Call the Devil by His Oldest Name (20 page)

Thirty-one

Tuesday, October 15

EDWINA TEMPLETON SWIRLED her
last crust of toast through the remaining egg yolk on her plate and popped it into her mouth. Washing it down with a slurp of coffee, she removed the white wicker tray Ruperta had brought in and placed it on the floor next to her desk. Ruperta could pick it up later, she decided, provided Ruperta could tear herself away from that baby.

She looked at her watch: 5:25 here in Ten­nessee, 6:25 in Florida. Five more minutes and she would call Myrtle Hatcher. Six-thirty was an indecent hour to call to most people, but adop­tion counselors were accustomed to phone calls in the middle of the night from distraught par­ents, sobbing girls. Even to wait until dawn was a true act of kindness.

She swiveled in her chair and looked out the window. The cows had left the shelter of the barn and were standing in the little paddock, waiting for Paz to let them out into the fields to graze. Her eyes narrowed as she saw a tall, thin figure skulking past them, up toward the tree line at the end of her property. From this distance the figure looked male, but it was too tall for Paz and way too skinny for Duncan. Probably some juiced-up hunter, she decided. All she needed was some idiot mistaking one of her cows for a deer.

“I'll send Duncan up there to check it out,” she muttered, watching as the figure vanished into the trees. Then she remembered that Duncan had taken all her guns and was still off completing whatever business he had and wouldn't be back until tomorrow.
Oh, well,
she thought. If she heard any gunshots, she'd either send Paz or call the sheriff. As far as she was concerned, with all the money she'd make from his baby, Duncan could take six months off. She would miss him only in her bedroom, and she already had several personal appliances that could accomplish most of what Duncan could.

She put the hunter and Duncan out of her mind and turned back to her desk. Her watch now said 6:30. She flipped through her Rolodex and punched in the area code for south Florida.

Several rings later, Myrtle Hatcher mumbled hello, sounding as if she'd been brought unwillingly out of a coma.

“Myrtle?” Edwina spoke loudly, hoping to jar the woman into sensibility. “This is Edwina Templeton, calling from Tennessee.”

“Edwina, how are you?” In six syllables Myrtle's voice rose from groggy Brooklyn fishwife to alert Florida businesswoman.

“Fine, Myrtle. I know it's early, but if your Iranian couple is still interested, I've got the most beautiful little girl in the world here.” Though Edwina pretended that this deal was still up in the air, she knew quite well that Myrtle's couple was still interested—Myrtle had foolishly blath­ered on for most of Sunday afternoon about their “stringent requirements,” tipping her hand that the number of acceptable babies was quite narrow.

Myrtle hedged. “Of course they're interested, but they're also considering other children. Tell me more about this baby.”

“She's very healthy,” Edwina said, impatiently tapping a pencil at Myrtle's bullshit. “Thirteen pounds, eleven ounces, three months and four­teen days old.” She went on, telling Myrtle all about her normal development and extraordi­nary intelligence, deftly omitting the fact that the child came in with diaper rash, an ear infec­tion, and hair that looked as if it had been cut with a chain saw. Silly to point out the minor flaws when so much else was perfect.

“Is she cute? Intelligent? Does she look Iranian?”

“Lovely dark eyes, straight, black hair.”

“What about her skin?” Myrtle lowered her voice, as if someone might be eavesdropping. “She's not real dark, is she?”

Edwina smiled at the true question—
She's not part Negro, is she?
—but she knew she had to be truthful here, too. It would serve none of them to try to pass off a black baby. “Her skin is very light olive. I think she would blend in with your couple nicely. How about I e-mail you a photo?”

“That would be good.” Myrtle sounded somewhat mollified. “Let's say this works out, Edwina—how much is your part of this?”

Edwina frowned. Myrtle had let it slip early on that her couple was well-to-do. Of course, all couples who got babies like this had to come up with at least fifty grand, but it was more of a struggle for some than others. Still, for Myrtle to indicate that these people had deep pockets meant that there was a lot more money to be had. Edwina stilled her pencil and took the plunge.

“I'll need seventy-five thousand, Myrtle. You can add whatever you want on top of that.”

“Seventy-five?” Myrtle gave a sharp little gasp, as if someone had pinched her bottom. “Good grief, Edwina, do you think these people are made of gold?”

No
, thought Edwina.
I think they're made of oil, which is even better.
“Just free market economics, Myrtle. Stringent requirements mean higher prices. This baby is bright, beautiful, and exactly what they want. I doubt there's another child on the market who comes anywhere close.”

“Well, we'll have to see about that,” sputtered Myrtle. “E-mail that photo and I'll give them a call.”

“Right away.” Edwina tightened the screw on Myrtle one final time. “But I need to know by noon. I've got another couple in Chicago, all lined up and waiting.”

“Okay.” Myrtle sounded flat as an old tire. “I'll call you back. Don't forget that e-mail, okay?”

“You'll have it in just a few minutes.” Smiling, Edwina hung up the phone. She had already concocted a perfect background story for this child. Now if she could just figure out how to get the baby looking well long enough to snap her picture, this deal would be in the bag.

Half an hour later, the phone rang in a bright yellow bedroom in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Kimberly Khatar, dreaming a curious dream about dolphins and electric-powered cars, reached for her husband Bijan. When she felt nothing but rumpled sheets and an empty pillow, she raised up on one elbow. She heard the phone ringing, the shower running in the bathroom, and Bijan singing something that sounded vaguely like an old Rolling Stones tune. Kimberly shook her blonde hair away from her face, then stretched across the bed to answer the call.

“Hello?” she said, her voice rusty with sleep.

“Kimberly? Myrtle Hatcher calling. Can you get online without hanging up your phone?”

Still woozy from her dream, Kim blinked over at Bijan's desk. The green light of the computer glowed as it hummed softly in the far corner of the bedroom. “Yes, Myrtle. I can do that.”

“Then log on and check your e-mail. You've got a big surprise waiting!”

“Just a minute. I'll have to put the phone down.”

She dropped the receiver on the bed and walked over to the computer. As Bijan cranked his Mick Jagger imitation up to full volume, she keyed in her password and logged on. The usual male voice said, “Welcome,” then, “You've got mail!” She clicked on her mailbox, then on the message from “Hatcherlings” with a file attached. As she scanned the text, her heart began to pound. Myrtle had a healthy baby girl, of mixed white/Middle Eastern descent, available today. Holding her breath, Kimberly downloaded the file, watching eagerly as the image re­solved on the screen. An amazingly beautiful child stared into the camera. Although her short hair was straight and stuck out from her head in kind of a punk-rock do, her dark eyes were huge and limpid and she had a little cupid's bow of a mouth. The child gazed at the camera not with the wariness Kimberly had seen on other babies up for adoption, but with a real presence; a knowing kind of curiosity, as if she could see way down into your soul. Kimberly stared, transfixed, for a full minute before she remembered that Myrtle was waiting.

Clicking the PRINT command, she raced back over to the phone. “Myrtle? Are you there?”

“Of course I'm here. What do you think?”

“I think she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!” Kimberly felt both hot and cold. “What can you tell me about her?” she blurted out, as if the child were applying for some position at her insurance agency.

“Her father is a twenty-four-year-old white medical student, her mother a twenty-five-year old Iranian nurse. This couple had been married just two years when the poor mother drowned in a boating accident. The father tried to make a go of it, but with med school and military service, he decided to give the child up.”

“How old is she?” Kimberly stretched the phone cord out as far as she could, trying to grab the picture from the printer.

“Three months,” replied Myrtle. “The perfect age. They're just beginning to really sit up and take notice of everything around them.”

“She's absolutely beautiful, Myrtle. I don't know what to say.”

“Say you'll take her!” Myrtle laughed. “Children like this come along once in a lifetime.”

“Bijan's in the shower right now.” Kimberly held the picture of the child as if it were the petal of a rose. “I'll have to talk to him, of course, but…”

“There are some things you should know be­fore you show him this picture, Kimberly,” Myrtle told her. “This adoption is being arranged by a colleague of mine in Tennessee, so the cost is somewhat higher.”

“How much?” Kimberly couldn't pull her gaze away from the child's liquid eyes.

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

“One hundred thousand? That's over twice as much as we had discussed!”

“I know, dear. But like I said, children of this quality and background almost never become available. Your own search has certainly shown you that.”

The photo trembled in Kimberly's hand. What would Bijan say when he found out the cost had more than doubled? Surely he would not let mere money stand between them and this precious child. She would sell her business, if need be. Flip burgers at Mickey D's, if it came to that.

“And I'll need to know your decision as soon as possible. There's another couple who've committed, but I managed to get you and Bijan first refusal…” Myrtle paused. “If this a problem, the folks in Chicago can come and pick up their child…”

“No, don't do that,” Kimberly said hastily. “I'll go talk to Bijan right now. We'll call you back in ten minutes.”

“Don't dillydally,” warned Myrtle. “These things are like contracts on houses. Miss your chance, and the baby goes to the next one waiting.”

“Okay, Myrtle. I'll let Bijan know that.” Kim hung up the phone, her hand shaking. She sat down on the bed, scarcely able to believe her good fortune. Ten minutes ago, she'd been a woman without a child. Now she held the first picture of her daughter in her hand.
Her daughter
. A little girl who mirrored them exactly:­ Bijan's beautiful dark eyes and hair and her own fair skin and delicate features. She knew without question that this was the one.

“My sweet, sweet little girl,” she whispered, tracing the outline of the baby's face. “Come on.” She took the sheet of paper into the steamy bathroom. “I want to show you to your dad.”

Thirty-two

MARY WOKE TO the
too-familiar strains of “William Tell.” She'd slept with her cell phone under her pillow, on the bed Gabe made up for her. Groggy, she made a grab for it before it could wake him. Her muscles tightened with apprehension as she read the screen, then she relaxed. It was just a phone call. Nothing new from Lily.

“Hello?” she whispered.

“Mary?” Danika's voice resounded in her ear. “Have you found the baby?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm in a friend's trailer,” Mary explained, keeping her voice low. “We keep getting these e-mails. We think whoever stole Lily is taking her along the old Cherokee Trail of Tears.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” said Danika. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I don't think so, but thanks. I'll let you know if something comes up. Any more from Mott?”

“We played basketball last night. The bastard acted as if nothing had happened.”

“That's Mott for you.” Mary gave a bitter laugh. “Everything's got to be his way or the highway.” Gabe was beginning to stir in his passenger-seat-turned-bed. “Look, I've got to go. Thanks for calling. I'll talk to you later.”

She switched off the phone and waited a mo­ment. Gabe moaned once, then grew silent.
Sleep a little longer, Semper Fi,
she bade him silently as she tiptoed into the bathroom.
You need all the rest you can get. We all do
. It had been a long three days, and who knew how much farther this madman was going to chum them along with Lily?

She washed in the sink and used Gabe's clove toothpaste to brush her teeth, emerging to find him still asleep. She crossed over to the trailer door and opened the louvered window. Outside, the sun had climbed well past the horizon, and the statue and the park around it glistened in clear morning light. She glanced to her right, then jumped with surprise. Ruth sat on the hood of Jonathan's truck, again dressed in her filthy red T-shirt, staring at the van door. Though she'd supposedly returned to the truck to sleep, she looked as if she'd sat there all night, just waiting for them to awaken and start searching the monument for clues.

“This is driving her mad,” Mary whispered, comparing the beautiful, clear-eyed poster girl on television with the dirty, erratic husk of a woman who now eyed their camper like a hungry vu1ture. “It's got to end soon.”

She turned away from the door and stepped over to Gabe. “I hate to wake you, Semper Fi,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his cheek. “But it's almost nine a.m. We need to get up and get busy.”

Twenty minutes later they stood at the base of the statue, dressed and ready to go. Mary's eyes felt grainy from lack of sleep and Gabe men­tioned feeling queasy, but Ruth had returned to her hyperdrive, her movements fast and jerky, like a puppet dancing on a string.

“What should we look for? Where should we start? Should we spread out or stay together?”

“Why don't we form a line and do a sweep around the statue?” asked Gabe. “If we stand six feet apart and walk slowly, we shouldn't miss anything.”

“Good idea,” Mary said, grateful to have the former Marine's calm logic counterbalancing Ruth's frenzy.

They did as he suggested, making a careful sweep of the perimeter of the monument. When the first pass revealed nothing, they spread out farther and repeated the process. For the next half hour they combed the area around the statue. Gabe picked up two beer cans to recycle; Mary found two used condoms that she opted to leave alone. Beyond that, nothing. The grass around the monument looked as if it had been swept with a rake. Morning commuters made a northbound traffic line into Nashville along the quaintly named Granny White Pike, while jog­gers and dog walkers made their way south along the pretty tree-lined street. A tall woman with two ebullient boxers waved at them as she let her dogs off-leash to romp in the little park that surrounded the monument. Leaving Gabe and Ruth to make another sweep, Mary trotted toward her.

“You guys lose something?” the woman called as Mary approached. She was attractive, prematurely gray, and she smiled as if not too much would surprise her.

“Kind of,” replied Mary as both boxers bounded up to her, wagging their stubby tails. “You haven't seen anybody taking pictures of a baby around here, have you?”

“At the statue?”

Mary nodded, trying to pet both dogs with­out getting flattened by the affectionate pair. “A little baby. Wrapped in a blanket.”

“I saw one last week,” the woman answered thoughtfully. “She'd just started to walk. I had to keep Sophie and Charlie on their leashes. I was afraid they'd knock her down.”

“No, this would be a much younger child,” said Mary. “An infant.”

The woman thought a moment, then she looked over Mary's shoulder, frowning in concern. “Hey, I don't want to worry you, but I think last night might be catching up to one of your friends.”

“Excuse me?”

“Up there.” The woman pointed. “Somebody looks pretty sick.”

Mary turned. While Ruth stood reading the inscription on the monument, Gabe was on his knees in the grass, clutching his stomach.

“Oh, gosh!” cried Mary.

“Give him a little vodka and tomato juice,” the woman said with a laugh. “Hair of the dog, and all that.”

Except he hasn't been drinking,
Mary thought as she thanked the woman and hurried back to Gabe.

“Gabe?” She knelt beside him as he retched miserably. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “I was doing okay, then all of a sudden, I got really sick.”

“Come on,” she said, helping him to his feet. “Let's get you back in the van. Logan didn't leave any clues here.”

He did not protest as they walked back to the trailer. In fact, he leaned heavily against her as if his legs could barely support him. Mary put him in the bigger bed, and covered him with a blanket. Moments later, Ruth appeared at the door. “Where did everybody go?”

“Gabe got sick,” explained Mary.

“Sick?” Ruth climbed into the camper and looked down at him. “What's wrong?”

Teeth chattering, he said, “I don't know.”

“Let's just let him rest now,” said Mary, gently nudging Ruth away from Gabe. “I'm going to call Chip Clifford again. Why don't you call Sheriff Dula?”

With the trailer configured for both beds, they had no room to sit down, so Mary pulled another blanket over the shivering Gabe and stepped back into the bright morning, Ruth fol­lowing. They made their respective calls, Mary leaving another detailed entreaty on Agent Clif­ford's answering machine, Ruth talking to a clearly uninterested sheriff.

“That went well,” Ruth said sarcastically as she clicked off her phone. “All Dula can talk about is the charges he's filing against Jonathan. Lily's dropped off his list of priorities altogether.”

“I imagine Jonathan will put her back at the top,” said Mary. “He can be pretty persistent when he wants to.”

“That he can.” Ruth cast a sidelong glance at Mary. “How did you do with the Feds?”

Mary shrugged. “I left a message. I just hope Chip will act on it.”

“So what do we do now?” Ruth started plucking at the hem of her T-shirt.

“We've done everything we can do,” Mary told her. “Now we just wait for the next call. It'll either be Chip Clifford or—”

“Another picture of Lily.” Ruth finished her sentence.

“Come on.” Mary locked arms with Ruth.

“Let's go check on Gabe.”

Inside the van, Gabe lay trembling like a man with malaria, his pillow soaked with sweat. Mary was shocked at how much worse he'd grown in just the time it had taken them to make their phone calls.

“Gabe?” She put a hand on his forehead. It felt cold and clammy. “How are you feeling?”

“Not so great,” he answered sluggishly, his pupils wide as a crackhead's. “Tired…”

“How about some ginger tea?” Ruth chirped.

“I don't think so, Ruth.” Mary spoke gently, but she was growing irritated at Ruth's total be­lief in the powers of herbal medicine. “By the way, what was in the tea you gave us last night? That was the last thing he drank.”

“Just sassafras and ginseng,” Ruth replied huffily. “Totally harmless. We all drank it, and neither of us is sick.”

Mary saw Ruth's point, then she realized, too, that she and Gabe had consumed virtually the same food and drink for the past two days, yet he lay prostrate and sweating while she felt fine.

And he'd gotten sick so quickly. He must have caught some weird germ, she decided. Probably at that godforsaken rally.

“Come on,” she told Ruth. “Let's fold the other bed back up. That way we can stay in here and keep an eye on him.”

Mary brewed a pot of coffee while Ruth scampered back to her truck for more tea. With the sun warming the dashboard of the van, they sat waiting for Mary's cell phone to ring, and checking on Gabe. At ten o'clock he said he felt better, but at eleven she could not rouse him from his sleep.

“Gabe?” Mary whispered, growing truly alarmed. She grabbed his hand. It felt like ice. “Gabe, can you talk to me?”

He made no response; not even his eyelids moved at the sound of his name.

“Hand me my phone, Ruth.” Mary tried to keep her voice even. “I'm calling nine-one-one.”

“Over a stomach virus?” Ruth looked at her as if she'd gone insane.

“Yes.” Mary snatched the phone from her hand. “Over a stomach virus.”

Fifteen minutes later, two burly EMTs bent over Gabe—one taking a history, the other checking his temperature and blood pressure.

“You guys been doing any nose candy?” the history-taking EMT asked.

“No,” said Mary. “Not at all.”

“Any loaded brownies? Peyote buttons?”

“No.”

“It's okay if you have.” The medic's tone was calm, but grave. “Something's really doing a number on this guy. If you know what it is, you need to tell me, now.”

“We haven't taken any drugs.” Mary fought back a rising panic. “He and I have been to­gether for the past two days. Eaten the same food, drunk the same drinks.”

“And you feel okay?” The man looked at her with new concern.

“Yes. Fine.”

He wrote something down on his chart, then glanced at his partner.

“We need to get him to the ER,” the other medic said as he slipped his stethoscope from his ears. “His pressure's going south, fast.”

Mary watched as the first EMT grabbed his clipboard and followed his partner out of the van. A moment later they were back, strapping Gabe onto an aluminum stretcher. She felt as if she were in the middle of a sudden tornado, with everything swirling out of control around her. “Where are you taking him?”

“Vanderbilt Emergency.”

As they lifted Gabe up to maneuver him out the door, Mary leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Don't worry, Semper Fi,” she whispered. “Everything's going to be okay.” She squeezed his hand, hoping to fill him with her own warmth and strength, then the medics carried him out the door.

“Hey,” she called as they loaded him in the back of the ambulance. “How do I get to Vanderbilt?”

“Just follow us,” called the EMT. “It's only five minutes away.''

“Thank God,” said Mary, buckling herself into the driver's seat of Gabe's van, praying that the hopeful words she whispered to him would turn out to be true.