by Kit Reed
There is, furthermore, the lure of the nice new parents the Newlife agency has contracted to find, the perfect, loving family she’s promised this unborn child. When you make a unique print you hope for wealthy, wonderful patrons who will take it home to the ideal setting, somebody who will appreciate what you’ve done and frame it right. You want a sweet couple who will love this creation of yours and keep it safe in a beautiful place. It’s more than Sasha can do for him, and the guilt is eating her up. So far the parent candidates have all been duds, but satisfaction is written into the Newlife contract, she’s begged them to try harder and they still have time to search.
Now, if the agency would contract to protect me from Gary, she thinks, if they would pledge to help me fight for my rights …
A click on the Thermopane brings her to her feet. She’s afraid to look. Is Gary down there throwing stones? Fear sends her back to the bed, where she clings like a shipwrecked sailor rocking on a raft. It isn’t safe!
She can’t go home. She won’t. If she wanted to see the Donovans she’d be there by now, but where her grandparents are concerned, Sasha is a hard sell. It’s her baby and she plans to give it up, which means they must never know. Catholic girls go ahead and have their babies, which is what brought her here. Good Catholic mothers keep their children, Grandmother drummed it into her before she was big enough to hold a spoon. Didn’t she force Sasha’s mother to get married while she was still in high school and see to it that the irresponsible girl brought her baby home for Grand to feed and fuss at and supervise? Sasha knew the litany before she was old enough to understand.
“Get down on your knees and thank God that I kept her from paying some clinic to scoop you out.”
Didn’t Grand keep Sasha even after handsome Jimmy Egan took off in the middle of the night and Lucy ran away? Oh, yes Sasha heard about it. She heard about it every day. “And thank your God for giving you a grandmother to take care of you!”
Maeve Donovan, that grudging model of Irish rectitude. Sasha knows what that rectitude demands. She’s never going back. If she went home her grandparents would buy Gary just the way they did her father, forcing a marriage down her throat.
Unless, Sasha thinks bitterly, they already have bought him. Gary’s sudden possessiveness, violence not threatened, but implied. Have he and Grand already struck a deal?
While the younger women sigh and groan in their sleep, Sasha lies spreadeagled, taut and dry-eyed with concentration, working on a plan. It isn’t much but she thinks it will fly. Anything is better than waiting for Gary to hit the end of his tether and turn on her like a junkie’s Rottweiler. Gary. She hardly knows him, which is the worst part. She has no idea what he will do. Even though they’re strangers, she does know that Gary isn’t particularly swift. She’s sorting through ways to slip before he has time to figure out that she’s gone.
Friday, she thinks. She will go Friday. If she can last that long.
On Fridays there are day trips, outings, supervised comings and goings in the Newlife vans. She will sign up to go shopping Friday with Betty Jane Gudger and Luellen Squiers and a half dozen other giggling high school kids. With the black panes in the air conditioned Ford Expedition sealed tight Gary will have no way of knowing Sasha is slumped in the back behind the others, or that her shoulder bag contains the last civilian dress she owns that almost fits. Gaudy and embarrassed in their pastel flowered scrubs, the Newlife residents always stick together on these outings, moving in a phalanx down the wide main street of the one horse town, which means that later anybody asking questions will have a hard time finding out how many unwed mothers went to town and how many came back. The girls will all be jabbering, happy and distracted, but Sasha will remain vigilant. When the time’s right and she is certain nobody— especially not Gary— is watching, she will duck into the bathroom at the local clam bar, do the quick change and wedge herself through the back window and slip away on the afternoon bus. Tomorrow she’ll go down to the computer room and research Greyhound routes on the Web. She needs to pick a location, some wide place in the road on the far side of the state line. She needs somewhere big enough to support a decent hospital, some large town or small city where a pregnant stranger won’t stand out on the main drag like a wild duck in a plastic wading pond. Once she gets oriented she’ll check into a good motel to wait this thing out. Her credit limit is high, let Mastercard pay for this; she’ll find a way to place the baby and figure out how to disappear long before the Donovans or the Cargills or anybody else thinks of calling in the law or hiring a detective to track her down through the receipts.
7.
Tom Starbird
“Martha, I don’t care who’s on the line, the Everetts and I are closing here.” When we’re done, I’m looking for an island where I can sit down and go inside myself to think.
“I’m sorry, Tom, it’s an emergency.”
“It had better be.”
“When you hear who it is …” Martha’s embarrassed because in a no-calls situation, she let some outsider bully her into putting him through. She evaporates before she can finish her apology.
At the other end of my private line a man whose voice I think I recognize says, “Do you know who I am?”
It’s the last voice I want to hear. We all saw him tear into the Nebraska baby ranches and the clone labs on national TV. If this is Jake Zorn, the Conscience of Boston, I am probably fucked. The name is famous and he expects me to say it. Instead I say, “No.”
“Jake Zorn.” He throws it like a rock.
“What do you want?”
“And you’re Tom Starbird.”
I should deny it, I should ask how he got this number and what threats he leveled to make Martha put him through but I have clients waiting and I can’t play that scene. I should hang up now. Instead I nod, even though this isn’t TV. “I am.”
“Then you know why I’m calling.”
“Um.” Oh, yes I am stalling. This is, after all, Boston’s celebrated expose guy, his hottest stuff airs nationwide. How much does he know? “No comment.”
“It’s not about that!”
“OK goodbye.”
“I know where you are and I know what you do.”
Bad. This is bad. “I’m hanging up now.”
“I’ll just call back on your cell.”
“Nobody has that number!” Oh, shit. He really does know where I am. What he doesn’t know is that I have a backup plan for this eventuality. My passport’s in order, the house is in somebody else’s name. The bulk of the money is in Vienna. A few wire transfers and I’m gone. My cell vibrates: busted. I check caller ID, just in case. It’s definitely him. My voice shoots up as I snap it shut. “Nobody.”
“Relax,” he says with a broadcast-quality chuckle. All of a sudden he’s Mr. Congeniality. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then what the hell is it?”
“Are you alone?”
“I can’t have this conversation now.”
“But you will.”
Cover the mouthpiece, smile at the couple perched on the sofa like refugees stranded on the dock at Da Nang; the tide’s going out and your captain must set sail. OK, I do talk in figures; I lied. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
Jane Everett’s eyebrows shoot up. Not now, when we’re so close!
I cover the mouthpiece. “Can you come back tonight?”
The husband is angry. He thought we were equals in a simple business arrangement. Tai Everett isn’t used to dealing with people he needs more than they need him. “What are you trying to pull?”
“I have to take this call.”
The wife touches his lips to keep him from saying any more. Her anxiety is so sweet that I give her my best reassuring smile. Relieved, she tugs him to his feet. “We’ll just …”
For her sake I am trying to be gracious. “If you don’t mind.”
I feel sorry for them. Stopped just short of the finish line. Where they came on strong when they walked int
o the meeting, now they both look unaccountably shabby, standing there. He bristles. “We were about to close on this!”
“Tai, please!”
They eddy in the doorway while Zorn’s breathing crackles in the receiver and I re-think. The Everetts are here because they tested better than any of the others on my wait list. I bumped them up and rushed the meeting because it’s my last for a while. I am a short-timer here. The last subject is ripe for rescue and plans for the pickup are in place. I prefer a longer lead time but I am wrapping this one up tomorrow. Supplier I’ve been watching is juggling an oversized family, there’s neglect, maybe something worse going on. Clearly there’s a reason she never had this last baby chipped. If the kid gets lost, he’s doing her a favor, that’s how much she cares. You might call it an emergency rescue. The doctor I keep on call will come in tonight, check out the baby and see to the chipping; he brings registered government chips ready for programming and implanting, so tomorrow at the airport and every day after that, the Everetts’ new baby is cool. The sooner we complete the transfer of property, the sooner I can move on.
“OK,” I say to them, “we’ll finalize. But you’ll have to wait. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
He scowls. She puts her hand on his arm. “Tai, don’t!”
“Martha will make coffee for you.”
I’m usually pretty cool but I die and get buried a few times too many before they finally leave the room. Meanwhile the power player at the other end of the line is buzzing like a hinky generator; Jake Zorn isn’t used to waiting. Guys like this have assistants to do the waiting for them; they place his calls and when they get his party, he makes them wait. It’s a power thing. That makes this call automatically different.
He placed it himself because he doesn’t want anybody to know.
Holy fuck, he needs me more than I need him. “Sorry, Zorn. I can’t help you.”
“I don’t have much time.”
“How did you get my …”
“Does it matter? I need your services.”
I am done taking clients, at least for now. I can’t get sucked into anything with Jake Zorn. I need empty time, so I can think. “I’m sorry, I’m on hiatus.”
“I said, I need your services. How soon can we meet?”
“I can’t help you.” Translation: I won’t.
“Beg to differ.” The voice rattles like stones in a rock tumbler. “If I decide to expose you, you’re fucked. Just think of it as long-term insurance. If we bring this off you know I’ll never go public with what I know because I’m personally involved.”
“What do you think you know?”
“That you steal kids.”
I am quick to say, “It’s a placement service!” but the fuse burns a little faster.
“Fine. Place a baby with me.”
“Can’t. Even my wait list has to wait.”
He barks in that do you know who I am tone: “I don’t wait.”
“I’m sorry, shop’s closed.”
Zorn rolls on like a piece of heavy equipment fixing to mash me flat. “Not before you do this. Understand?”
I don’t budge. There is nothing between us but the sound of Zorn waiting.
Finally he says, “You have to help us.” That familiar break in the voice turns spiky Jake Zorn into just another needy human. “You have to help her. Please.”
“See, that’s the problem.” Oh, yes I have been thinking. Not for nothing was Daria Starbird a poet. My intuition kicks in. “Your wife had an episode.”
It’s like a punch in the belly. I can almost hear him go ooof. “You’re not supposed to know that.”
“I know a lot of things.”
“It’s over, it was nothing,” he says. Then he says, “Look, Starbird, my wife. That was a passing thing. She’s fine now, I have hospital paperwork on that. I was getting it in order for …”
“One of the agencies …”
“A lot of agencies …”
“That turned you down.”
Rage roars out of him. “We need a baby!” Having exploded, Zorn stops. The silence lasts a long time. I am shaking the receiver to see what else is going to fall out of it when he adds:
“Just steal a fucking baby for us, OK?”
The more I talk to him the more I know I don’t want to place a kid with this guy. He’s a yeller. Probably a hitter too. “Look, Mr. Zorn, there’s more than one problem with this.”
“What?”
He isn’t listening to reason, which means I end up piling on too many reasons. He isn’t a vanity client, like Morgan Sterling, so I tell him, “There’s your age.”
“If this is about the money, we pay up front, and in cash.”
“Everybody does.” What are they, late forties, fifty? The gravely voice and the relief map face are Jake Zorn’s TV stock in trade. This guy hits hard. He could have a heart attack and leave the kid fatherless. He could stroke out. “Even if your wife is strong enough to do it, you’re too old to bring up a kid.”
“We can handle it.”
“You want to go to his graduation on a walker? If you live to see him graduate?”
“Fuck that shit,” he growls. Not even Zorn wants to admit that he’s old. “We’ll be great parents!”
“You look more like grandparents.”
“And what the fuck do you look like, Starbird? Scum.”
Filthy. He makes what I do sound filthy. I make wrapping-up noises. “So that’s it. You’ll have to find another guy.”
“Not so fast, Starbird. We’re not done.”
I don’t answer. I am waiting for him to hang up.
“Starbird?”
“I’m here.”
“You know what happens to people who cross me. You might as well know …” Pause for effect. “My people have accessed your files.”
Right. Oh, careful, Starbird. Be careful what you say. “Nobody accesses my files.”
“What makes you so sure?” He waits. When I don’t speak he says, “Do you know what I can do to you?”
“You don’t have anything on me.”
“Do you want to put money on that? If I decide to do the show, and believe me, I will do the show …”
Nobody knows exactly what I do or where or how I do it, but if Zorn is on the level, he has an idea. This isn’t like you knowing. It’s like having the Supreme Court or the Attorney General know. Exposing me to the light. I wait.
He rumbles to himself for a minute, like a boiler fixing to blow. “Here’s the deal. I’ll give it to you in writing. Your baby for my silence.”
It seems safer to pretend that I’m out of words.
“Starbird, I don’t hear you answering. If we’re talking, you know I already have enough on you to put you away for life.”
Doubtful, but it’s clear where he’s going with this. If I refuse him, he intends to go public with whatever little shit he has on me. This is bad, but it is by no means the worst. I’ll tell you what’s worse. The thing about the law is, the law is blind to motives. If they do come after me they won’t just try me and put me away. I’ll be charged with kidnapping, death penalty implied. “I don’t think so.”
“Do you really want to take the risk?”
Push has come to shove and I make a tremendous discovery. “I really don’t care.” Did I really say that? Wow. It’s true! This is nothing I chose.
BANG. It’s over. I can’t do this any more.
“So get me a baby.”
“Or you’ll, what. Expose me?”
“Yes.”
Where I should be cowering, maybe, or re-thinking, for the first time since I took on my very first clients, I feel liberated. A thousand tons lighter. He just made it easy for me to turn my back and walk away. “That’s cool. If you think you can put me out of business, go for it! I’m through, as of today.”
“You can’t quit.” Something inside Jake Zorn is grinding. I can hear it in his voice. “You can’t afford to quit.”
“But I am. And if
you think you’re taping this conversation, you can forget it. My filters shred all signals, going out or coming in. Whatever you’re using to record this, your equipment’s already fried.”
“You’re lying.”
“So if you don’t mind …”
“Like you think I don’t mind, Starbird.” The rest comes in stages, like the first blobs of slurry slipping out of a cement mixer. “Do you really believe I’d start this without a backup plan?”
I kick it out of the way. “If you can find me, let me know when your big show is running. Can’t wait to see it when it airs.”
Then the slurry rolls down on me for real. Zorn says in a cold, still voice, “Oh, I’m not going after you.”
Starbird, asshole, listen to yourself, blundering on while the stuff piles up around your ankles. “OK then, goodbye and thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“You can’t hurt me now.”
Listen to the man! Jake Zorn continues in that cold, still voice, graver than his usual. “Why would I waste time on you?”
It’s been a long conversation and I’m sick of it. To tell the truth, I’m too busy writing my farewell speech to notice. “Spare me the threats and don’t bother me again.” I’m about to flip him into oblivion when he comes up with the one thing that will suck me in.
“The big story is Daria Starbird. Feminist poet, comes on all sacred and holy, but her backstory is a bitch. You and she are related, right?”
This fixes me in place. Zorn is waiting but no words come.
“Right?” I can hear him looking at his watch. He may need me more than I need him, but in this one respect, I need his silence. The bastard has me and he knows it. This time he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer. “You’ve wasted enough of my time, Starbird. You know where I am. Tomorrow at three.”
8.
Like certain men, the escape plan looked good in the dark but now the sun is up.
Clinging to her raft, bobbing aimlessly a thousand miles from shore, Sasha stares at the ceiling. She hasn’t slept. Gary’s out there doing God knows what. Unless he’s downstairs right now, sweet-talking his way inside— Gary Cargill, whom she barely knows. He’s on the move and she’s lying here with a half-assed plan that fell apart at first light. Can she stay? Should she go? This isn’t only her future. There’s the baby. How can she plan when she can’t even sleep? She should have left last night, when she was sure.
