The Baby Thief

by L. J. Sellers

  Jenna became aware of the coolness of the room, the silkiness of her nightgown, the deep silence beyond the walls. Abruptly, she lost her appetite and turned away.

  “Come on, Jenna. You need to eat.” His voice was gentle, coaxing.

  Had she not hated him, he would have been hard to resist. “I’m full, really.”

  Then it came back to her. The plan. Her only hope of getting out of this crazy place. She had thought it would work best with the nurse, but the way the preacher/doctor was looking at her, she decided to try it now. Jenna forced herself to look him in the eyes. “Doctor?”

  Beaming smile. “Yes, Jenna?”

  “I know I’m going to die here, and I want to make peace with God. Will you help me?”

  He looked stricken. “Why do you say that? I promise you, with God as my witness, you’re not going to die.”

  “Why won’t you tell me why I’m here?”

  “It’s for your own protection. The less you know, the better.”

  Jenna struggled to put together the right words, to let go of her anger. “I still want to make peace with God. I’m scared all the time. And lonely. I want what you and Rachel have. I want to feel loved and secure.”

  His eyes wavered, undecided. Then he responded, choosing his words carefully. “God does love you, regardless of what you believe or what you do.”

  “Then why do I feel abandoned?” Jenna let go of her pride and let her anguish come through. “Why do I feel so afraid?”

  “You must still have doubts.” His eyes searched hers intently, as if he were looking into her soul. “Do you have doubts about God, Jenna?”

  She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. “Sometimes.” Jenna blinked back real tears. “Why would He let this happen to me if He really loved me?”

  The preacher/doctor smiled warmly, obviously partial to the question. “It’s all part of His plan. He brought us together for a reason. I think He intends for you to help me heal an old wound and for me to help you find faith.”

  She bit back the urge to mock him. He was so arrogant, so twisted. Jenna closed her eyes to hide her contempt. She moved her lips and pretended to pray.

  “Have you ever accepted Christ as your savior?” He gently stroked her hand. Jenna ground her teeth together and reminded herself she would do almost anything to be released from the bed. To be free of the needle, even for a few hours.

  “When I was eight or nine I went to a Baptist church with a friend.” The memory came back with a vividness that surprised her. “The preacher scared me so badly with the threat of burning in hell that when he called the sinners to come down and be saved, I went.”

  He chuckled. “A Baptist preacher first put the fear of God in my heart as well.”

  “Do you believe in hell?” Jenna didn’t believe in hell any more than in heaven, but she wanted to know what he believed. Why he thought he could get away with what he was doing to her.

  “I believe that life without faith and eternity without God are hell.” His voice was hypnotizing. She could picture him in front of a congregation, waving his arms and making the women swoon.

  “I want to see the light when I die,” Jenna ad-libbed. “The beautiful light that people with near-death experiences talk about.”

  “You’re not going to die.” He seemed flustered by her talk about death.

  “I want to be ready. Being here has made me realize that my life is meaningless. I have no family, few friends. I work all the time, but I don’t really enjoy my job. I’ve always wanted a child but…” Jenna couldn’t finish the thought. Another chunk of remembered conversation bobbed to the surface. Something about her child making it out even if she didn’t.

  “You want to have a child?” The doctor’s eyes danced.

  Jenna wanted to bite her own tongue. Did this freak plan to impregnate her? The way he was looking at her was creepy. She had to distract him. “What I really want is a family. You know, a group of people to bond with and come home to. Or a church, like you have here. I want to belong.”

  “You’re very talkative today. Very alert.” His expression changed, making her pulse quicken.

  “I’m lonely and frightened. Will you pray with me?” Jenna cursed herself for talking too much. Letting him know the drug was losing its effect was not a good idea.

  “Of course. Would you like to pray out loud?”

  “Will you go first?”

  “Of course.” He closed his eyes. “Dear Lord. Thank you for the many answered prayers, for keeping Jenna safe and healthy while in my care. Today my prayer for her is special. Today I ask you to fill her heart with love and joy. Give her the peace of mind that comes with faith in your eternal blessing. In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.”

  Jenna had drifted off for a moment. She’d known since he fiddled with her IV that she would begin to float, then eventually be unconscious for a while. She struggled to stay with the plan. She began to pray, her words slurring slightly. “Dear God. Please take away my doubts and give me peace of mind. I want you in my heart and soul.” It was the best she could do. “Amen.”

  If the drug hadn’t already started to kick in, the shock of his lips against hers would have made her shriek. In her detached state of mind, Jenna simply opened her eyes and stared incredulously.

  The crazy preacher/doctor continued to kiss her, pressing his tongue between her lips. Jenna tried to twist her face away, but he grabbed her head with both hands and held her while he probed the inside of her mouth with his tongue. His chest rubbed against her breasts.

  Suddenly he jerked back. Jenna heard Rachel’s voice come into the room. God bless the little nurse.

  “Reverend. I have to speak with you right away.” Rachel sounded frightened.

  “I’m with a patient now. Can’t it wait a few minutes?” His voice was icy, breathless.

  The darkness circled Jenna’s consciousness. Just before she drifted off she heard the nurse say, “It’s about Sarah.”

  Chapter 27

  Saturday, Nov. 4, 4:37 p.m.

  Once he found Darcie’s apartment, Zeke drove around the block and parked in an alley across the street. He wanted to make sure Darcie still lived at the address and to see if anyone else, like a boyfriend, was around. After he found out a few facts, Zeke planned to move on to the critical stuff, like taking care of Troutman and lining up a buyer for the baby.

  Spending almost half his life in prison, Zeke had learned to sit patiently with his own thoughts without losing awareness of his surroundings. Even though he’d never actually lived in Eugene, he was familiar with the area. He’d been coming here once a month or so to play video poker and pick up prostitutes. He had managed to stay sober during those trips. Alcohol was trouble and would land him back in prison quicker than anything. He’d learned that lesson the hard way and wasn’t going down that road again.

  He watched the people on the street, knowing their story by the way they dressed. The men bundled in layers, wearing everything they owned on their backs, homeless because of their weaknesses. The women looked worn and ratty even in their sexiest clothes. They were all weak, slaves to their need for alcohol, drugs, money, and/or attention. He understood these people, felt at home here. After a while, he’d go have a talk with the apartment manager to see if–

  The door to apartment number six opened and Darcie stepped out onto the balcony looking like she’d swallowed a pumpkin. Sarah waltzed out behind her, smiling like an excited schoolgirl. Zeke was so startled he dropped his cigarette and had to fetch it before it burned his thigh. What the hell? Sarah was supposed to be in the hospital or on her way back to the compound with Rachel. Were the two of them pulling a fast one on the Reverend? What a twist. Now that he had mentally separated himself from the church, Zeke found the situation amusing. Too bad he wouldn’t be able to use this information to his advantage, but he had more important things to do.

  He followed the girls to a nearby Taco Bell. Daylight was starting to fade, and Zeke buttoned h
is jacket against the chill as he sat in the truck. He was anxious to find take care of business. The situation with the reporter made him very uncomfortable.

  Zeke had taken a lot of money that didn’t belong to him and had threatened people with guns to get what he wanted. But other than slapping a smart-mouth woman or defending himself in a bar fight, he’d never seriously hurt anyone. Now he was thinking about killing two people. Maybe there was a way to slow down the reporter or send him in another direction.

  Sometimes he still thought he should just run for it. To forget Darcie’s baby and the extra money and get the hell out of town. Get as far away from Carmichael and the kidnapping as he could. Deep down, Zeke knew better. If anyone ever connected ex-con George Grafton with the picture in the paper, he was fucked. Sooner or later the law would find him. In the meantime, he would be looking over his shoulder every step of the way.

  He slammed his fist against the dashboard. A teenager walking by jumped at the sudden sound. Zeke turned his head, not wanting his face to be seen. Goddamn Carmichael for getting him involved in a stupid bullshit kidnapping. He should have refused, cleaned out his bank account, and walked away. He hadn’t, and Zeke knew it was more than the promise of big money. He’d gotten juiced up just hearing Carmichael talk about the snatch. After years of living in the church, with every day the same as the next, the idea of doing a job had excited him.

  If only the reporter hadn’t been there that day. What a rotten break. Zeke shook his head. He’d worked hard and saved his money for years; he deserved the boat and the retirement. He had to find out what the reporter knew and put a stop to his little investigation before the cops got involved.

  Zeke put the truck in gear and headed west across town, hoping to find the address while he still had some daylight.

  The house was in an older subdivision off Polk Street at the end of a short cul-de-sac. The location wasn’t bad, but Zeke was disturbed that it was a duplex. At first drive-by, nobody appeared to be home on either side, but the risk would be double just the same. He parked next to a baseball field at a nearby school and waited for darkness.

  It was his first B&E in twenty years, and Zeke was nervous. He trotted in a circular pattern to the street behind the intended address. He counted houses until he was sure Troutman’s duplex was directly behind the green house with the white trim. By his estimation, the two properties should share a back fence. The green house had lights on everywhere. Zeke could see two teenagers sitting in the living room watching TV and an older woman washing dishes in the kitchen facing the back yard. The other houses on the short street seemed quiet; no one was out and about.

  Before he could change his mind, Zeke moved quickly along the side fence, hopping over a short gate that separated the front and back yards. He headed straight for the back corner, not letting himself look to see if any kids or dogs were present. No barks, no shouts. The worst was over. With a surge of confidence, he pulled himself up and over the six-foot wooden back fence and dropped into the yard on the other side.

  He went to his knees for a second, sucking in air and waiting for his heart to settle down. Zeke vowed this would be the last time. He was too old for this shit.

  After a quick look around the perimeter of the house, he discovered getting in would be a piece of cake. The bathroom window wasn’t even locked. All he had to do was slip out the screen and push the glass open. Hauling himself up and through the window, which was five feet off the ground and only eighteen inches wide, made him grunt and sweat. He remembered why he’d quit doing houses and started robbing stores. B&E was too much work, especially with all the new alarm systems people had. Troutman apparently didn’t own much of value, because no alarm had sounded. This wasn’t exactly an upscale neighborhood. Nicer than any place he’d ever lived, but not somewhere Zeke would come to steal valuable jewelry.

  Using a small penlight, Zeke did a routine search of the bedroom first. The most important thing he established was that Troutman didn’t own a gun. Or at least he didn’t keep it in the bedroom like most people did. Zeke moved into an adjacent office and turned on a small desk lamp.

  Books and papers and files were everywhere. A noisy ticking clock on the wall made Zeke feel rushed. He grabbed a handful of papers from a chair and tore through them. A bunch of nonsense about men and babies. Zeke threw the papers down and moved to the desk. Sitting right on top were the composite drawings. Zeke picked up his likeness, held it under the lamp, and stared. It wasn’t that good. If he let his beard grow in, no one would ever match him to the picture. The Reverend’s likeness was startling. If they caught Carmichael, it would be over for Zeke too. Even if the man could keep his mouth shut, his girlfriend wouldn’t. The bitter taste of panic filled his mouth. Had the cops seen these pictures? Had Troutman made a statement that would hold up in court?

  Underneath the pictures, Zeke found an open notebook with short, daily entries. He read the first few.

  Monday: talked to Det. Jackson yesterday and again today. He thinks I’m overreacting. Filed a missing person report while I was at the police dept. All I know is Jenna got into a gray van with two men Saturday and hasn’t been seen since. This is strange, even for my dates.

  Wed: talked with Katrice (Jenna’s best friend) at Geronimo’s and she says Jenna has taken off before without saying anything. Still convinced something is wrong.

  Thurs: had police composites done and took them to Joe at the News. He’ll do a story about the disappearance, along with pics. Who knows what will come of it?

  Fri: only a few freaks called about the pics, and I got myself thrown out of the hospital for good. Very depressed.

  Relieved, Zeke put the notepad down. So Troutman was getting nowhere, and no one had identified his picture. That was good news. Maybe the reporter just needed a little accident, something to keep him off the streets until Zeke finished his business with Darcie and moved on.

  Zeke decided it would be best to do the job somewhere else, make it look random, rather than personal. It occurred to him he had no idea what Troutman looked like. He needed to find a picture of the guy. Zeke headed across the hall into the living area. Troutman’s house was clean, for a guy, but musty smelling, as if no one had been home for a while. The heavy front drapes were closed, so Zeke turned on a small table lamp and began to search.

  As he rummaged through a bookcase looking for a photo album, the phone rang. Annoyed, Zeke sat back on the floor and waited it to stop. After the fourth ring, an answering machine clicked on. “This is Eric Troutman. You know what to do.”

  After a beep, the caller left an exasperated message. “It’s Jackson. Again. Where the hell have you been? Same message as before.” The phone clicked, then Zeke heard the tape squeal forward.

  Jackson. He’d just read the name in Troutman’s journal. He was a cop.

  Zeke hurried to the machine, which was on a low table next to an easy chair. Answering machines were still new to Zeke. He’d only been out in the world for a few months between prison and the compound and had not had many opportunities to keep up with technology. This gadget couldn’t be too complicated. He needed to hear what the cop had to say. After a quick look at the black box, he pushed the button next to the blinking red light.

  He heard a soft click, then the cop’s voice filled the room. He had an undercurrent of excitement. “Jackson here. I think we’ve caught a break in the case. A parole officer in Portland saw the composites in the paper and thinks the older guy might be an ex-con. You need to come in and look at mug shots before we can move on this. I’ll be at my desk all afternoon and again tomorrow morning for a few hours. Call me when you get in.”

  Zeke hands clenched into tight fists. He hadn’t seen his parole officer in six years, but she obviously hadn’t forgotten him. Fuck and doublefuck. The one and only time he’d stepped out of line, and he was busted. God damn bad luck had followed him around his whole life.

  He wasn’t going down without a fight. If Troutman wasn’t around t
o ID his picture or testify in court, they had nothing on him. The reporter had to go.

  Zeke returned to the bookcase, grabbed a high school yearbook and quickly scanned the pages until he found Troutman’s name under a picture. Blonde, beefy guy with a square face, but older now.

  The rumble of an engine filled the driveway in front of the house. Zeke dropped to the floor, a burglar’s instinct. His chest tightened in an agonizing squeeze. Ignoring the little shooting pains down his left arm, he crawled to the space behind where the front door would open. A car door slammed, blasting the silence of the neighborhood. Zeke listened for footsteps and heard little clicking sounds instead. High heels.

  A knock at the door, followed by a woman’s voice. “Eric, it’s Kori. I need to talk to you.”

  Zeke’s body uncoiled. A girlfriend or ex-girlfriend. It didn’t matter as long as she didn’t have a key.

  The pounding got louder. “Eric. I know you’re in there.” Long pause. “Carl hit me again, and I need to talk to someone.”

  Zeke thought Carl had the right idea. This woman was a whiny pain in the ass. He hoped she would go away before he had to hurt her.

  “Eric!” She was crying now, loud enough to make a spectacle of herself. Loud enough for neighbors to peak out their front windows and see what was going on over at Troutman’s.

  Stupid cunt. Stupid bitch. Zeke wanted to choke the noisy life out of her. He ground his teeth together to keep from cursing out loud.

  After a few moments, the sobbing sounds began to move away. Zeke relaxed his grip on the knife. It seemed like an eternity before the engine started and the car backed out.

  His nerves almost at a breaking point, Zeke moved from his position behind the door to check out the kitchen for a beer. Just one beer, he thought, to settle his indigestion and give him a little courage. There was nothing in the fridge but a loaf of bread and a quart of milk. Pissed and relieved at the same time, Zeke quickly closed the door and hurried from the kitchen, resisting the urge to search the cupboards for a bottle of real alcohol.