “Seeing you with your son is thanks enough. After all, happy families are what we’re all about.”

  Tory cast him an ironic glance. Up close, she reeked of baby formula and dirty diapers, and Xander stepped away until he could no longer discern her foul scent. Tory appeared not to notice, an alien expression on her face. She looked almost wistful, like she might actually miss the squalling thing. Xander shook his head.

  “We need a picture for our wall,” he said.

  Tory picked up Xander’s cell phone. Sara wiped the mascara from her cheeks. The result was ghastly. Why would a woman who paid so much money to preserve her looks insist on buying dime-store makeup? Nevertheless, she curved into her husband’s shoulder, cradling the baby tight, and positively beamed as Tory snapped the photo.

  “What are you going to name him?” Tory asked the proud new parents.

  Sara smiled through her tears.

  “Matthew,” she said. “He’s our little gift from god.”

  Chapter 16

  Holly’s parents lived in a pretty, brown bungalow in Wedgwood, a middle-class neighborhood northeast of Seattle’s downtown core. Seth parked at the end of the block. Decorated for the holidays, it looked like a gingerbread house from a fairy tale. Red and green Christmas lights cast a cheerful glow across the hedges. More lights adorned the shrubs along the walkway.

  The first year he and Holly were dating, they had decorated her parents’ house together. Eggnog liberally spiked with rum kept them warm as they went about their work. They’d been happy then. Laughing. The rush of new love was intoxicating, and Seth could see their whole lives stretched out before him like a dream—a home of their own, kids, the whole nine yards. He wasn’t so naïve to think that they would skate through life without problems, but he never anticipated how completely things would fall apart.

  Christmas was her favorite time of year. He still remembered how they drove to the Olympic National Forest and cut down their own tree the first year they were married. The house was still filled with moving boxes, but Holly was so excited about the new place that she’d run straight to Fred Meyer to buy decorations and then put them up herself while he was at work. And now, each year as the holidays approached, the anniversary of her death reminded him of everything he’d lost. Maryanne still invited him to their family gatherings, but he never went, choosing to work instead. It was easier.

  He watched a couple stroll up the drive, arm in arm, a bottle of wine swinging in a holiday gift bag between them. Maryanne opened the red front door and greeted them with hugs.

  Maryanne had a natural grace that drew people to her. From the first day Seth had met her, she made him feel like part of the family. Though her coarse, brown hair was shot through with gray, and the lines around her bright eyes had deepened, she had not lost her beauty. Looking at her was like seeing what Holly would have become, had she lived.

  Seth opened the car door and stepped out onto the street. After all this time, he owed it to Maryanne to at least make an appearance. One cup of coffee and he’d be on his way.

  He made it as far as the driveway before his cell phone rang. It was Henry.

  “Remember your Filipino dishwasher?”

  “Rico. Yeah.”

  “Well, guess what? He has an ad on Craigslist.”

  Seth stopped pacing. “What kind of ad?”

  “Like the kind posted by somebody looking for a date.”

  Seth remembered the bruises on Rico’s face. The swelling around his eye. The cut. The fact that Rico was underage.

  Aw, shit.

  “Text me his address.”

  Henry sent the address promptly, and Seth turned back toward his car. Weaving through the residential streets to the on-ramp, he took Interstate 5 south through the city. Rico lived across the street from Becky, which wasn’t surprising. He must have had a clear view of Becky’s apartment to know someone was in there the day he showed up out of the blue and ran into Seth.

  Nearing the kid’s building, he slowed. A silver Mercedes sedan slid to the curb, and Rico, sharply dressed in black pants and a leather jacket, got in.
Seth followed.

  He texted Henry the license plate number and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. Henry called within minutes.

  “The car is registered to a Vincent Carter. He’s a hot-shot vice president at a telecom company.”

  Not Rico’s uncle, Seth registered. “Married?”

  “Oh yeah. The douchebag has a trophy wife named Amy and two grown kids.”

  From his time working in vice, Seth knew that not all prostitutes worked street corners. The Internet had opened more avenues for doing business than he could begin to count. Rico was slight, and handsome, the kind of kid that would appeal to a certain demographic.

  The Mercedes pulled off the freeway by SeaTac, and Seth followed a few car-lengths behind. It pulled into a motel along the strip. He watched from the street as Rico left the car and entered the office. Minutes later, the kid climbed the stairs to a room halfway down the walkway. Rico glanced at the Mercedes, which had tucked into a stall near the back of the lot.

  Rico unlocked the door to the room and disappeared inside. Seth waited. A man three times Rico’s age emerged from the Mercedes. His thick wool overcoat flapped in the breeze as he clicked the remote and crossed the parking lot.

  He rapped on the door to Rico’s room. Stealing a paranoid glance over his shoulder, he slipped inside.

  Seth rubbed his eyes.

  Now he had a problem.

  What two consenting adults did was none of his business, but Rico was underage.

  He wasn’t a cop, which meant he had no legal standing to enter the room and arrest the man. He didn’t even have a gun in case things went south. But thinking about Rico’s face, the bruises, the cuts, and all the things Seth couldn’t see, there was no way he could sit idly by and let the man do whatever he wanted to the kid.

  Swearing, Seth popped the car door open. With the drapes closed tight, he couldn’t see a damned thing. He climbed the staircase and traversed the walkway until he was standing outside Rico’s room.

  Murmured voices and other noises left no doubt in Seth’s mind as to what was going on in there. Consensual or not, Rico was a kid. He needed an angle.