The Baby Thief

by L. J. Sellers

  “Late fifties, skinny, gray receding hair. He was wearing dirty jeans and a black jacket and was kind of stoop shouldered.”

  Damn! He sounded just like the second man to get out of the gray van, although Eric had seen him only briefly. He still had to rule out the possibility this woman was another nutcase with a vendetta against someone she knew.

  “Do you know who the man is?”

  “Never saw him before in my life, but I think I’ve seen the van on Lake Drive several times. Do you know where that is?”

  “No.”

  “It’s off Perkins Road just after it crosses the creek. I’d be happy to show you.”

  Eric hesitated. The one message left on his machine while he was out was as nutty as the first two. But this woman sounded sane. Veneta was only a twenty-minute drive from this side of town. “How many times have you seen the van?”

  “Three, including today.” Her voice seemed to lose some of its patience.

  “When was the first time?”

  “Monday, then again later in the week. Wednesday I think. Look, I have to go. I’ve told you everything I can.”

  “Wait, Helen. Are you still willing to show me where you’ve seen the van parked?”

  “Sure. Meet me at the Dairy Mart at three-thirty. I’ll be wearing a purple jacket. See you then.” She hung up.

  Eric forced himself to remain calm even though it felt like he finally had a legitimate lead. The kidnappers could be keeping Jenna hostage in a rural cabin or farmhouse. He refused to think about the reasons or the conditions of Jenna’s existence if that were true.

  Eric had time to kill before taking off, so he called the hospital’s public relations department. After being kept on hold for ten minutes, he finally got to launch into his spiel. “Hello, this is Eric Troutman. I’m a journalist working on a story about successful women in the medical profession. I’d like to set up an interview with Dr. Mary Atwood, cardiac surgeon, and Dr. E. Demauer, your director of genetic science.

  “Why does your name sound familiar?” The question was suspicious rather than friendly.

  “I’m a hospital volunteer, but I don’t think we’ve met. If you’ve lived in Eugene for any length of time you’ve probably seen my byline. I was a reporter for the Willamette News for ten years and still occasionally write for them. I’ve also been published in national magazines.” Eric resisted the urge to mention his Pulitzer.

  “Oh yeah, the series on abusive foster homes.”

  “Thanks for remembering. Can you help me with those interviews?”

  “I’ll do my best. Dr. Atwood will probably be okay with it, but Dr. Demauer is rather reclusive. The publicity would be good for the hospital, though. Maybe I can get Dr. Gybbs to pressure her. What magazine is this for?”

  “Working Women.” Liar!

  “You sound like an interesting person.”

  Eric suddenly felt like shit. “I’m just trying to make a living. I’ll call back in a day or so and see what you’ve got for me. Thanks again.” He hung up before she could make him feel worse.

  He paced around the cluttered living room trying to come up with a way to see Demauer. It couldn’t be that tough. She was just a genetics researcher, not the president. Then it occurred to him to call the elusive Dr. Demauer at home. It took twenty minutes to find the phone book under a pile of newspapers on the kitchen table. He vowed to clean the place that weekend.

  Dr. E. Demauer was not listed. He tried finding her online, but only came up with numbers for the clinic and hospital. It was time to see the lady in a purple jacket at a Dairy Mart in Veneta.

  Helen was late. Eric had already checked inside the store, then returned to his car to wait. It rained so hard for a few minutes he couldn’t see out the window. He heard a truck pull in and shut off its motor. Then the voices of two men cursing the weather. When the deluge let up a little, Eric trotted back inside the store to make sure he hadn’t missed Helen during the downpour.

  Nobody in a purple jacket. Just two guys in jeans and scruffy, down-filled vests. Eric bought a pack of gum and went back out to the Firebird. He noticed a new car parked on the side of the store. The woman in it was watching him. She had a thin face and short dark hair. Her coat was dark, but he couldn’t tell if it was blue or black or purple. Being partially color-blind was convenient when buying clothes or getting dressed because he didn’t worry about making things match, but sometimes it messed things up with other people, who could be real fussy about getting the color right.

  Eric trotted over to her Volvo, which was definitely yellow.

  “Are you Helen?” he asked as she rolled down her window.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Eric Troutman. I’m the one looking for Jenna McClure.”

  “Get in the car, it’s starting to rain.”

  Eric hesitated. What the hell, I’ve come this far. He climbed into her car.

  Helen looked him over with a peculiar scrutiny. “Are you wired?”

  “What?” At first he thought she was talking about drugs, then he realized she meant a microphone. His heart sank. Another whack job. Eric reached for the door handle.

  “Let’s roll.” Helen started the Volvo and shoved it in reverse.

  “Wait!” He threw the door open as the car lurched backwards. Helen didn’t slow down. She slammed the car into drive, cranked the wheel, and gunned it. Eric heaved himself out, landing on his chest with such force it knocked the wind out of him. The Volvo screeched out into the street. He curled up in a ball and waited for the pain in his chest to subside.

  Two women stepped out of a Honda and stared. Eric forced himself to his feet. It hurt to stand up straight. Hunched over, he stumbled to his car and flopped in. The women continued to stare, walking slowly into the store, but looking back over their shoulders. Eric didn’t care. All women were crazy. At least today they were. Maybe the moon was having some sort of gravitational effect on female hormone levels or something. Helen needed to be locked up, that was for sure. Eric headed for home and a cold bottle of Miller.

  The message light on his answering machine was blinking when he got there, but he ignored it. The only person he wanted to hear from—Jenna—had not likely called his house phone. He was glad he’d kept his landline to give out as a contact number. He would hate for the crazies to have his cell phone number. He flopped in his Lazy Boy and closed his eyes. Taking a short snooze usually helped him relax. But his stomach complained so loudly he grudgingly got up and went to the kitchen. He hadn’t been shopping in a week, so he settled for a couple of PBJs dipped in microwave-warm tomato soup. Comfort food that reminded him of long ago Saturday afternoons when he fixed lunch for the grubbers, while Mom slept off another all-nighter.

  The warm memory quickly darkened into a bout of homesickness. Eric felt more alone than he ever had in his life. An image of himself as an old man, sitting at the same table, eating dinner alone, pushed into his consciousness and hovered, pulling him down, deeper into the dumps.

  Eric pushed back. His threw his bowl at the pile of dishes in the sink and bolted from the room. He grabbed his coat, locked up, and left the house while he still had the energy. Keep moving, he told himself. Help someone whose problems are bigger than your own. Work until you’re too tired to think—a proven strategy.

  He drove aimlessly for a few minutes, then instinctively headed for North McKenzie. If nothing else, he would get back into the computer and read the rest of Jenna’s file. Maybe even try another visit with Dr. Demauer.

  The hospital was crowded with visitors, lots of little family groups with worried expressions. Eric headed straight for the second floor and the computer he’d used that morning.

  Two nurses stood talking in front of the little office, so Eric passed the pediatrics’ admitting desk and caught the next elevator up to the research wing. An attractive woman with short, wavy dark blonde hair stepped out of the lounge across from the elevator. A younger woman in a matching lab coat followed h
er. Eric moved toward them just in time to hear the younger woman say, “Good night, Dr. Demauer.”

  Am unexpected rush of excitement propelled him forward. “Dr. Demauer?”

  The woman turned and he saw her clearly for the first time. Her face seemed very familiar. Eric figured he must have seen her in the hospital before.

  “Yes?” Her voice was curt, but quiet.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “That depends.” She tried to calculate who he was and what he wanted.

  “My name’s Eric Troutman. I’m a hospital volunteer. Can we go sit down in the lounge and be comfortable?”

  “I have work to do. Just tell me what you want.”

  “A friend of mine named Jenna McClure has disappeared. I know she had a blood test done at the Assisted Reproduction Clinic, followed by a consultation with you. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about her condition. Something that might help me find her.”

  Demauer’s eyes widened for a split second, then she seemed to drift. Eric waited patiently, giving her a chance to respond. He noticed the doctor’s skin was unnaturally pale, and she seemed to have a slight tremor in her hands. “I realized you’re probably–”

  “You don’t realize anything.” Demauer’s voice was shrill and loud. “How dare you even ask me. A patient’s confidentiality is sacred. Perhaps your friend is just trying to get away from your overbearing personality. If you have no other business on the research floor, I suggest you leave. I see the security guard coming now. Should I alert him?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Eric spun around and strode to the elevator. It was the same security guard he’d encountered that morning, and he didn’t want the man to see him. He bounced on his feet and kept his face turned away. The elevator door opened and Eric rushed in. When he turned back to face the doors, Demauer was standing in the same place, watching him. What a hostile woman, he thought. Seriously lacking in social skills.

  Riding down, he felt jittery and almost talked himself out of a second try at the computer. This day had been so frustrating, so full of dead ends, that he felt compelled to take one more opportunity to find a breakthrough.

  The nursing staff was mostly out of sight when he exited on the second floor. Only one desk clerk was in the area of the cubby office, and Eric slipped in unnoticed. He accessed Jenna’s file quickly this time and scanned past the first page. Then a voice boomed out, “Step away from the computer.”

  Shit! It was the security guard from the research department. He must have followed him down. “Listen, I can explain. I’m a hospital volunteer, and everyone on the pediatric staff will vouch for me.”

  “Save it for the police.”

  “Call big Al, head of security. He knows me. He’ll tell you I’m just a nosey reporter looking at my girlfriend’s file.”

  “Stand up.”

  Eric realized the guard was wearing a gun, but he hadn’t drawn it. What was with the people on the research floor?

  “Turn around, put your hands on the wall, and spread your legs.”

  Eric was frisked for the first time in his life. It made him feel sleazy. Shameful. In a moment, they were headed to the security office on the first floor.

  Albert Hoskins, head of security, was not in the building but insisted on coming in to handle the problem himself. Eric was forced to wait almost an hour in a tiny, dingy room that stank of sweat. Hoskins—Eric didn’t dare call him Big Al under the circumstances—was not impressed with his story of investigating a kidnapping. He lectured Eric about the abuse of privilege and friendship, then decided he would release him without pressing charges. Relief flooded over the shame.

  “Don’t come back,” Hoskins warned with a sad face. “You’re done here permanently. It’s too bad for the kids, Troutman. They’ll miss you.”

  “I know. I can’t tell you how much I regret this already.”

  “I hope you find your girlfriend.”

  “Me too.”

  Eric had serious doubts. If today was any indication of the way things would turn out, he was in serious trouble. He couldn’t think of a worse day. Except when Chris died.

  Chapter 22

  Friday, Nov. 3, 9:44 a.m.

  Carmichael stepped out of the cab and got drenched in a sudden downpour. Welcome to Seattle. Deciding it would take longer to dig out his umbrella than reach the cover of the building, he sprinted toward the glass door marked JB Pharmaceuticals.

  Once inside, Carmichael checked his watch. Fifteen minutes before ten. After passing through the security checkpoint, he would have just enough time to scoot into a men’s room and see how much damage the rain had done.

  The bathroom, with its pink and gray marbled counter and twenty-foot-long mirror, was a long way from the primitive furnishings at the compound. He reminded himself that material things were not important.

  After quickly combing his hair and drying his loafers as best as he could with paper towels, Carmichael grabbed the elevator and rode to the tenth floor. Gerald Akron’s secretary, a large plain-looking woman packed into a small dress, stared at him suspiciously when he walked in.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m David Carmichael. I have an appointment with Gerald Akron.”

  “You’re not in the appointment book.” She continued to stare, her expression vacillating between disapproval and curiosity. It was probably the ponytail, Carmichael thought. Most women liked it, but some found it out of place on a well-dressed man.

  “Tell him I’m here, please.” Carmichael smiled politely, but didn’t waste any charm on the woman. He was too preoccupied to play the game.

  She turned away slightly to speak into her headphone, then turned back after a moment. “Have a seat then.”

  Carmichael waited patiently, using the time to go over his prepared answers. During the flight, he’d tried to anticipate Akron’s conditions. He would only compromise so far. He needed the money more that ever, but would never risk the Sisters’ health just to keep the clinic going. The irony of it almost made him smile.

  “Mr. Akron will see you now.”

  Carmichael resisted the urge to smirk as he walked briskly back to the inner door. He might, God forbid, be back here again someday.

  Akron’s office wasn’t particularly large, but it had a spectacular view of the bay. Carmichael refused to comment. He was not impressed with Akron or his half-million-a-year desk job. The man’s face was huge and square with a nasty dimple in his chin. Akron was also overweight, with a pink flush over pale, moist skin. High blood pressure, possibly coronary disease. The man probably wouldn’t collect much of his pension.

  “Have a seat, Carmichael.” Akron’s tone was that of a superior talking to a subordinate. Carmichael bristled, but held himself in check. He never let pride get in the way of a contribution. God had taught him to be humble when necessary.

  “Thanks.” He plopped in the chair, leaned back, and crossed his legs—the look of a relaxed man.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

  “Certainly.”

  “We’re not pleased with the way you’ve handled things in the past.” Akron held up a hand and used his fingers to list grievances. “Altering dosages at random. Sloppy documentation, if any at all. Discontinuing injections before the subject ovulates. And failing to set clinical endpoints.”

  “I’ve reorganized–”

  “Save it.” Akron reached back and grabbed a large dark box, which he set to one side of the desk. “When you take our money, you do our research our way. Each subject gets her own special dosage, the same dosage every day. Everything is pre-measured, color-coded and labeled just to make it easy for a guy like you. With me so far?” Akron paused, but Carmichael couldn’t bring himself to speak. He nodded slightly.

  “For example, subject A gets injected with the needles in the red packages every day until she ovulates, then the eggs are retrieved, counted, and documented. Subject B gets injected with the pink
packages, and only the pink packages, every day until she ovulates. It’s too simple to screw up.”

  “What about side effects? What if the dosage proves to be too much for the individual?” Carmichael sounded whiny even to himself, but his heart was sick. He feared what they expected of him.

  “Side effects are to be documented, but they should in no way alter the course of the research.” Akron’s voice dropped a level. “The most important aspect of this trial is the rate of implantation. We’re trying to develop a hormone that is less irritating to the uterine lining, thus allowing more embryos to implant. The success rates of our fertility clinics are declining. The doctors think the hormones they prescribe to increase egg production might actually work against the transfer rate.”

  “I concur.” Carmichael leaned forward, eager to discuss the subject. “They seem to cause abnormal endometrial maturation, adversely affecting the outer hyperechogenic layer.” He’d compared endometrium biopsies of women taking fertility drugs to women who’d been exposed only to natural estrogen levels and found a startling difference.

  “Keep your theories to yourself.” Akron held up his hand. “When you work for us, you have no mind of your own and no patients. They are subjects in a clinical trial. If you deviate from the program, you ruin the data. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes.” Carmichael wanted to slap the man.

  “Good.” Akron leaned back and smiled. “Now it’s only a question of price. How many subjects this time?”

  “Ten or twelve.” Carmichael gave him what he thought would be the lowest acceptable number.

  Akron grunted. “Almost not worth bothering with. But somebody has to go first, so we can fine tune the dosage for the real test group.” He rotated his chair and opened a safe in a cabinet behind his desk. “Because you only have a dozen subjects and there are twenty sets of injections in there, some of your gals will just have to go through a second cycle. But for fifteen thousand, I’m sure they won’t mind.” Akron held out a stack of bills, waiting for a response.