Childless: A Novel

by James Dobson

  Another quiet moment as he thought about how much more impressive driving a truck would be than his real job.

  “I don’t want to bore you with the details”—a picture of Reverend Grandpa’s wheelchair and oxygen tank invaded Matthew’s mind—“but I work with medical equipment.”

  “Oh,” she said with a hint of surprise.

  He recalled the leg braces. “Mostly new mobility technologies.”

  He sensed intimidation in her rising brow.

  “Sounds more impressive than it is, actually,” he added. “But it pays the bills.”

  To his relief, she didn’t ask any specific questions about his alleged field, allowing Matthew to imply and evade rather than outright lie. By the time he managed to change the subject Maria probably imagined him as a modestly successful businessman making a profit selling his wares to hospitals and senior-care facilities. Good enough, he thought.

  Matthew noticed the sound of smooth jazz above the silence as they sipped their drinks.

  “I guess Julia does pretty well,” he said to keep the conversation alive. “I’ve read a few of her columns. My favorite is the one called Free to Thrive.”

  She nodded evasively. Was she trying to recall the specific column or ignore her big sister’s ubiquitous presence? It must be odd for a hairstylist, living in the shadow of her sister’s journalism career. He quickly tried to think of another subject.

  Maria did it for him. “This is my son Jared,” she said, sliding a small tablet toward Matthew’s side of the table.

  “Wow,” he said with genuine surprise. “I didn’t know you had a kid.”

  She had never mentioned a child in any of her online posts. But then, why would she? Secret admirers want airbrushed girls, not diaper-changing moms.

  Matthew recalled a column written by Maria’s sister that seemed down on kids, so he’d assumed Maria felt the same. Apparently he’d assumed wrong.

  “Looks like a great kid,” he said. The look on Maria’s face told Matthew this was the moment when other men had backed away. He shifted his eyes toward the boy’s face. “How old?”

  “Twelve, going on twenty,” she said with a concise laugh.

  He wondered about the rest of the story. The father? The circumstances? He decided not to pry.

  “Would you like to meet him?”

  “Really?” he erupted, realizing she had just said yes to a second date.

  “Sure. If you want.”

  “I’d love to,” he said in stunned delight. It had never occurred to Matthew that the Maria Davidson of his fantasy world might have real-world needs. Perhaps she longed for a man who admired her for being a mom. A man who might even like her kid.

  She smiled broadly. “Great. When will you be back in town?”

  He bobbled the question in his mind. Then he remembered. He had implied he was in town on business. She had no idea that he lived right up the road.

  “Actually, I’ll be here for a while…” He paused while reaching for more. “I have sort of a big deal in the works that needs a lot of my attention.”

  “Go big or go home,” she said farcically, pretending a masculine voice.

  “Excuse me?” he asked with confusion.

  “Go big or go home,” she repeated. “It’s something one of my clients says all the time.”

  “What’s it mean?” he asked.

  “I guess it means don’t waste time chasing little opportunities,” she explained. “I thought of it when you said big deal.”

  The look in her eyes told Matthew that Maria found the idea of pursuing big deals rather than small matters attractive in a man. Attractive in Matthew. Or rather, in the Matthew he had let form in her mind.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Matthew sat in his car unable to wipe an ecstatic grin from his face. His reunion with Maria Davidson had gone better than he could have hoped. And a second date was already on the calendar!

  “Go big or go home,” he repeated to himself, a new life slogan for a new Matthew Adams. Or at least a Matthew determined to become worthy of the kiss Maria had planted on his cheek before they parted.

  He touched his fingers to the spot and savored the lingering hint of her perky scent.

  “Go big or go home,” he whispered while starting the engine. Peering into the rearview mirror he saw his own face frowning back at him.

  Who are you kidding? it said accusingly. You’re not going big at all. In fact, you’re dithering away time on a small opportunity. Changing oxygen tanks for Reverend Grandpa might earn enough extra to pay down part of your school loan, but it will never position you to seriously impress Maria or any other potential lover.

  Only his inheritance money would do that.

  “I will go big!” Matthew shouted at his withering confidence while cutting off the engine. He opened the glove compartment to retrieve a pad of paper and a pen before walking back into the coffee shop. He sat down at the same table he and Maria had just left and began writing a letter.

  Dear Judge Santiago:

  Greetings once again. I apologize for sending yet another letter. But I have yet to receive any response to my earlier communications. Very important decisions have been placed on hold and I would appreciate input on your opinion in the case involving NEXT Transition Services. I realize you cannot correspond at length, but a simple, anonymous post would be greatly appreciated. I continue to await your response at the following forum address: ANON.CHAT.4398

  I hope you will see fit to comply with my request.

  Cordially,

  A Manichean

  Matthew reread the note. It lacked urgency.

  Bigger!

  He took a second sheet of paper to rewrite the note, this time with a revised ending.

  I must insist that you comply with my request to avoid more drastic measures.

  Respectfully,

  A Manichean

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tyler plopped himself on a rotting park bench, tearing open the paper sack overflowing with fat and flavor: two bacon double cheeseburgers, extra mayo, large cheese fries, and a chocolate shake. Inhaling the lovely smell he realized he risked contaminating his clothes with an aroma that would sicken Renee. But he couldn’t last another day without eating something that could make him smile.

  A robin landed, curious enough to hop within a few feet before giving up and flying off. It was peaceful here. A great place to get things done. The rusting play structure had long been abandoned, the neighborhood possessed by those beyond childrearing years or those lacking any desire for the task. Vacant swings served as little more than a reminder of a quainter time when young mothers would bring their even younger children to play. Women who worked hard at pretending to enjoy themselves. At least, that’s how Tyler had perceived it. He couldn’t imagine his own mother actually enjoying places like this. Duty, that’s what it was, not pleasure.

  So why on earth Renee still hoped to have a kid escaped him. Worried him.

  Tyler dug a floppy fry from the bag, shoved it into his mouth, then pulled out his tablet with his other, non-greasy hand. A small icon strobed subtly to indicate a new message. Julia Simmons. At first he couldn’t place the name, then remembered—he had tried to contact the journalist who’d written the feature about Jeremy Santos. Tyler tapped to open the message full-screen.

  Dear Mr. Cain:

  I’m not sure if I’ll be able to help you beyond what I wrote in the article. But I’d be happy to meet now that I’m back in town. Late Monday or early Tuesday, perhaps? Send me a few time options.

  Regards,

  Julia Davidson Simmons

  He sent back a quick reply suggesting late afternoon.

  The pounding of a man’s running shoes approached. Tyler glanced up in time to see an elderly but fit jogger frown self-righteously at Tyler’s half-eaten burger. The man passed by down the sidewalk.

  “Yeah, well…which one of us is happier?” Tyler called out smugly…after the man was out o
f earshot, of course. Then he remembered, he was only here eating this sack of junk food to escape his live-in girlfriend and her parents. Not exactly the poster child for happiness.

  Just then his tablet flashed and began to beep. He tapped his earpiece. “Tyler Cain,” he slurred through a mouthful of burger.

  “Mr. Cain?” the voice of Jennifer McKay said hesitantly.

  Tyler forced a hard swallow and wiped his face. “Ms. McKay! I was just thinking about you.”

  “Why do I seriously doubt that?”

  “Thinking about your case, I mean. I have a few leads, and so—”

  “Mr. Cain. We have a problem. Can we meet?”

  “Problem? What kind of a problem?”

  “We received another letter. Hand-delivered to the security guard late yesterday, and…well. This one seems like an overt threat.”

  “Can you forward me a copy? I can take a look.”

  “No,” Jennifer said firmly. “Once you go digital, you lose control. If this information gets in the wrong hands…well, we just can’t chance it.”

  Tyler resented the thought of an unnecessary drive downtown. He could work the case just as easily from where he was with the tap of a SEND button. Jennifer McKay was being much too uptight about the whole thing.

  He reminded himself that another meeting would translate into more billable hours.

  “OK. Where should we meet?” He hoped it could be someplace far less…antiseptic…than before.

  At least Tyler managed to finish his second burger, the fries, and the shake on his drive back to the Tenth District Federal Courthouse.

  * * *

  Jennifer’s desk looked even more expansive now that Tyler’s home desk sat nestled into a cramped corner. He slid his hand enviously across its surface, then noticed his own greasy fingerprint trail. He immediately wiped it away with his sleeve, an instinctive reaction against leaving Renee any potential “evidence.”

  “You mentioned having some leads,” Jennifer said, turning away from him to locate the most recent letter from the bottom filing cabinet drawer.

  She stood upright, spun abruptly, and handed him the letter. He scanned it quickly. On the surface it wasn’t much different from the others. Same signature. Same request for the judge to post an anonymous reply. But this one, unlike the three prior, had a greater sense of urgency. And the final line about “more drastic measures” caused concern.

  Something has changed, thought Tyler. Whoever was writing these letters was becoming impatient to know the judge’s decision. But who, he wondered, would benefit from a decision against NEXT besides Jeremy Santos?

  “You’re right,” he said in Jennifer’s direction. “This is a problem.”

  She sat down. “What do you think he means by drastic measures?”

  “No idea. But it concerns me.”

  Tyler glanced around the office to find signs of adequate security. There was the check at the building entrance, of course. But after that, what would stop some crazy person like Mr. or Ms. Manichean from coming in here and creating a scene…or worse?

  Jennifer apparently followed his gaze as it drifted to Santiago’s office. “His office is locked at all times, even when we’re working. Only he and I can get in during regular business hours.”

  “What about after?”

  Jennifer frowned. “Mr. Cain, I can assure you Judge Santiago is in good hands here. There hasn’t been a single violent incident in this building in over twenty-five years. I need you to focus on finding the person writing these letters. Let our security team handle things at the office.”

  “But I think—”

  “We hired you to be a private detective,” she said abruptly, “nothing more.”

  Tyler recalled Smitty’s comment about being the right person for this job. He shoved the thought aside. “Ms. McKay, I need to be blunt. I get the distinct feeling you’re more concerned with protecting yourself than protecting the judge.”

  “What?” The word erupted from Jennifer’s lips, her gaze piercing. “Protecting myself? How dare you suggest that I…”

  She paused to regain composure while lowering herself back into her seat, her manicured nails pressing firmly into the surface of the desk. “I would like an apology for that, Mr. Cain.”

  Tyler shrugged, trying to see how far she might go. “I just call it like I see it, is all.”

  “Really?” she answered, her eyes pinched into a condescending glare.

  “Yes. Really. Listen, I don’t get paid to be nice.”

  “You won’t get paid at all if—”

  “If what? You hired me to protect the judge.”

  “No. I hired you to look into these letters and find out who sent them.”

  Tyler decided to call her bluff. “Is there a difference?”

  He let the question settle, then added another dig.

  “You seem too afraid of losing your own job to look out for the judge’s best interest.”

  She glared back, her arms crossed defensively. “The judge’s best interest?” she began. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Cain. This is a federal appeals court, not a traffic court. Major issues are decided in this building. And Judge Santiago plays a very important part in that process.”

  “Why can’t he let another judge handle this one?”

  She rolled her eyes as if the question revealed inexcusable ignorance.

  “This isn’t like popping into a local magistrate’s office and requesting a search warrant,” Jennifer said derisively. “Let me educate you, Mr. Cain.”

  Tyler held his tongue. He knew next to nothing about federal appeals. But he was loath to let it show.

  “There are three judges who render opinions in this court,” she continued. “In this case, one of the three leans left, the other right. That leaves Judge Santiago as the only judge really open to the merits of both sides. So his is the opinion that truly matters. It also means there’s no way on earth he’ll ever allow anyone to influence his decision. He has asked me to shield him from that. So, yes, that is my job, if we’re talking about jobs. And Judge Santiago is well aware of the risks. But he trusts me. And I admire his integrity, a rare quality in this day and age. Frankly, I’ll do anything to make sure I don’t let him down.”

  “Even if it gets him killed?”

  A look of dread replaced the air of superiority on Jennifer’s face. “Killed? Do you really think it could come to that?”

  “I don’t know what it could come to, Ms. McKay. But as a precaution—”

  “Precaution is what we’re paying you for,” she snapped angrily, as if trying to balance her earlier show of fear. “Just find out who is sending these letters, and make sure they stop. Can you do that?”

  He hesitated, looking toward the window to consider options. Part of him wanted to walk away from the whole mess. He was getting too old for lectures from self-important assistants, even ones as attractive as Jennifer McKay. But he also knew blowing this case was not an option. He might never get another lead from Smitty or anyone else on the force. Swallowing his pride in this instance might just get him back in the game. Besides, it was Santiago’s business if he wanted to risk his life for some higher good.

  He turned back toward Jennifer, who seemed to have softened.

  “Listen,” she said conciliatorily. “I wasn’t going to tell you this so soon…”

  “Tell me what?” he asked, upset that something had been withheld.

  “That I’m authorized to pay beyond your daily rate on this case.”

  Tyler’s head jerked toward her with a start.

  “I can offer you a bonus of thirty thousand if you actually find the culprit.”

  Tyler tried to suppress a stunned reaction. A grin on Jennifer’s face told him he’d failed. Thirty thousand dollars was more than enough to pay off the loan cosigned by Renee. With this one case he’d be able to return to bachelorhood a year and a half earlier than he had hoped.

  Jennifer’s smile
grew. “Who’s concerned more about his job now, Mr. Cain?”

  He beamed in her direction, abandoning any pretense of indifference.

  She stood and held out her hand. They shook.

  Control had shifted unmistakably back into the hands of Jennifer McKay.

  “Excellent,” she said. “I look forward to a quick and tidy conclusion to this mess. I have the utmost confidence in you.”

  She’s good, Tyler thought. Very good.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Mr. Cain?”

  The woman extending her hand toward Tyler seemed assertive, like Jennifer McKay, but less forged. Comfortable in her own skin. Little wonder. Julia Davidson was a rare sight. Stunning but effortless beauty. Perfectly styled hair fell mid-length to merge feminine chic with a refined elegance. Her outfit was tasteful, implying rather than flaunting a lovely figure.

  “Ms. Davidson,” he said, accepting her greeting. Her left hand brushed a black strand from her face to return it to its proper place. That’s when he noticed a ring. He remembered she had a new last name he couldn’t recall.

  “Call me Julia,” she insisted.

  He matched the offer. “Tyler. Thanks for meeting.”

  “Not a problem. I only hope I can help.”

  The hostess escorted them to a table situated next to a large window overlooking an outdoor parking lot. The same lot Renee frequented whenever she shopped at Bulrich’s Organic Market.

  “Would it be all right if we sat away from the window?” Tyler asked. He didn’t need the agitation of defending an innocent lunch with a beautiful woman.

  The hostess raised a surprised brow, then moved them to an inferior spot.

  They made small talk while perusing menus. He learned about her recent marriage to Troy Simmons, who, it turned out, had spent time in Washington DC working with Congressman Kevin Tolbert. “I voted for Tolbert,” Tyler boasted, claiming his share of credit for the newcomer’s victory.

  “I didn’t,” Julia said with a laugh. “But his wife and I have been friends since high school.”