Pick Your Poison

by Leann Sweeney

  “How do I get you in?”

  “You bring Hamilton something that will grab her attention, making her think you’re ready to cut a deal for a baby; then you’ll have to get creative . . . I’m thinking a fake illness might work. Yeah, that’s it. You ask for water or aspirin. She’d have to leave the front office to get it, and that’s when I sneak in and hide in the closet. You depart, she goes home, and I’m free to explore.”

  “Are you crazy? At the very least, that’s trespassing.”

  “I wouldn’t be jimmying any locks, or climbing into windows. And no one will know but you and me.”

  “I—I want to help you, but this?”

  “Terry told you how he felt after we left her office, didn’t he? How disgusted he was with Hamilton’s so-called business?”

  She nodded. “He said he doesn’t think you have to run an adoption agency as if you’re working the commodities exchange.”

  “She’s only in this for the money. Feldman probably operated the same way. She could be his daughter, for all we know, carrying on the family business for another generation. Help me? Please?”

  “We could get in serious trouble.”

  “And if we do nothing, another woman like Cloris might have her children stolen from her.”

  “Okay, so what’s this something you mentioned that’s guaranteed to grab her attention?”

  I smiled. “Money, of course.”

  “I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Kate said. It was late afternoon and we were on the way to Galveston.

  “You agreed because you’re my loyal, loving sister, not to mention my best friend,” I answered, maneuvering through rush hour traffic. “Besides, behind your placid facade lies a spirit yearning for adventure.”

  “You really think this will work? Hamilton sounds like a fairly clever woman. I don’t know how convincing I can be.”

  A light rain forced me to turn on the windshield wipers. “You can match wits with Hamilton any day, Kate. Once she sees you’re willing to write a check, you’ll have her right where you want her.”

  “But you said she insisted on cash.”

  “You’ll say someone told you the price was ten thousand, but never mentioned the cash-only stipulation. She probably won’t even accept your check, but your eagerness to whip out a checkbook will add authenticity to your visit.”

  “And what if she’s not there?”

  “We try again on your next day off.”

  “And what if Hamilton comes back before you’re in the closet? Or what if that door you remembered seeing isn’t a closet?”

  “Kate, don’t get yourself worked up. That office was once a foyer, so that door has to be the front closet. And if she does catch me, I’ll confess that my other visits and the one today were lies. I’ll say I’m a reporter doing an adoption series.”

  “I see. I’m Jimmy Olsen and you’re Lois Lane. Well, let’s hope we don’t need Superman.”

  Though the streets were damp in Galveston, the rain had stopped by the time we reached Parental Advocates. I watched Kate climb the steps to Hamilton’s office, feeling like a mother sending her kid off on the first day of school. As much as Kate trusted my version of how this would go down, Hamilton could do something unforeseen. But still, the bottom line at Parental Advocates was greed, and I was certain Hamilton would be licking her chops after Kate got out her checkbook. Then, if the woman stayed true to form, Kate wouldn’t have a chance to sign her name before the cash-only speech ensued.

  A minute after Kate entered the office, I tiptoed up the porch steps, crouched under the railing, and waited there. Ten minutes later, Kate appeared in the window and gave the signal that Hamilton had left the room, probably to fetch the glass of water Hamilton’s very “upset” visitor had requested. The plan was working perfectly so far.

  I carefully opened the front door.

  And realized I had missed something important. The door chimed.

  I quickly opened the closet and sneaked in, reading panic in Kate’s eyes as I eased the door shut. Enveloped in blackness, I prayed Kate would think of an explanation.

  When Hamilton returned to the office, I pressed my ear against the door to listen.

  “Did someone come in?” Hamilton asked.

  “I’m sorry. I felt so faint, I thought fresh air might help. But the humidity made me feel worse than ever.”

  Good girl. That ought to fly. I slowly released my breath.

  “You did want ice water, Mrs. Rose?” Hamilton said.

  “Yes,” Kate replied. “Thanks so much.”

  “Please let me apologize again for upsetting you,” Hamilton said, “but I must refuse your check. We only take cash. Believe me, you don’t want to leave a paper trail.”

  Yes! The same song and dance she’d offered Terry and me.

  “If all the contracts are legal, why should it matter?” said Kate. “I mean, do the birth mothers really come back that often to claim their babies?”

  “Sadly, yes. That’s why we’ve been so successful at Parental Advocates. We prevent problems like that from happening beforehand. Please bring your husband and we’ll discuss the details.”

  “Thanks for seeing me without an appointment. I know you must want to go home,” said Kate. Her chair scraped the floor.

  Another chair moved, and Hamilton’s heels clicked a few times on the hardwood. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I guess I’m still woozy. I’ll just take this cup of water with me,” said Kate.

  “Would you like a refill before you go?” asked Hamilton.

  “No, thanks. I appreciate your time.”

  I relaxed at the sound of them walking away. I couldn’t tell if Kate said anything else, but I heard the now-familiar chime as the door opened and closed, then the renewed rat-a-tatting of Hamilton’s feet.

  Coming toward the closet.

  Then her feet obliterated portions of light shining under the door.

  Damn! I was trapped like a lizard under a cat’s paw!

  I covered my mouth with my hand, as if that would somehow make me invisible. Then I heard the blessed bleat of the phone and her feet clackety-clacked away. I frantically felt around in the darkness, my heart thumping. I touched a large cardboard box . . . hanging clothes . . . stacks of folders . . . several umbrellas leaning in the narrow space between the door and the wall. I climbed on the box, moving what felt like a wool coat in front of me.

  Insulated by the fabric, I couldn’t hear her telephone conversation or even if she was headed back my way.

  But sure enough, within seconds the door opened. I held my breath again. Peeking through the coat’s folds, I captured her lower body with my left eye. The crimson enamel on her nails flashed as she picked up an umbrella. The storm. Of course. Then she closed the door and darkness enfolded me again.

  Lucky for me, all I’d lost was a little confidence. I moved the coat aside in time to hear the metallic turn of—oh, no! That sounded an awful lot like a dead bolt. Deadbolt, Abby. As in, How the heck will you escape once you’re finished searching?

  I’d have to deal with that problem later.

  I cracked the door and peered out. Storm clouds completely filled the Gulf of Mexico, and with the front drapes pulled, light barely eked into the office through the leaded-glass window. I had already spotted the motion sensor on my first or second time here and knew I could reach the computer by staying close to the wall. I sidled over, feeling simultaneously silly and scared. Creeping around someone’s office uninvited wasn’t something I had ever imagined myself doing.

  The telephone intrigued me, but shutting down the security system was the first order of business. I might not have detectivelike observational skills, but the distinctive ribbon cord leading from the computer to the wall told me Hamilton’s system was hooked up to an extra power supply for several modules behind the computer. This special cord handled electric current along with communication and control signals. Computer-controlled securi
ty like this avoided the very expensive rewiring usually required in these older houses for computerized security. I knew all this because CompuCan had an agreement with Intelli-Home, the company that sold this system, and my familiarity with the program would help me turn off the alarms.

  I typed a few commands already prepared with an override for the Intelli-Home password, since I’d looked it up ahead of time. I walked through the necessary steps without a glitch, and a message soon flashed, informing me the security system was disengaged. I then started hunting through the files stored on the computer, but found only contract templates, word-processing files, and lists of adoption agencies in every state of the union. No information about clients appeared to be stored here, or they were well hidden.

  I found plenty of disks and CDs in a box next to the computer, labeled only with dates, none older than a few months ago. I had no time to load and search all of them, and besides, what I really wanted was information from years back, or anything connecting Feldman to Parental Advocates. I turned my attention to the telephone, a state-of-the-art piece of equipment. Maybe I could find out about Hamilton and Feldman through whatever numbers were stored in the telephone.

  I hunted in the desk for the instruction manual and found it within seconds. I perused the index for a last-number-redial feature, then read the directions. The phone displayed the date and time above the number buttons, and next to that, an orange tab labeled FEATURE protruded. To the right and above the numbers were more buttons. To autoredial, I pushed feature three. Not only did the phone dial the number, it displayed the digits where the date and time previously appeared. I quickly wrote the number down and hung up. So what else could Magic Phone do? Back to the manual.

  I learned the phone could be programmed to speed-dial up to twelve numbers by using those unlabeled buttons. I pushed each one and jotted down five additional phone numbers on a Post-it note when they appeared in the display window. I stuck the paper in the pocket of my shorts and opened each desk drawer but didn’t find an address book with Feldman’s name agreeably printed under the Fs, nor an appointment schedule conveniently lying around.

  I switched my focus to the hall door leading to the rest of the house. What went on back there? Were there filing cabinets chock-full of records?

  Time to find out. I opened the door and discovered several lights glowing in the short corridor. But did I stop and consider why these lights were on? Of course not. I charged right in.

  Another light, this one tiny and red, flashed up high near the end of the hallway. Miss Smarty-pants Rose had missed something else in her perfect plan.

  Smile, Abby. You’re on Candid Camera.

  This video equipment, obviously not hooked up to the computer, needed the hall’s brightness to adequately film unwanted visitors. Unfortunately I hadn’t foreseen this possibility.

  Now what? I went down the hall, stood underneath the camera, and squinted up. Could I turn the thing off? And where would the tape be? How could I get it out? The camera was too high for me to reach, so I decided to leave that little problem for now.

  I retraced my steps and entered the first room off the corridor. A copier stood against one wall, with a fax machine and document shredder alongside. The filing cabinets tempted me, but they were all locked, with no key to be found.

  I reentered the hall and took several steps toward the kitchen end of the house, once again facing the blinking camera.

  Then I heard the muffled sound of the chime, the one that had nearly been my downfall earlier.

  I stopped dead, my stomach tight with fear, then soundlessly took a giant step to the opposite wall and flattened against the wall. I edged toward the office, positioning myself behind by the door so that if someone came through, I’d be hidden—or so I hoped.

  A female voice spoke. Definitely Hamilton.

  Then a man responded—he was not as close as she seemed to be—but I couldn’t understand either one of them. Could she have brought Feldman with her? Was the man I’d been hunting for in the next room?

  Quick steps echoed beyond the door. Then I heard a familiar computer-generated ding. One of them was at the desk on the other side of this door.

  And my right shoulder was no more than a foot from the hinges. I could feel my pulse hammering at my neck.

  And then I heard her clearly. Sounding exasperated, Hamilton said, “The stupid security system is off. Second time that’s happened. I’ll switch to manual on the way out.”

  Her companion said something indecipherable. He must have been standing way on the other side of the room, close to the front door.

  Hamilton then said, “I left the copy of the check in the machine. Wait here while I get it.”

  A copy of the check? Kate’s check? God, I hoped not.

  I made myself as pancakelike as possible, anticipating Hamilton coming on through.

  And she did, the open door stopping within an inch of my cheek. Sweat dribbled down the hollow of my back, and I pressed against the wall, holding my breath.

  She clacked into the room across from me, came back out quickly, and exited, shutting the hall door.

  I slowly exhaled.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “I’ve got to find out about this Katherine Rose. She was no more sick than I am.”

  Damn. Kate did write a check, and Hamilton had copied it.

  Once again I heard a barely audible reply. After the lock turned, I counted to sixty before stepping out, wanting to be sure they were gone. I cracked the door to the foyer.

  Without thinking again.

  Hamilton had clearly said she’d activated the security system manually, and as soon as that door opened, an almost imperceptible whine started up. A not-quite-silent alarm.

  I was knee-deep in manure now. I needed that videotape and then I needed out of here. The police or the hired security people would be arriving any minute.

  I sprinted back down the hall and dragged a chair from the nearby kitchen, climbed up, and ran my hands along the outside of the camera.

  Come on, come on! Where’s the tape?

  I paused, hands trembling, telling myself to calm down.

  After taking a few seconds to slow my shallow, rapid breaths, I was able to locate and remove the palm-size tape.

  I hurried into the kitchen and confronted a locked dead bolt. No surprise. But the alarm was already activated, so a broken window wouldn’t matter now. In fact, a broken window would be expected.

  I smashed through the nearest pane with a broom, but cut my trailing leg when I climbed out. I felt a sting, then a warm stickiness on my shin.

  Dark clouds rumbled angrily above me, but thank goodness the rain hadn’t resumed. I glanced around the small fenced yard, seeking the best escape route. Poor Kate was parked on the next block over, probably close to having a heart attack about now. And maybe I’d just join her.

  I pocketed the tape and raced across to the hurricane fence. I gripped the top and I hoisted myself up. But one side of my shorts caught on a protrusion when I came over to the other side.

  I was stuck. Hung like wash on the line.

  21

  Dangling there on that fence, I told myself to forget about the eight ball. I was behind the whole rack.

  I glanced toward the house, expecting someone to rush out that back door. Galveston Island is only twelve miles long, so someone should have already arrived in response to the alarm.

  I clung to the fence with one hand, and, craning around, I saw that one prong had twisted the fabric of my shorts into a knot when I swung my legs over.

  All I could do was let go, hoping the cotton would give. And so I did, and immediately heard the wonderful sound of ripping fabric. I landed on my rear with a thud.

  Jeez, that hurt!

  I stood, realizing my shorts had split down one side, all the way up to my waist. Great. I could run around the neighborhood, clothes torn, leg bleeding, gasping for breath, then maintain my innocence if stopped for questioning.

&nb
sp; I crouched behind a large ligustrum alongside the fence, trying to figure out how to deal with this new dilemma. Looking around, I saw a reclining lawn chair ten feet away. A magazine, a pair of sunglasses, and a glass of tea, the ice melted long ago, sat on the ground next to it. The chair and drink had probably been abandoned when the first rain fell earlier.

  Hmm . . . Could I pull this off?

  I looked down at my tattered shorts. They would be impossible to ignore if I were spotted leaving here. I might as well have fugitive printed across my forehead in lipstick. So I did the only thing I could do: I took my clothes off, tossing them under the chair, along with my sandals.

  But my underwear would never pass for a bathing suit. Too much lace. So off they came as well. Self-preservation takes priority over modesty any day.

  I donned the sunglasses, laid my shirt over the cut on my leg, and assumed the lounge position—something I’d definitely practiced before. I slowed my breathing so the frantic heaving of my chest wouldn’t give me away, then opened the magazine strategically across my torso. Unlike Steven, who was good-looking enough to have a legitimate shot at showing off his body in glossy splendor, this might be my only chance at a staple in my navel.

  I closed my eyes, and a second later, as expected, a voice hailed me from the other side of the fence.

  “Ma’am? Pardon me for disturbing you, but—”

  I opened my eyes, let my mouth fall open in appropriate shock, and allowed the magazine to slip an inch. “Where did you come from?” I said, feigning surprise. “And my goodness, what time is it?” I peered at my watch.

  “Uh, I’m really sorry,” he said. He came up to the fence and then, realizing I was naked, focused on the ground. “You didn’t happen to notice anyone running out of your neighbor’s yard within the last ten minutes?”

  “No. I must have fallen asleep. Is there a problem?”

  “Could be.” He had a five-o’clock shadow and a pot-belly, and he was peeking at me—one eye open, one squeezed shut. “Pretty cloudy for sunbathing. Uh, why don’t I turn around while you put your clothes on?”