Her Lost and Found Baby

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Always on her days off from the hospital. Working three twelves had its advantages.

  The police were looking for Jackson, of course. But their jurisdiction was only in Mission Viejo. He was also on the FBI’s list of missing children, but apparently no one had the staff to check out every single daycare in every city in California, searching for one missing boy—especially when said child was known to be with his father who’d never given indication of being dangerous. That unfortunate truth, that her case wasn’t top priority, had become obvious to her almost from the beginning.

  Johnny had very generously insisted on paying for a private detective, who was in contact with the police and would follow up on any leads when the police had done what they could, but it wasn’t enough for her. She had to do all she could, too. Even if that meant systematically visiting daycare after daycare. Jackson needed her to be out there looking for him. Tuned in the way only a mother could be.

  The room just inside the daycare door was painted in primary colors and held plastic chairs and big boxes for sitting on in the same colors. There were some books scattered about and a wire-and-bead maze toy on a little table. A small reception window was cut into the far wall. And, in the middle of that wall, was another heavy wooden door with a dead bolt.

  A sign indicated that no one was allowed beyond that door other than certified employees and the children for whom they cared during business hours. For the safety of the children.

  She and Johnny would have to return after hours if they wanted a tour. She’d already known that and they wanted a tour.

  His hand on her elbow drew her attention, and he pointed to the window where a woman stood, smiling expectantly.

  She’d opened the window.

  “Ms. Jones?” The woman’s shoulder-length brown hair was trimmed stylishly around her slender face. Dressed in a brightly colored tie-dyed short-sleeved shirt, she could’ve been at a beach fashion shoot. Her name badge, complete with a dotted rendition of a bouncing ball, read Mallory.

  The owner! Good.

  “Yes.” Tabitha stepped forward. She’d called to say they were stopping by. To make sure it was okay. “This is Johnny,” she said, gesturing at the man beside her. She was there under false pretenses, but wasn’t going to out-and-out lie any more than she had to. And no more than an undercover officer or PI would have done to rescue a little boy from a man who had mental and emotional issues.

  Clearly issues that went far, far beyond what she’d known or she’d never have let him take Jackson to visit his sick mother.

  “I emailed you about looking at The Bouncing Ball as a possible spot for our daughter?”

  She was the one who’d come up with the idea of making their imaginary child a little girl. She needed to do that to keep her emotional distance. Talking about a boy would’ve been much harder without revealing anything.

  Forcing herself to look the woman in the eye, she left it to Johnny to see as much of the inside of the place as he could, not that there was much. According to The Bouncing Ball website, part of the allure was that the privately owned daycare facility took great measures to protect the security of their children. Which was why they’d have to take their tour after hours. But there could be pictures on the wall beyond the receptionist window, maybe. She’d have her chance to check it out, later, if all went well, but she had to do this right.

  She had to be ready to see her son without giving herself away or she’d risk looking like an emotionally disturbed woman who might need a restraining order against her. Or something. Johnny had described all the legal pitfalls over and over as they’d started to discuss her desperate idea a month or so after they’d met.

  “Yes. She’s two, right?” Mallory Harris asked with another smile and a nod as she left the window and came out through the door, handing Tabitha a packet of daycare information. Just a glance showed Tabitha the plethora of material she’d be poring over with Johnny, from permits to payment plans, application guidelines, company policies, schedules...everything. They’d be looking for anything that could help them catch a man who’d probably changed his name—and that of his child.

  Through his work at the children’s hospital, Mark, Jackson’s father, would’ve known more about birth certificates than a lot of people. He’d had access to medical records. The police thought it most likely that he’d changed Jackson’s name and had a fake birth certificate made to support the change.

  “Her name’s Chrissy,” Johnny supplied. They’d named their fake child after an old doll Tabitha had had as a kid; it had been her mother’s and it was a doll she still had. You could grow the doll’s hair by pushing a button on her belly—a seeming miracle to a very young Tabitha. It was also an effort to keep her mother, who’d been killed in a car accident when Tabitha was in college, a part of the search. Like having a very special angel working with them every step of the way.

  “We’d love to take you up on your offer of a tour,” Tabitha said now. “We’re just stopping in to pick up the materials.” She raised the packet she held, afraid she was coming across as a nervous ninny. Jackson could be in this very building. Her precious baby boy...

  Johnny’s hand lightly touching her spine brought her back to the present task—almost as though he’d known she was having a rougher time this go-round.

  “We own a food truck,” he said. “We’re parked at Mission Beach and plan to close by seven. Would eight o’clock be okay?”

  Jackson would be gone by then. But they could find out about any upcoming open houses or recitals or programs The Bouncing Ball might be hosting by checking out posters and signs and leading the conversation casually to that point.

  “Eight would be fine. I’m usually here until then, anyway,” Mallory said in her easy, open manner. “I get twice the work done when I have the place to myself...”

  Tabitha wondered about the woman’s family, how they felt about her working six days a week from morning until late at night—and then reminded herself that just because Mallory was there that morning didn’t mean she was in early every morning. Or even that she worked every day.

  Tabitha was surprised by how much she liked Mallory on first meeting. And felt guilty for deceiving her.

  It was because this woman might have—please, God—Jackson in her care, Tabitha told herself. Trembling from the inside out, she thanked Mallory Harris, tried to convey with her smile what she couldn’t say in words and silently begged Mallory to love her son until she could find a way to get him back.

  Chapter Two

  Thankful for the food truck that provided frenetic distraction and took a lot of physical and mental energy, Tabitha worked hard beside Johnny all day Monday, barely taking time to nibble on the contents of a bowl with everything. Sitting in the driver’s seat as she ate, she watched Johnny take orders and then make the bowls, joking with customers, talking to them from inside the truck as he worked, never missing a beat.

  He was drop-dead gorgeous. She’d seen him shirtless on the beach. His baby blues and ready grin didn’t hurt, either.

  Stepping sideways from the window to his prep board, he grabbed a knife that had cost as much as her monthly car payment and began chopping with expert precision.

  You’d think he’d been born a chef rather than the only son of a prominent California family who’d groomed him from birth to take a top legal position within his father’s enormous holdings.

  The way he played acoustic guitar on the beach, you’d be forgiven for thinking he’d been born to become an entertainer, too.

  But Johnny loved to play and sing; he just had no passion for performing. No desire at all to enter the cutthroat world of the music business. No real need for fans or accolades, either.

  No need for her accolades...not that she offered them.

  A female voice ordered a veggie bowl with extra dressing. Johnny’s comment, something about the dres
sing, made the woman laugh.

  Tabitha had grown to crave the laughter he brought to her life. Just as she’d grown to love putting on her light purple polo shirt with the Angel’s Food Bowls logo on it and climbing up into his food truck with him. She’d helped him create the logo. And choose the shirts.

  His sabbatical was three-quarters through, which meant that in another three months he’d be leaving “normal” life to resume his place in the society of the elite. She had to shudder even thinking about it. To have people watching you all the time, to always be “on,” to have to go to extremes, like taking a sabbatical and buying a little house through a third party just to get enough anonymity to grieve... She didn’t envy him that.

  But she could tell that he missed it all—the life he’d been born to. The way he talked about his parents, his uncle, his cousins. They were a close-knit family.

  And that she envied.

  She was going to miss him terribly when their time together came to an end...

  “Eat up there, missy, line’s a-forming,” he said with a grin in her direction. She blinked. Realized she’d been staring at him. And accidentally toppled her half-filled rice bowl off her lap and onto the floor of the truck.

  * * *

  Never one to cry over spilled milk, as the saying went, Johnny didn’t give a rat’s ass about the dressing-smeared rice, veggie and meat mixture plastered on the floor near his seat in the hundred-thousand-dollar food truck. He cared that Tabitha was so far off her game he’d hardly recognized her that morning.

  She’d been near tears when she’d thanked him for helping in her quest to find Jackson. Her hand had been shaking when she’d passed him a cup of coffee. She hadn’t caught several things he’d said to her, although they’d been in the truck together. And she’d messed up two orders.

  A pediatric nurse had to be able to keep calm in the midst of horrible stress and, sometimes, unbelievable tragedy. This woman had lost her son and missed less than two weeks of work in the year since.

  But that day, stress seemed to be getting the better of her.

  Unable to give in to his instant desire to head to the front of the truck and help her clean up the mess, or do it for her, he continued to work the crowd. He prepared a bowl, took off his gloves to make change and then washed his hands, pulling on a fresh set of disposable gloves before preparing the next order.

  Then she slid into place in front of the window to accept payment for his most recently completed concoction. That allowed him to keep on his prep gloves, but he couldn’t help contaminating them anyway, with a hand to her back. Letting her know she wasn’t alone.

  * * *

  “You okay to do this tonight?” The question burst from Johnny about a mile from the daycare just after dark fell that July evening. He’d been trying to figure out a subtler way to ask it for most of the afternoon.

  “Of course!” Tabitha’s over-the-top enthusiasm—over-the-top for her—brought more concern rather than easing it. From the wheel of the little SUV he’d purchased to tow behind the food truck, he could only afford a quick glance in her direction. But it was enough to tell him, as if he didn’t already know, that this trip was different from all the rest.

  And that it was taking a toll on her.

  He just wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about it. His role seemed to be changing, but they hadn’t discussed that. He had no idea how it would change, what it would become. They were friends. They talked. Even cried a little.

  But they each went home to their own privacy, to dispel the deepest stuff alone.

  Their friendship had come with an end date before it had begun. They’d both understood that from the beginning. It was part of why they worked. Why they were able to provide each other with the opportunity they both needed for venting and sharing.

  There was no judgment and there were no expectations, nothing to further complicate things. Because they both knew they were living in a time out of time. Both of them had other lives they’d return to as soon as their goals were achieved.

  They were helping each other with plans they’d made before they met, not embarking on a life they’d built together.

  She’d already collected a list of daycares within her chosen parameters before he’d moved in next to her and had just added to it as time passed—a few of those she’d found had posted pictures that bore a slight resemblance to Jackson. Many did not. All of her daycare searches were within a day’s journey by car. According to Tabitha, Mark was obsessive about his mother and wouldn’t stray too far from her grave. Over the past six months of working the food truck, Johnny had visited every daycare on Tabitha’s growing list. Starting in Mission Viejo and working outward.

  Of course, the daycares that posted actual pictures of their kids were in the minority, and could only do so with parental permission. It wasn’t likely that a man who’d kidnapped his son would grant that permission. Still, looking on the internet every night, finding the occasional photo kept her going.

  The Bouncing Ball daycare stood out from the rest because it had a client with a Pinterest board she’d created celebrating her own child. And, odd as it was to Johnny, some modern-day parents seemed to think it was cool to plaster pictures of their kids—and even their kids’ classmates and pals—all over their social media pages. He got it to a degree; friends and family could all share the special moments.

  But so could strangers who preyed on postings like that.

  And then there was Tabitha, searching daycare websites and pictures every night. She’d typed in “San Diego daycare” on Pinterest, and seen the picture the mother had posted, along with the name of her toddler’s daycare. The parent had probably thought she was doing a good thing, giving the daycare publicity.

  Tabitha was completely convinced that the picture she’d seen, the one she’d printed and kept in her purse for at least four days, was of a two-year-old Jackson. Certain. Said she’d seen herself in the eyes gleaming up at the camera. He’d been grinning, along with half a dozen other kids.

  “It might not be him.” His job was to support, not discourage. But she was in over her head on this one. He could feel it.

  “It’s him.” His peripheral vision told Johnny she was watching him, but with the traffic, he couldn’t take his gaze off the road. Wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

  “He looked healthy, Johnny. And happy, too...”

  Was that why she’d fixated on that particular photo, that particular kid, when there’d been a dozen others during the months they’d been friends? Because the boy had struck her as being happy?

  “I understand why now,” she continued, sounding like she was giving testimony at a church rather than conversing about her missing son. As if she was somehow seeing some kind of sign. Sacred. Unquestionable.

  The whole thing was scaring the hell out of him. For her sake. And his, too, in that he had no idea what to do about any of it.

  If she’d been Angel, he’d have asked the tough questions. He’d have pushed. And she’d have told him what was in her deepest heart. Together they’d have figured out a Plan B. Because there was always a chance that Plan A wouldn’t work out...

  Tabitha’s Plan B had always been the next photo. The next daycare. She’d never before indicated that she’d found her end point.

  “He’s happy because of Mallory Harris... She’s, I don’t know. I felt confident in her ability to not only watch over the children in her care, but to truly love them. That’s why Jackson looked so happy. He’s being loved.”

  Tabitha had once told him she was sure she’d been born to be in the pediatric medical profession. She’d known, even as a young kid playing with her dolls, that she was going to grow up to help sick children.

  They hadn’t been baring their souls or anything. The topic had come up when he’d been telling her about the reason for his sabbatical. About Angel’s passion t
o own and run her own food truck and his quest to live it for her, since she couldn’t. It was a way of preserving her dream, of honoring her life, far more than hanging onto the restaurant she’d owned and run. He’d sold that, used some of the money for the food truck start-up, and donated the rest.

  He’d been expecting Tabitha’s reaction to it all to be more of the pat on the head his father had given him.

  Instead, she’d understood completely. Hadn’t just encouraged him, but offered to help in any way she could. Because she had a passion of her own—her yearning to help children in need. Separate and apart from her own immediate and completely pressing determination to find her son.

  Leaving him to wonder if he was the only one who didn’t seem to have been given that one talent, one thing, that ignited passion within him. Or maybe it was just the passion he lacked.

  “And I think it means that Mark is loving him, too,” Tabitha’s words broke into his thoughts. “As long as Jackson is little, Mark will get what he needs from him,” she said as he rounded the last corner and could see the professional building ahead. “Right now, with Jackson completely dependent on him, the whole codependency thing works. But when Jackson starts to assert his own independence—which the terrible twos will certainly bring on...” Her voice drifted off and he was pretty sure she’d just shuddered.

  Was that why she was suddenly changing, seeming almost desperate? Not because of this one photo, but because Jackson had turned two and she was getting scared? Worried about her son’s safety when he clashed wills against an emotionally unbalanced father?

  “Kids learn about their world by challenging their boundaries,” she was saying as he pulled into the parking lot. “Of course, Mark’s never shown a single violent tendency to me or any of the others who knew him at the hospital. Or, at least, not that any of us ever heard of. There’s no reason to assume he’d physically hurt Jackson...but there’d been no reason to suspect he’d kidnap him, either...”