World Tree Girl

by Kerry Schafer

  The other has his back turned to the door and is doing nothing. A cup sits untouched on the table in front of him. I keep an eye on him while moving through the line and ordering my coffee, then slide into the seat across the table.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Jim’s head comes up and his eyes focus as though he’s been a hundred miles away.

  The slouch in his shoulders is habit, not defeat, I’m happy to see. A spark still burns in his eyes. He studies me, takes a sip of his neglected coffee, and makes a face. “I don’t even like this stuff.”

  I raise my eyebrows in a question and he half laughs, rubbing the side of his jaw with the palm of his right hand.

  “Maxine won’t ever let me have coffee. Bad for the heart, she says.”

  “So you begin with a small act of rebellion.”

  I mean it kindly, but the grief washes over him like a tidal wave. His face crumples, his shoulders slump. “Too little. Too late,” is all he says.

  “You can help me find another missing girl, maybe. It won’t bring yours back, but might save somebody else the same grief.”

  He plants the palms of both hands square on the table, and I think for a minute he’s going to push his chair back and leave. Instead, he takes a breath and looks me directly in the eyes for the first time since I’ve met him.

  “Ask whatever. I’ll answer what I can.”

  “What I need to know is about Aline’s conception.”

  If I’d fired a round point blank into his belly, it might have hurt him less. He recoils physically, but then straightens and meets my gaze. He’s tougher than he looks, this man. He’s tried himself at his own tribunal, and letting me grill him is the punishment he’s decreed upon himself.

  “This would be easier over whiskey.” He inflicts another swallow of coffee upon himself, then centers the cup between his hands before he speaks.

  “We tried for two years after Maxine decided we should have a baby. I’m not sure if she ever really wanted a child. It was just something people do, and once she’d decided on a pregnancy, God help her she was going to have that baby. Every month, when she realized I’d failed to impregnate her, she would walk around for a week trailing clouds of resentment and unfailingly doing what she saw as her duty as a Christian wife: Healthy meals. Clean house.”

  He stops and sits for a minute, just staring. I can already see how this would have played out with a woman like Maxine. I could save us both the pain of half of this narrative, but the poison needs an out and I wait for him to go on. Jim adjusts the cup about three degrees to the left and resumes his story.

  “She took to monitoring her body temperature and crossing off days on the calendar. I came to watch the growing series of slashes with dread, prepared to do just about anything to avoid the night each month where she’d vanish into the bathroom with a thermometer and come out naked to announce it was time for me to do my duty and give her a child.

  “I—well, sometimes I wasn’t able. I took to spending evenings out in the bar and coming home late and drunk. Not that this helped. She secured a stash of Viagra. But we still didn’t have a child.”

  “Clearly something changed.” I swallow the last of my coffee with regret and set the cup down beside his.

  “Doctors. We started with our family practice provider. He ordered up basic tests. Hers all came back normal. I had a low sperm count, and poor sperm motility. That made her happy, that the problem was a deficiency on my part. She was pleasant for a couple of weeks and I thought maybe we’d move on. We could adopt a child. Or even do artificial insemination. No such luck. Maxine’s interpretation of the Bible and God’s will was that she must be fertilized by my sperm, and my sperm alone, and that this must be done by the usual means.

  “So there was a regimen of vitamins. No hot showers. Boxer shorts instead of briefs. Chelation therapy in case I was harboring heavy metal toxicity. No more alcohol. Another year went by. I did everything she said—it was easier than fighting. Except for the drinking. I was turning into an alcoholic, ruining my liver despite all the healthy living in the rest of my life. Still no baby.

  “One day I came home from work and she was waiting for me, all dressed up and ready to go out. She’d made me a sandwich and hustled me out the door, explaining once we were already in the car and driving that she’d found a fertility expert who had agreed to make us part of a research experiment.

  “When we got there, it turned out that the ‘we’ was a bit of a stretch. I could be part of a research experiment. They would inject my testicles with some secret mojo and voila! Super-powered sperm that could not fail to swim with speed and determination to their goal. I was against it. I asked for time to think.

  “But the good doctor and my wife were both firmly allied against me. It was now or never. There was a timing issue with the medication. Tomorrow would be too late. Two hours from now would be too late. No, I wouldn’t be told what was in it. This was a double-blind study, to rule out the possibility of placebo effect. The doctor was very convincing about this. ‘Sex is very much a matter of psychology,’ she said, ‘as is conception. If you focus too much on the science, you are less likely to be successful.’

  “What the hell? I figured if this didn’t work, Maxine would have to back off and leave me alone. My only condition was that she not be allowed in the treatment room. Last thing I needed was her looking on while somebody stuck needles in my balls. I felt emasculated enough already.

  “The actual procedure wasn’t as bad as I expected. An injection of local anesthetic, and then nothing. We were provided a room, immediately after, with access to porn, medications, penis pumps, or whatever we needed to facilitate an encounter.

  “Aline was conceived in a sterile room out of a loveless marriage with some sort of super-charged sperm. It’s amazing she turned out as normal as she did.”

  “Your wife called her a devil’s child.”

  He crumples at that. His face goes into his hands and his shoulders shake as he weeps. The teenage girls at the table across from us look up from their phones and then quickly avert their eyes. The barista appears not to notice.

  The spasm passes quickly, nothing more than a grief squall. He wipes his eyes, smoothes his hair, as if the act of shedding tears has somehow rumpled it, and answers with a quiet dignity.

  “The worst of my sins is that I didn’t leave years ago and take Aline with me. She was a sweet child. Bright. Beautiful. Loving.”

  He hesitates.

  “But?”

  “She had a way about her. Too persuasive, even as a tiny tot. No tantrums for her. If she wanted something she had this way of—persuading you. Before you knew it, you were giving her what she’d asked for, even while you were berating yourself for being a pushover. It caused some trouble at school.”

  “Like?”

  “Like, she’d end up with dessert from other kids’ lunches. Or come home with somebody else’s toy. We’d have parents calling, demanding that she return some item or other. Maxine punished her repeatedly, to no avail. I would talk to her, bewildered, because she never struck me as a selfish child. And she would tell me that she didn’t mean to. If she wanted something, it just sort of happened. Elementary school wasn’t too bad, but when she turned thirteen and the boys started showing interest, all hell broke loose.”

  “Maxine would never have approved of budding sexuality.” I could picture it. The beautiful young girl, the hormonal boys, the jealous classmates.

  “The boys were crazy for her. She could have whichever one she wanted, effortlessly. Something wasn’t right, I don’t know. I still just thought it was because she was such a pretty and charming little thing…” Again his voice trails away. He crosses his arms over his chest and I know I’ve hit the place of true resistance.

  “And then something changed your mind.”

  He looks at me, his face firmed into a shape that would have made his life a lot easier if he’d figured out how to take a stand as a younger
man. This is not a good time for him to develop a spine. I need to know. But instead of bullying him, I lean forward on my elbows and say just one word.

  “Please.”

  He nods. Runs his hand over his hair again.

  “She loved the water. And I don’t mean like, I mean loved. Even as a baby, she would scream when we took her out of the tub. As soon as she discovered swimming, she would beg to go to the pool, and of course we took her. We went boating with some friends one day. They have a daughter, same age as Aline. The two had always been friends, but apparently there was a boy they both wanted. I never did get the whole story. They got into a row. The other girl slapped Aline, called her a bitch. Both of them were in tears.

  “Maxine turns around and says, ‘How many times have I told you not to act like a whore?’

  “Just like that. Called her thirteen-year-old daughter a whore. Aline stopped crying. She sort of shrank into herself. And then she went over the side of the boat. I knew she could swim and I kept waiting for her to come up, but she didn’t.

  “It seemed like forever before I pitched over the side and went under looking for her. I’m not much of a swimmer and didn’t get far. The other man came in after me, both of us diving down, looking for a glimpse of her, the women waiting for her to float to the surface.

  “When she finally came up, she was perfectly fine. Wasn’t even gasping for breath. I’ve told myself all kinds of stories about that. Maybe she was under the boat in some pocket of air. Or the water was cold enough that she didn’t need oxygen. Or that the time just seemed like forever but was only a minute.”

  Ravenna’s cards come into my mind. The Siren on the rocks, the foundering ship.

  “How long was it?”

  “Forty-five minutes, Maxine says. I don’t see how that could be. I’m sure she’s exaggerating. But—it was time enough for me to be shivering with cold. Out of breath. Exhausted. And Aline looked like she’d just stepped out of a warm shower after a good night’s sleep.”

  “What was the doctor’s name?” I ask, holding myself where I am in my seat, not leaning forward to convey the intensity of interest I have in his answer.

  He blinks at me, as if I’m speaking in a foreign tongue. “God. It’s been seventeen years and I was hardly in a fit state of mind for retaining information. Her name didn’t matter.”

  “It’s important now.”

  His gaze sharpens, and he’s the one who leans forward in his chair.

  “Why?”

  “Because this other girl who is missing was also the product of fertility treatment. If I know the doctor, I might be able to track some records that would help me find her.”

  He drums his fingers on the table, thinking, but he shakes his head. “I can’t help you.”

  “What did the doctor look like? Male or female? Age? Anything that might help.”

  “She was Indian. Pakistani, maybe, but she wore western clothes. Thick accent. Dark hair and eyes.”

  “Are you sure?” I’d been hoping his evil scientist-doctor had been Alice Sorenson. What a tidy little package that would have been—the creator of the Medusa doing a little research on the side. There would have been a little comfort in the fact that Alice is dead. Now I have to contend with the reality that there’s another mad scientist running around out there doing experiments.

  “About that? Yes. She treated me with respect. Maybe I don’t recall her name, but I remember her face well enough.”

  “All right. Do you remember where the office was? Anything?”

  “That I can tell you. Not the exact address, but the location.” He pulls a small notebook and pen out of his pocket and draws me a map, planting an X on one side of the street. A moment of hesitation, and then his eyes brighten. “Maybe this will help.”

  He writes the word GENESIS in capital letters, next to the X. “That’s what it was called. The practice.”

  I pull the map over to me and look it over. Genesis. The Garden of Eden and the beginning of life. Also, the beginning of evil and the story of a woman delving into mysteries not meant for her.

  “Thank you. It’s at least a place to start. What will you do, now?”

  He shrugs. “Maxine can have the boat. She can have the house. I’m thinking a little trip to somewhere far away. And then, maybe, a different job. Doing something helpful.”

  I’m glad the hush money is going to some good effect. So I give him advice. “Look, Jim—talking to me about this might not go over well with the people who paid you to keep it quiet.”

  In response to his expression of alarm, I hold up my hand and go on. “Don’t worry about how I know. Here’s what I suggest. Get your share of the money out of the bank. Get on a plane. Go somewhere far away and stay there for a few months. Maybe a year.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I’m up out of my chair and heading for the door. What he does with the advice is up to him. I need to find Sophie. I’m all the way out to the car with the door open when it hits me like a ton of bricks. Without bothering to shut my door or disguise my limp, I barge back into the café. I catch Jim in the act of putting on his coat, one sleeve on, the other still hanging over the back of his chair. He blinks up at me.

  “What?”

  “Letter? Picture? Both?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It was a research project. They followed up. How often?”

  “Once a year. What—”

  “And you sent them reports. Letters, pictures?”

  “Both.”

  “What did you do when she ran away?”

  “Maxine sent letters, making stuff up. They wrote and asked for pictures. She kept ‘forgetting’ to send them.”

  “I need to ask you for one of those letters.” My brain is spinning. Return address, probably not. Postmark, maybe. Fingerprints, if someone was careless. Something.

  He shakes his head. “Always the screwup,” he says, and laughs as if something is heartbreakingly funny.

  I want to slap him, make him focus. I grit my teeth and clench my fists.

  He sobers as rapidly as he dissolved into laughter. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I burned them. After they told me she was dead. I burned every single one.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I call Jake from the airport and fill him in.

  “Genesis Project? Whoever is behind this one didn’t have an ego or anything. I’d say Lysander could use another grilling.”

  “I’d say. Have you found Sophie yet?”

  “No trace. We’ve been watching Ravenna’s place. News of the day is that Jill’s awake.”

  “How is she?”

  “Bright-eyed and bushy tailed, like a kid after a nice long nap. They want to keep her for one more day of observation and then discharge her.”

  “I don’t suppose they’ve got some explanation for her condition?”

  “Calling it a severe concussion. The discharge instructions are for careful monitoring of her level of consciousness. She’ll need to be wakened every four hours and shouldn’t be alone.”

  “So the discharge plan is back to the Manor then? Or are you still worried I might try to eliminate her?”

  He sighs, heavily. “Protocol, Maureen. I never really thought—”

  “Then you should have. Are there charges?”

  “She claims she tripped and fell. So, no. When can you be here?”

  “Flight leaves in an hour.”

  He’s quiet, calculating the length of flight and drive. “Don’t think I can wait for you before I hit Lysander.”

  “Agreed. Ask him about letters. Aline’s parents received requests for regular updates on her development.”

  “Will do. Hook up to in-flight wireless, I’ll e-mail if I need you.”

  In-flight wireless, as it turns out, is useful for more than just e-mail. The flight is a short hop, but I use my time well. Nothing about Genesis, of course, not that I expected there would be a website advertising
black market fertility experiments. But other easy access sites, such as online yearbooks, are fascinating. By the time my plane lands, I’m revved up and champing at the bit to get on with my investigation.

  Unfortunately, the weather is not cooperative. The plane descends through snow swirling so thick I can’t see the terminal from the runway. Much as I love my Jag, it’s not exactly equipped for winter driving. The hundred miles of two-lane highway to Shadow Valley will be treacherous. It doesn’t help that even the short flight crammed into the middle seat is enough to set my leg on fire. Between that and the effort required to navigate my traveling companions and the ramp while dragging my carry-on behind me, my mood is not good.

  When I run smack into a large man blocking the bottom of the ramp leading from arrivals down to the main concourse, I’m ready to snarl before I even see who it is.

  “Let me take that,” Mac says, reaching for the handle of my bag.

  “I can manage, thank you. What are you doing here?”

  Mac’s face remains impassive. “Jake sent me to give you a ride home. Said that despite your belief in your own super powers, the Jag was not the best tool for the job and he needs you intact and timely.” He registers my expression and raises his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  Behind me somebody says, “Excuse me, but would you mind?” The words are polite. The tone is not.

  The mood I’m in, it feels good to stay right where I am, blocking the ramp.

  “And how am I supposed to get my car home?”

  “We’ll fetch it when the roads are clear. Besides, I have something you need to see.”

  “Again?”

  “This is different.”

  The person behind us coughs, loudly. “If you could just take this conversation on down the ramp?”