Call the Devil by His Oldest Name (22 page)

Thirty-five

KIMBERLY KHATAR SQUEEZED her
hus­band's hand as the plane began its final descent toward the Nashville International Airport. Bijan had booked them in adjoining seats on the same flight from Atlanta, and now they sat, three peas in a pod, strapped in a Boeing 757. Kimberly capped off her morning by splurging on three in-flight phone calls—one to her parents and one to each of her two sisters. Though everyone had sounded stunned by the news, all had squealed with joy over the prospect of welcoming Jennifer Aziz Khatar into their family. Kimberly's parents had immediately started packing for a trip down from St. Pete, while her sisters began planning a baby shower.

“Are you sure you don't want to call your folks?” She waggled the phone at Bijan.

He turned from the window, then shook his head as if he'd had too much to drink. “I'll surprise them. My mother hasn't boarded a plane in twenty years. She probably wouldn't get past the fact that I was calling her from midair.”

“Just think of how happy you're going to make them, honey.” Kimberly hugged Bijan's arm.

“You're going to love Edwina Templeton,” Mrs. Hatcher brayed from the seat beside Kimberly's. “She's had amazing luck at finding just the right baby for the right parents.”

Kimberly nodded at Mrs. Hatcher as the plane's landing gear dropped into position. Actually, she didn't give two hoots about Edwina Templeton. All she cared about was wrapping her arms around the baby who would become her new little girl.

After they landed, Mrs. Hatcher told them that Edwina's place was too far out of town for a taxi, so Bijan went to the Hertz desk and came back twirling the keys to a Lincoln Town Car.

“Why did you get such a big car?” asked Kimberly as they walked toward the huge white sedan. “You usually get Toyotas.”

He shrugged, embarrassed. “More protection in case we have a wreck. You know, precious cargo and all.”

Kimberly smiled. In the course of a three hour flight, Bijan had already begun to make the change from carefree husband into responsible family man.

Mrs. Hatcher directed them to the small town of Franklin, twenty miles south of Nashville. After exiting the highway and driving through a blur of fast-food restaurants, gas stations, and car dealerships, they turned down a road that led through miles of rolling pastures dotted with grazing cows. They crossed a narrow creek on a bumpy, two-lane bridge, then arrived at a grav­eled driveway that led to a white antebellum mansion with a wide front porch and silvery tin roof.

“This is Edwina's,” announced Mrs. Hatcher from the backseat. “Looks like Tara, doesn't it?”

Bijan pulled the car up in front of the house. Kimberly hopped out and hurried up to the wide porch, trembling with excitement. When she next rode in that car, she might be holding her own baby in her arms.

The top half of the front door was leaded glass; the doorbell was an old-fashioned twist kind. After waiting for Bijan and Mrs. Hatcher to join her, Kimberly twisted the bell three times. She cringed as its coarse ring echoed through the house, not wishing to awaken any napping babies. For a moment, nothing hap­pened, then she saw a blur of movement on the other side of the glass. The door opened, reveal­ing a young Hispanic woman exactly her height. Like many of the
sirvientas
who worked for the affluent of Fort Lauderdale, the woman wore a gray uniform that gave her the look of a nurse-in-training.

“
Buenos d
í
as.
” Kimberly shifted into the Floridian Spanish that had, over the years, become her second language.
“Es la casa de la Señora Edwina Templeton?”

“
Sí, Se
ñ
orita.
” The young woman smiled, no doubt pleased to address a stranger in her native tongue.

“Es un huerfano?”

The woman shook her head.
“Un hospital de maternidad.”

“Me Ilamo Kimberly Khatar, de Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Mi esposo y yo estamos aqui para ver a la nena.”

“La nena? No lo entiendo.”

“La nena para adopci
Ó
n…”

The woman shook her head again. She was about to close the door when an older, harsher voice sliced through the air.

“Ruperta? Is that Mrs. Hatcher?”

The young housemaid's eyes grew wide as she tried to formulate her reply.

“Ruperta, who is it?” the harsh voice demanded brusquely.

A short, dumpy woman appeared behind the
sirvienta
. She wore a camel-colored suit over a creamy silk blouse; impressive diamonds twinkled from her ears. Although the clothes were obviously expensive, they fit the woman too tightly, and made her look as if she'd been thrown fully dressed into a washing machine and dried at too hot a setting. She peered past Kimberly, then smiled. “Myrtle? Is that you?”

“Yes, Edwina. We're here!”

“Come in, come in,” the woman said, then dismissed the
sirvienta
with a toss of her head. “I'm Edwina Templeton. Welcome.”

Kimberly and Bijan stepped into a spacious foyer where a graceful staircase curved up to the second floor. As the housemaid disappeared down a back hall, Edwina Templeton led them into a large sitting room that looked like a cover of
Architectural Digest
. Papered in an eye-popping red silk moir
é
, the room was stuffed with the kind of antiques sold at Sotheby's to people with bottomless pocketbooks. Mrs. Templeton had expensive taste, Kimberly decided as she gazed at the opulent furnishings. But then, at a hundred thousand dollars a child, Mrs. Templeton could afford to.

“Introduce me to your couple, dear,” Mrs. Templeton demanded after the two older women shared a perfunctory hug and kiss.

Mrs. Hatcher beamed. “Edwina Templeton, this is Kimberly and Bijan Khatar.”

“How do you do.” Bijan nodded stiffly. Kimberly could tell he was nervous. Her palms grew sweaty, too, as Edwina Templeton appraised them carefully, as someone might look over a yearling racehorse that showed some speed. Kimberly prayed that Mrs. Templeton's sharp eyes would not find some invisible flaw and discard them in favor of the couple from Chicago.

But the older woman was nodding. “Come sit down. We'll chat in here. Ruperta's bringing tea.”

In the living room, Kimberly, Bijan, and Mrs. Hatcher perched on an ornate sofa like birds on a wire. Edwina Templeton took the wing chair opposite them. Soundlessly the uniformed girl returned, bearing a silver tray with a china tea service. As Mrs. Templeton poured them all tea, the girl brought in a tray full of cookies and triangular-shaped sandwiches. Kimberly took a cucumber-and-cream-cheese while Bijan opted for tea alone, the cup rattling softly as he took it from the tray.

“There's no need to be nervous,” Mrs. Templeton said, smiling. Her voice was husky and she spoke with a drawl so thick, it sounded almost like Hollywood's idea of a Southern accent. “If this one doesn't work out, there'll be others.”

Not for us,
Kimberly thought, remembering all of Bijan's requirements.
We're not your average family, not by a long shot.

“How shall we proceed, Edwina?” Mrs. Hatcher set her tea down on the table and snatched a chocolate cookie off the tray. “I know these two young people are eager—”

“I like to bring the baby out and watch how the prospective parents interact with it,” Edwina interrupted. “I can tell pretty fast if there's going to be a bond there.”

“Are you the sole judge of that?” Bijan spoke for the first time. Kimberly winced at his unintended arrogance, but Mrs. Templeton's smile did not falter.

“Yes, Mr. Khatar, I am. As a private adoption counselor, I'm afraid I do have the last word in cases like this.”

“I see.” Bijan stared into his tea cup, humbled.

“Why don't you tell me a little about yourselves? What kind of business are you in?”

“Kimberly is an insurance broker. She started her own company five years ago,” Bijan said proudly. “I manage business properties for my father.”

Edwina Templeton's gaze flickered over the Bulgari watch on Bijan's wrist. “So I assume you don't find the cost of raising a child today daunting?”

“Mrs. Hatcher has all our financial information,” Bijan replied. “But no, money is not a problem. We've worked hard and we've been lucky. Our child will have a comfortable home and an excellent education.”

Mrs. Hatcher gave a hen-like cackle. “I can vouch for that, Edwina.”

“Is religion an issue between you?” asked Mrs. Templeton, ignoring her colleague.

This time Kimberly spoke. “I was raised Catholic, Bijan is Muslim. We've attended the Unitarian Church ever since we married. We intend to raise any child we adopt in that faith.”

“A nice compromise.” Mrs. Templeton's smile broadened. “Rational. Respectful.” She studied them a moment longer, then she set her teacup down on the tray. “Would you like to see the baby now?”

“Oh, yes,” said Kimberly quickly. She didn't know how much more of this she could take. Al­ready she wanted to leap up from the sofa and scream with impatience.

“Good. I'll have Ruperta bring her in.” Mrs. Templeton rang a small silver bell. They waited. An antique clock in the hall ticked off seconds that seemed like hours, then the
sirvienta
reappeared at the door. Looking as if she wanted to weep, she now carried a baby wrapped in a soft white blanket. From the couch, Kimberly could see only the top of the infant's head, a dark patch of straight hair.

Edwina Templeton got to her feet. “Mr. and Mrs. Khatar, meet the child who was born Be­hbaha Jane McIntosh.” She prodded the house­maid with a chill nod. “Give her to them, Ruperta.''

Ruperta obediently crossed the room and held the bundle out to Kimberly. The latter took the child in her arms, astonished at how light and insignificant human infants feel. As she settled the child against her chest, she moved the blanket away from the small face it swaddled. The little girl did not doze, but lay wide awake and very composed, looking up at her with dark eyes that seemed to stare into some part of her that Kimberly didn't know existed.

“Oh, my God,” Kimberly breathed. “She's beautiful.”

The baby continued to stare at Kimberly, working her little cheeks, blowing a plump bubble of saliva on her lips. Kimberly fought an urge to undress her, to see if she had the proper number of fingers and toes. But even if she didn't, who cared? Who could look into those eyes and not fall instantly in love?

She tore her gaze away from the baby and turned to Bijan. “What do you think?”

He didn't reply. Instead, he reached around her and touched the baby's hand with his forefinger. Instantly the infant grasped it, and held on tight. “Hello, baby girl,” he said softly.

The baby squirmed in Kimberly's arms, then her eyes found Bijan's. She studied him with her strange, old-soul gaze, then she flung her arms up and gave a little squeal of glee, as if Bijan was the most utterly delightful being in creation.

Everyone laughed. Bijan tentatively put one finger against her tummy and the baby laughed again, sending funny little bird chirps into the air. Kimberly laughed, fighting tears even as she did so. For her, there was no doubt. Taking a shaky breath, she lifted her face to Bijan.

“Well, honey?” she asked. “What do you think?”

She felt his kiss on the top of her head, then she felt his breath against her ear. “Kim, I think you and I have just become parents.”

Thirty-Six

“THIS IS WHO I
am and this is what I've got.” Mary dug all her ID cards from her wallet and laid them on the desk. Then she pulled Gabe's pistol from her jeans, removed the ammo clip, and laid it beside the pile of IDs. She and Ruth sat in a small, unused office of Cool Springs Galleria Security, where they had been given bad coffee, a moment to calm down, and a much longer moment to explain the situation to the Franklin, Tennessee, cops.

Detective Jane Frey fanned Mary's IDs like a deck of cards, reading and discarding her driver's license, her handgun license, then the card that identified her as an assistant district attorney for Deckard County, Georgia.

“You always shop with a Glock nine?” Frey asked as she slipped a pack of Marlboros from her purse. “I just carry Visa.” A tiny woman with bright blue eyes and bright red hair, she wore tight jeans and a green sweater under a rumpled Burberry trench coat. Mary liked her immediately.

“The gun is not mine. It belongs to Gabriel Benge, a professor at the University of Tennessee,” Mary explained.

“In Knoxville?” asked Detective Frey, one pencil-thin brow lifting.

Mary nodded.

“And how did you come by Mr. Benge's weapon?”

“I borrowed it from him. Gabe's undergoing treatment at Vanderbilt Hospital.”

“For what?” Frey lit a cigarette, then contorted her mouth around in an amazing curl to avoid blowing smoke in Mary's face.

“The paramedics didn't know,” replied Mary.

“We were at a Civil War monument in Nashville—he got sick there.”

Frey stared at the array of items, taking long drags on her smoke, then she scooped up all the IDs and the gun and stepped into another office. Mary knew that she was running her numbers through a computer, checking to see if Mary's credentials checked out in cyberspace. Minutes later Frey returned, her cigarette gone, but her blue eyes sharp as ever.

“Okay, Ms. Crow,” she said, returning the gun and IDs. “You checked out, and there is a Gabriel Benge registered at Vandy.” She sat back down and pulled a pen and notepad from her purse. “Now give me the details of all this once again. Slowly.”

Mary was tempted, for an instant, to tell Jane Frey the whole story—about Logan and her belief that this was really all about her rather than Lily. Then she realized that she would have to further explain that everyone else in law enforcement thought Logan was long dead. At that point Frey would probably close her notebook and discount her as a lunatic DA up from Georgia on a tear. Better to just repeat what the local police could verify, and keep her true suspicions to herself. Anyway, Lily was the important one, and she and Ruth needed all the help they could get in finding her.

So she began with Saturday, when Ruth had called her from Tremont, and ended with the events of an hour ago, when she'd found Ruth in front of KidShotz, crying like someone tortured by demons. What had upset her so was a strip of photo-booth pictures taped to the front window of the store. The pictures had been of Lily, sullen and short-haired, held by a woman who wore a pale blue T-shirt, a small, filigreed crucifix, and turquoise earrings. Whoever had arranged the subjects had made sure the woman's face did not appear in any of the four photos, rendering her basically unidentifiable. Still, mall security had swung into action at Mary's insistence, questioning all the merchants around the photo booth. Nobody remembered seeing any woman and child resembling this pair.

“That's quite a story, Ms. Crow.” Frey scribbled with her right hand, fumbled for another cigarette with her left.

“Yes, it is,” Mary answered. “Sheriff George Dula, of Nikwase County, can corroborate everything.”

Frey lit up a smoke. “Just tell me this. You of all people should know procedure—why didn't you call us when you got the phone call this morning?”

“I tried. But the baby's mother was convinced Lily was going to be here at noon. We had less than half an hour to get here, and she was absolutely determined to come. Considering the amount of stress she's been under, and the cops' lack of enthusiasm for this case, my coming with her seemed to be the better choice.”

As if to underscore Mary's remarks, Ruth's voice grew suddenly shrill. Mary and Jane Frey looked across the room to see her wildly gesticulating to the other detective. “I just want my baby!” she screamed, banging a table with both fists. “I just want my child!”

With a telling glance at Jane Frey, Mary got up and went over to Ruth, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pressing her cheek against the top of her head. Though Ruth could well have blown their best chance of capturing both Logan and Lily, she found it hard to remain angry with her. She couldn't even imagine what it had been like for Ruth, to rush up to KidShotz hoping to see Lily and finding a mocking photo strip instead. “Be strong, honey,” she whispered. “Just stay focused on the fact that Lily's still alive.”

“Okay, ladies.” Frey stood up and motioned for her partner. “You two stay here while we work out a few details. We'll be back as soon as we can.”

Leaving them in the care of mall security, the two detectives left the office, closing the door firmly behind them.

Ruth looked up at Mary with red-rimmed eyes. “What are they going to do?”

“If they work anything like the cops in Atlanta, they'll talk to Dula, then run things by their captain. If he or she says it's a go, they'll join the case.”

“And if the captain says no?”

Mary patted Ruth's shoulder. “Then we'll go on, by ourselves.”

The mall security secretary brought them Cokes and cheese pizza from the food court. Though the pizza tasted wonderful to Mary, Ruth just picked at hers. For some reason, she wanted to go back to the truck.

“We can't go anywhere until the detectives come back,” Mary told her, practically pulling her back down in her chair. “Why don't you call about Jonathan? I'm going to call the hospital about Gabe.”

Mollified by that suggestion, Ruth dug her cell phone from her purse and punched in the number she now knew by heart. Mary looked up the number for Vanderbilt Hospital in the security office phone book. Within moments she'd learned that Gabriel Benge had been admitted to the hospital from the emergency room, his condition listed as serious.

“How serious?” Mary asked. “What was he diagnosed with?”

“I don't have that information, ma'am. You'll have to speak to the physician in charge.”

“Who is the doctor in charge?”

“I don't have that information, ma'am,” the clerk repeated without emotion.

“Thank you.” Mary clicked off her phone, realizing that she was going to get only the most minimal information about Gabe over the phone.
But that's okay
, she thought.
At least he's still alive.

She sat with Ruth until the detectives reentered the room, Frey leading the way. They pulled up two chairs and sat in front of Ruth and Mary.

“Okay, ladies,” said Frey. “We talked to Nikwase County. I know you think the sheriff there has blown you off, but he's gone pretty much by the book. Mrs. Walkingstick, your daughter's picture and vital information are now on the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children website, as well as in the FBI database.''

“Then why don't I have my baby?” demanded Ruth.

“Do you know how many children go missing each year, ma'am?” Frey's blue eyes sparked cold fire. “I can assure you, we're all trying as hard as we can. Ms. Crow, we've put out an APB for both the woman and the baby in the photo strip, although we really don't have much to go on. I'm guessing from her jewelry, and her visible skin tone that she's of Hispanic descent. We have a growing Mexican population in this county and up in Nashville, as well.”

“And?” Mary asked.

“We'll check out a section of town affection­ately known as Margaritaville,” Frey replied. “If this woman is a local and has shown up with a baby without being pregnant, word'll be out on the street.”

“What if she's not a local?” asked Ruth. Her voice shook.

“How about we cross that bridge when we come to it?” answered Frey. “For now, we'll follow up on these photos. You two have a copy of them, don't you?”

Mary nodded. “The secretary made us one.”

“Okay. Then we'll get going. I'll keep in touch. Here's my card. If you get any more crying baby calls, call me immediately.”

“Thank you.” Mary shook the detectives hand. “We really appreciate it.”

“Take it as easy as you can, Ms. Crow.” Frey handed back the Glock, and smiled. “And please don't run through the mall with that gun again. It tends to make the shoppers nervous.”

The detectives left. Mary stuffed the gun in her purse and sat beside the now silent Ruth, trying to decide what they should do. It was almost three o'clock, but the thought of going back to the truck made her uneasy. She'd known from the moment she and Ruth got here that they were walking into a trap. Though it hadn't gone exactly as Logan had planned, he knew where they were. Before, he'd never known either their location or who was following him. Now he knew exactly that it was not the FBI, or the cops, or even Jonathan, but the oddball team of her and Ruth. Was he now lingering in the parking lot, just waiting for them to reemerge from the mall?

She walked into the outer office, where a bank of security monitors maintained constant views of strategic points of the huge shopping complex. Most scanned entrances, the food court, and a number of dimly lit hallways. Several, though, kept watch over the parking lot.

“Does someone monitor these twenty-four seven?” Mary asked the uniformed guard who sat there dipping French fries in a small cup of ketchup.

“Yes, ma'am. I take second shift, somebody else does the graveyard.”

“And do they watch the parking lot at night?”

“Yes, ma'am,” the guard said. “We pay close attention to the lot after the sun goes down. Haven't had an outdoor incident in nearly six months.”

“Thanks,” said Mary. She was beginning to formulate a strategy.

She walked back to the conference room, where Ruth sat like a zombie, staring at the floor.

“Come on, honey.” Mary pulled her up by her elbow. “Let's get out of here.”

“Where are we going?”

“Back to the truck. If we're lucky, Logan might be out there, waiting for us.”

“Will he have Lily?”

Mary shook her head. “I doubt it.”

“But won't we be walking back into his trap?”

“Yes,” Mary said. “But we'll have the advantage. We already know he's out there waiting for us.” She opened her purse, showing Ruth her gun. “It's risky, but we might be able to catch him at his own game.”

Ruth blinked, as if processing what Mary had just said, then she grinned. “Okay,” she said. “Let's go.”

They thanked the secretary for her hospitality, then they left the office and strode down a long hall. They heard the mall before they saw it, the upbeat music playing, the low hum of shoppers as they busied around the concourse.

“Ready?” Mary asked Ruth, hesitating an in­stant before she pushed the door open. “Yes.” Ruth nodded.

I just hope I am, too,
Mary thought, reaching in her purse to touch the handle of Gabe's gun as she pushed the door open and they walked together out into the bright bustle of people.