The Cradle Robber

by E. Joan Sims

  I don’t know what I expected to find, but this was the last thing I would have guessed. My hand flew up to my mouth in surprise, the loose chain of the handcuffs clinking metal against metal.

  The baby protested loudly as the startled girl sat up pulling her nipple out of his mouth.

  “Quien es?” she shouted when she saw me. The others roused and opened sleepy eyes, which in turn widened in alarm.

  “Por Dios!” cried one. And they huddled together as if that would protect them from harm. The baby’s cries grew louder and more insistent.

  I hastened to reassure them, but had trouble thinking of the Spanish words. “No problema,” I finally managed to spit out. “No problema. I won’t hurt you, I promise.” I held my hands up to my mouth, “Shhhh, quiet, please,” I whispered. I tiptoed around the mattress and pointed at the squirming, red-faced baby, smiling as benevolently as possible. “Go ahead, please. Feed the baby. I held my arms up to my chest in a rocking motion. Finally, the girl seemed to get my drift and lay back, holding the squalling infant protectively against her. When the baby found his dinner once more, his cries stopped abruptly. I smiled again, and this time the girl smiled back. “Bueno!” I said softly. “Muy bueno—very good.” I held my arms at my sides and tried to look benign. “You speak English?” I asked. “Any of you, any English?”

  The girl on the far end of the bed separated herself slightly from the huddle and spoke shyly. “I speak little,” she said. “Little English, only.”

  “Terrific!” I forgot my trepidations about touching the curtain and pulled it aside to cross over near the girl. She immediately pulled back against the others in alarm.

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m harmless, honest.” I knelt down by the edge of the mattress. “Mi nombre es Paisley. What is you name?”

  The girl looked at me from under lowered eyelids and answered in a voice I could barely hear. “Clementina. Clementina Maria Garcia.”

  “Goodness,” I laughed softly so as not to frighten her again. “That’s a very musical name.”

  “The girl looked at me steadily for a moment, then the meaning of what I had said sank in and she laughed with delight. She turned and spoke rapidly to the others in Spanish explaining my little joke. The girls smiled timidly and relaxed a little in their vigilance. The baby had fallen asleep.

  “You go,” said Clementina firmly. “If he find you, he hurt us.”

  “He,who?” I asked. “Who will hurt you?”

  She looked furtively around, as if someone were hiding in the shadows, “El Jefe,” she whispered, “El Juez.”

  “The Judge? Oh, my God!” The girl nodded and looked at the others to back her up. The mother of the sleeping child smiled and held her baby close. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was sweet and tragic, and there were tears in her eyes. “Si, Señora, El Juez. El ladrone de los niños.”

  “What does she mean, Clementina? What is a ‘ladrone’?”

  “A thief, Señora,” she spat. “A thief who takes our babies.”

  I was astounded. “Wha…whatever for? Why does he steal your babies?”

  “He sell to Norte Americanos. Very big money.” She hid her face, but I could hear the sniffles.

  Suddenly my knees felt weak and wobbly, and my head was spinning. I needed to sit down. I stumbled back through the curtain into the other room and sank down on the sofa, heedless of the filthy stains. I dropped my head in my hands and closed my eyes against the encroaching darkness of fatigue and shock. I barely felt the small hand on my shoulder.

  “Passlee, you okay?” Clementina inquired. “You okay,” she decided. “Please, you go. We no want trouble.”

  “A drink,” I mumbled. “I need something to drink, please.”

  Clementina padded to the kitchen on little bare feet. I looked up when I heard her return. She was wearing a faded cotton gown that had been repaired so many times it was mostly patches. She was tiny—as small as a child. Her long black hair was woven into a single braid that hung down her back, and her face was sweetly plain with big brown eyes that held a world of sadness. She gave me a can of generic carbonated cola. It was hot, but I gulped it down in four big swallows. It tasted like the nectar of the gods.

  “Oh, thanks!” I gasped. “I was so thirsty. You just don’t…”

  “Shhhh!” whispered the girl, urgently. “I hear door outside! He comes! You go, please!” She pulled and pushed at me to get up from the sofa.

  “Where? Where do I go?”

  Sheer terror paled the girl’s face and widened her eyes. Her neck jerked spasmodically as she shook her head and shrugged her little shoulders. Then her eyes registered something more than fear, and she grabbed my hand. “Ven! Ven!” She pulled me into the kitchen and pointed at an old refrigerator. “In, get in! No functiona. It broke. You get in. I let you out when he go.” She hastily removed the two shelves and an empty egg container, and thrust them in my hands. “You hold,” she ordered.

  All the warnings of my childhood came tumbling back in a rush. Newspaper photographs of little children found dead in old refrigerators—children suffocated while playing games of hide and seek—flashed through my mind. Every muscle and nerve in my body protested, but I ignored them and forced myself to climb into the empty metal box. I bent over, making myself as small as possible, deliberately shutting my eyes so I wouldn’t see Clementina close the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I panicked when the door closed. There wasn’t even a tiny chink of light around the edges. Once, I had gone on a vacation trip with my parents to Mammoth Cave. When we arrived at the lowest depth, the park ranger turned off the lights and told us this was the blackest black we would ever see. I had never expected to experience that darkness again. It was all I could do to keep from screaming.

  I took a deep breath and started counting backwards from five hundred. I gradually relaxed and got control of myself. I counted again. And again.

  The air was stale and smelled of mold, but the terrifying thought that there might not be enough of it to last until Judge Hershey had gone sent me into another panic. I called on every mental resource at my command to quell my fears.

  I just about had everything under control when I heard the scream. It was faint and sounded very far away, but I knew it had to come from one of four young women— my guess was Clementina.

  “My God,” I thought selfishly. “What if he kills her and no one else knows I’m in here?”

  Sweat dripped into my eyes, and I was surprised to find that my arms and legs — my whole body was wet. It was hot in the refrigerator—very hot—and getting hotter. In a few more minutes I wouldn’t be able to stand the heat. And I was finding it harder to get my breath.

  “That’s enough,” I whispered. “I’m getting out of here.” It never occurred to me that it might not be possible. Those newspaper stories—those accidents involved little children, not adults. I pushed on the door, but it was unyielding. I put my shoulder against it and squirmed around until my knees rested against the back wall to provide more leverage. Again I pushed, but nothing happened. “Oh, God,” I gasped. “Please don’t let me die in here!” There was a loud roaring in my head. I didn’t know exactly when it began, but the sound blocked out all thought and reason. I covered my ears with my hands, but it only got worse. My chest began to burn. The pain started in the middle under my breastbone and worked its way outwards as the air grew fouler.

  My head rested—my neck limp as a noodle—against the door. Hazy pictures of Cassie and Mother and Rafe passed through my mind. They had something important to tell me, but I couldn’t hear because of the roaring sound in my head.

  Something fell against the side of the refrigerator and brought me back to groggy consciousness. There was another, even more forceful blow—and the door opened just an inch—only the latch keeping it from opening all the way. Fresh air—sweet fresh air, even if it did smell of stale food and garbage—flowed in through the crack. I breathed deeply and than
kfully.

  Then I heard more screams, the sound of fists against bare flesh, and pitiful cries. The sounds grew fainter, then stopped. A door slammed, and it was quiet once more.

  I wiggled my finger through the opening in the door and tried to find the latch. I had no doubt that sooner or later I would be able to get out, but I was impatient—not to mention hot and miserable. I pushed against it as hard as I could. Suddenly the door opened and I tumbled out on the floor, barely missing the bruised and battered little body that was already there.

  Clementina lay on the floor crying silently. Her face was a war zone. Her lips were torn and bleeding, and her eyes puffed and bruised.

  “Señora,” she whispered. “You are not dead?”

  “No, dear, I’m not dead,” I assured her.

  She tried to smile, but the torn lips would not cooperate. She moaned and pulled her knees up to her stomach. “Aye, Dios!” she cried aloud. “Me duele! It hurts very much.”

  I tried to pick her up from the floor, but the movement seemed to hurt her even more. She would have to stay where she was. I looked around for something to clean her wounds and saw nothing but a dirty kitchen towel.

  “Clementina? Water—where is some clean water?”

  The girl raised her right arm with some difficulty and pointed towards the room where I had first seen her.

  “I’ll be right back,” I promised.

  My legs felt like spaghetti, but I managed to make my way back down the length of the trailer. The curtain was gone and the other girls were nowhere to be seen. The baby was gone, too. I looked around, kicking aside dirty bundles of clothing, and finally found two plastic bottles of water they must have held in reserve for the baby. I also found a couple of clean cloth diapers and some Vaseline.

  Clementina was curled up in a fetal position when I got back. I sat down on the floor next to her, and lifted her head gently into my lap. I wet the diaper and dabbed softly at the cuts and abrasions on her face. A couple of the lacerations were deep enough to leave ugly scars, but we could fix that later. I promised myself she would have the best plastic surgeon money could buy. I bit my own lip to keep from crying as I ministered to her.

  Clementina opened her eyes. “Passlee, you run and hide quick. I think he will come back soon.”

  “I can’t leave without you! I won’t!” Tears poured freely down my cheeks and splashed on the floor as I shook my head.

  “Go! Go! Please! Only you can help us. Please, Passlee.” Her voice faded off into a quiet whisper as she lost consciousness.

  Clementina was right. I had no choice. I had to go for help—some big time help. And right after that, I had to convince a few people—including my own mother—that the great, wise, and wonderful Judge James Hershey, respected southern gentleman of Rowan Springs, Kentucky, was scum of the lowest order.

  I lowered the girl gently to the floor and covered her as best I could with the dry diaper cloths. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for now. I placed the bottle of water within her reach and spread some Vaseline on her lips. She moaned slightly at my touch, then was quiet. I had to get help quickly. I was sure she had internal injuries.

  Clementina seemed to think I would have no trouble leaving. I hoped she knew something I didn’t. Maybe she noticed that the Judge had left the door unlocked when he left. I kept my fingers crossed as I tried it.

  The door opened effortlessly to the long, dark hallway. Not allowing myself the luxury of a second thought, I ran as fast as I could over the uneven floor towards the other end. That door was also open, and I burst outside under the bright stars of an early summer morning.

  I held tightly onto the rickety banister of the makeshift porch while a wave of dizziness washed over me. My own physical condition wasn’t what I would prefer. I had a long way to go, and not much energy to go on. I consider for a moment returning to the kitchen for something to eat, but the thought of Clementina lying there in pain until I returned spurred me on.

  The only car in the driveway was a rusted chassis on cinder blocks. Watson was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he was still parked in the middle of the road. I hoped so. Just seeing my Jeep would give me comfort—and I thought I remembered throwing a cardigan in the backseat. That would be welcome right about now. Goose bumps from the pre-dawn chill stood up big and proud on my arms, and my hair was soon cold and damp with early morning dew.

  The road to town ran in an easterly direction and I could see a rosy golden glow in the distance as the sun started to come up over the hills. It would be a beautiful day. And I was free.

  The next few days would be chaotic. No one would believe me at first, but with Clementina’s help I would slowly convince everyone that Hershey was a villain, make sure the girls and the baby were cared for— and then possibly send them back to Mexico— if that was what they desired. If not, maybe we could find them a home.

  My mind wandered through paths of fancy and imagination as I walked. By the time the sun came up, the goose bumps and my desire for a sweater were gone.

  “Man, oh, man,” I mumbled. “I bet I smell like a barnyard.”

  I began to fantasize about a bathtub filled with hot lavender-scented water, about big thick terry towels and sweet-smelling hair that was brushed and shining. When I was squeaky clean, Mother would bring me luncheon on a tray. She would insist on consommé because I hadn’t eaten in so long, but would relent and uncover a plate of medium rare prime rib with duchesse potatoes and baby peas. Cassie would sneak in later, when Mother wasn’t looking, with a big bowl of lemon custard ice cream, and then we would share a whole box of my favorite cookies—Nabisco sugar wafers. With all that in my stomach, and all I had been through— especially “the saving the girls and the baby” part—no one would mind if I took a nice long nap. Cassie would keep Aggie from barking, and Mother would unhook the telephone so no one would disturb my sleep— especially with that loud honking noise.

  I looked up when I realized the noise wasn’t in my daydream. A car was bearing down on me. I stood in the middle of the road and stared like a dummy. I didn’t know whether to run or wait. Then my legs betrayed me and I fell in a dirty, disheveled heap to the roadbed. I couldn’t move. I was completely spent.

  The car stopped about ten feet away in a cloud of dust. I coughed and tried to wave it out of my eyes so I could see who was coming for me—friend or foe. I said a swift prayer, and watched as a tall lean man with a boldly handsome face climbed out and hurried toward me.

  “Are you Paisley Sterling?” he asked, with a tentative grin.

  “I used to be,” I managed to quip.

  “I’m Frank Newton. Your mother asked my help in finding you. We’ve been looking for the better part of two days. She’ll be overjoyed to know you’re okay.”

  He extended a hand to help me up, then started to brush me off.

  “No, please,” I said standing back. “I’m too filthy to touch. Just put a towel or something in your car seat so I won’t ruin it.” I looked up into his face and felt even more like the nasty scarecrow I knew I resembled. Newton was one of the best-looking men I had seen in a long time.

  “Just my luck,” I mumbled.

  “Pardon?” he asked politely, as he helped me into the fancy, low-slung, sports car.

  “Luck,” I prevaricated. “Just my good luck that you found me when you did. I’m about to die for a drink. Do you have…?”

  Newton reached around in the back seat and lifted a bottle of water from a cooler. “There’s more where that came from,” he smiled. “Just let me know when you want another.”

  I tried to twist the top off as he walked around the car to climb in the driver’s seat. By the time he got in, the tears of frustration had started to fall. I couldn’t get the cap off. He took the bottle gently from my hand, opened it effortlessly, and passed it back without a word.

  I leaned back in the seat and drank deeply as we drove off. The cool water gurgled and sloshed down my parched throat, and splashed into m
y empty stomach with a nauseating plop.

  “Please,” I gasped. “Can you stop?”

  “Why,” he asked somewhat suspiciously.

  “I’m…I think I’m going to be sick.”

  He slammed on the brakes and watched every humiliating minute as I opened the door and vomited on the side of the road. When I was through, and as embarrassed as I have ever been, I got back in the car and wiped my face on the tissues he held out to me.

  “Here’s another bottle of water,” he said. “Take it easy this time. Little sips, maybe. Okay?”

  His smile was dazzling, his teeth white and even in a tanned “Town and Country” face. Dark-lensed, gold-rimmed sunglasses hid his eyes, but he could easily have been a model in an Armani ad in any one of Mother’s fashion magazines. His clothes were simple and casual, and obviously very expensive. The watch on his wrist was a stainless steel and gold Cartier Santos—worth more than Watson—and the tip of a pricey Mont Blanc pen peeked out from his Polo shirt pocket.

  The only jarring notes were the heavy gold chain nestled in the dark hair at his throat and the large gold and diamond cluster ring on his little finger. I had seen enough men with fancy jewelry and macho outlooks in San Romero. Too bad, I thought, that flashy fashion statement seeping into North American men’s wardrobes. But on the whole, he was one terrific looking dude. It was a shame I had to meet him when I looked like Godzilla’s red-headed stepchild.

  I took the water in short, quick sips like he suggested and felt better almost immediately. I relaxed in the soft leather seat and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Can I call Mother?” I asked as I noticed the cell phone in a holder on the dashboard.

  “We’re out of range,” he smiled. “I tried to use it when I first saw you. Just a few more miles and you can talk all you want.”

  “How far away from town are we? I need to get some help for a friend. How long will it take for us to get there?”

  “Whoa!” he laughed. “What’s the big hurry? Don’t you like my company?”

  The question sounded somewhat inappropriate considering the circumstances, but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. “I’m just anxious to get home, that’s all,” I explained humbly. “I’m really, really ready for a nice long bath.”