Call the Devil by His Oldest Name (23 page)

Thirty-seven

BIJAN HELD THE baby
for over an hour. He sat captivated by the child as she laughed and cooed, reaching tiny, star-like hands up to touch his cheek. Kimberly had never seen two human beings respond so to each other; apparently neither had the two adoption counselors.

“You know, I bet she sees his pretty dark eyes and thinks of her mother,” croaked Mrs. Hatcher.

“Oh, Myrtle, she's much too young for that,” snapped Mrs. Templeton, passing the sandwich tray to her colleague.

“I don't know.” Mrs. Hatcher grabbed two cucumber-and-cream-cheese sandwiches from the silver tray. “Like seeks its own. Blood knows blood.”

Kimberly scooted closer to Bijan and put her arm around his shoulders. She needed to be absolutely sure of him before she gave the last remaining shred of her heart to this baby. “You still think it's a go?” she whispered in his ear.

“Oh, yes,” he said, not taking his gaze from the little girl's face. “This is our Jennifer Aziz.”

Kimberly looked across the room, where Edwina Templeton sat riding her antique armchair like a gold brocade throne. “Well, Mrs. Templeton, what's the next step?”

“I'll need to fill out some forms, and you'll need to write a check.” Mrs. Templeton smiled, but made no move toward any paperwork. Apparently, the wheels of adoption did not start turning until cash lay on the barrelhead.

“I'll go get my briefcase from the car,” said Bijan, reluctantly handing the baby to Kimberly.

The two older women exchanged a glance as he left the room. They waited until the front door closed behind him, then Mrs. Hatcher leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.

“I've placed hundreds of children, dear, and I've never seen such a bond. And right off the bat! He's going to make a wonderful father.”

Kimberly looked down at the little girl, who was now smiling up at her. “I knew he would be.”

“I'll go get the papers.” Mrs. Templeton rose from her chair. “In just a little while, you two will be parents.”

The rest resembled a house closing. Edwina Templeton passed around various legal-sized documents that required everyone's signature contracts with both adoption counselors, releases that absolved both her and Mrs. Hatcher of any legal malfeasance, should any be discovered.

“I'm not sure what this means,” Kimberly said, her pen poised above the paper.

“It protects private adoption counselors from people who run baby scams,” explained Mrs. Templeton. “Someone brings a baby to us, says it's theirs, we find a parent, collect a fee, then the real parents show up with a lawyer and sue everyone for damages.” She glanced at Mrs. Hatcher. “Latinos run that scam a lot in California.''

“Forgive me, but how do we know that's not the case here?” Kimberly couldn't believe such distrustful words were coming out of her mouth, but Bijan was sitting next to her, besotted with the child, barely able to look up. Someone had to be practical.

“Well, you're doubly protected, because I'm licensed by the state and you've got an original birth certificate and a release from signed and notarized by the child's biological father.” Mrs. Templeton handed three sheets of paper to Kimberly. “Read these closely. Tomorrow morning I'll file them with the Department of Human Services. The State of Tennessee will seal them, from there on out.”

Kimberly studied the first sheet. Jennifer Aziz Khatar had been born Behbaha Jane McIntosh on July 24, in Sullivan County, Tennessee. Her father was John Winston McIntosh, her mother Mahvash Ankasa. The delivering physician was a signature she couldn't decipher, and Earlene Toomey was the official registrar. As her fingertips brushed the ridges of the official embossed seal, her tight little knot of hesitation loosened slightly. Little Behbaha seemed to be exactly who she was supposed to be.

The other papers made her sad. One was an account of Behbaha's mother. She'd been Iranian, a nurse, and had died accidentally, from drowning, at the age of twenty-five. The other was a lengthy document, mostly written in the arcane language of the courts. John Winston McIntosh had scrawled his name in blue ink at the bottom, printing in the word “deceased” in the space designated for the child's mother. The date indicated that McIntosh had signed away his daughter only three days ago.

That was probably the saddest day of his life,
Kimberly thought, picturing the young man walking away from his baby, his wife, his life. Silently she handed the papers back to Mrs. Templeton.
And this is the happiest day of ours. Strange, how different two sides of the same coin could be.

“That does it for my end.” Edwina Templeton collected the papers. “Now I need a check from you, made out to me, Edwina Scruggs Templeton.”

“One hundred thousand dollars?” Kimberly looked at Mrs. Hatcher as she pulled their checkbook from Bijan's briefcase.

Mrs. Hatcher grinned smugly at Edwina Templeton. “That's correct.”

She turned to Bijan, who sat making faces at the baby. “Do you want to write this or shall I?”

“You write it,” he answered. “And we'll both sign it.”

Her heart pounding, Kimberly filled out the check. It was the largest she'd ever written in her life. She carefully wrote the “1,” then an impressive line of five zeros behind it. With only the slightest tremble of her pen, she signed her name and then passed the check to Bijan. He barely shifted his position, just held the checkbook in his left hand while he scribbled his name with his right. Kimberly tore off the check and handed it to Mrs. Templeton, who took it with a smile.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You've just become parents.”

“Oh, I'm so happy!” Mrs. Hatcher warbled as she dabbed at her eyes with her napkin.

“We are, too.” Bijan leaned over and gave Kimberly a kiss. “I love you,” he whispered.

“Love you, too” she murmured, kissing him back.

They sat there enjoying, for the first time in their lives, the feeling of being three rather than two. Suddenly, more than anything, Kimberly wanted to take their little girl back to Florida, so they could be a real family in their own home, instead of in Edwina Templeton's antique-stuffed parlor.

“Honey, why don't I call and see if we can get a flight back tonight?” she asked.

Bijan grinned, understanding her need with that uncanny knack of his which made her wonder sometimes, if they hadn't been married before, in some other life. “That sounds terrific.”

“Mrs. Hatcher, is going back tonight okay with you?” Kimberly dug in her purse for her cell phone.

“Whatever suits you suits me, dear.”

While Kimberly called the airline, Mrs. Hatcher followed Edwina Templeton to her office, ostensibly to divide up the fee. Bijan sat there, still mesmerized by the baby. A skinny Latino man dressed in white peeked shyly into the parlor as Kimberly asked the travel agent to change their reservations.

“We got the last flight out,” she told Bijan as she switched off the phone minutes later. “Nashville to Fort Lauderdale, seven p.m., on Delta.” She looked down at the child in her hus­band's arms wishing she'd brought her camera, wishing she could somehow freeze this moment so she could go back to it, over and over again. Her Bijan. With their new little girl. “Just a few more hours, Jennifer Aziz, and you'll be home.”

Thirty-eight

MARY AND RUTH sat
in the truck. They'd walked back through the shopping mall conspic­uously, stopping at several of the Tennessee Arti­sans' displays, hoping Logan would make some kind of move. Mary scanned the crowds for him, seeing older men, bearded men, a number of overweight men, but none resembling the bat­tered, malevolent creature she'd seen in Atlanta. If Logan was still here at the mall, he was keep­ing himself hidden. When they reached the truck, Ruth handed Mary the keys, asking her to drive. Mary moved them to a different parking space, pulling up in a vacant slot well in range of a security camera. If Logan approached the truck here, he would at least get caught on videotape. There was no point worrying about a long­ range rifle attack. He could have killed them both a dozen times over since the moment they'd pulled up in the parking lot. Logan must have other plans for her—she only wished she knew what they were.

Now Ruth moaned amid troubled dreams while Mary studied the copy of the photo strip, desperately trying to glean clues about Lily.

She had to agree with Jane Frey: the skin tone and dress of the woman holding Lily in the photo did look Mexican, or perhaps Filipino. And the clerks at Kinko's had put a Mexican man with Logan, back when he was sending .jpg files over the Internet. But why would Mexicans get involved with a lame old man and a squalling baby? Her years at Deckard County had taught her that money was the prime motivator of most people, followed closely by the desire for power. Contrary to what the poets believed, love came in pretty far down on the motive list.

“So let's say money or power,” Mary whis­pered. Either Logan held some kind of power over the Mexicans, or else he'd purchased their cooperation. Since he'd been on the lam for al­most a year, she doubted he'd made enough money to put accomplices on his payroll. That left power, and Logan was an expert at wielding that. As the former sheriff of a county with a burgeoning Hispanic population, he would have knowledge of immigration law and might even speak some Spanish. If he'd bumped into two newly arrived Mexicans, he easily could have bullied them into doing exactly what he wanted. She jumped as a nearby horn gave an angry blast, jolting Ruth awake from her nap. “What's going on?” she muttered, half-asleep.

“Just a little road rage.” Mary watched as a battered station wagon missed backing into an expensive SUV by inches. The wagon's driver, a grizzle-haired black man, nodded and waved apologetically at the vehicle behind him, but the man driving the SUV lifted his middle finger and leaned on his horn, blaring his rage to the world.

“Oh, cut him some slack,” Mary said, as the old man rolled away, humbly ceding his parking place to the boxy SUV. The young man contin­ued to honk, pulling into the space with an an­gry squeal of his tires.

“Asshole,” muttered Mary, deciding that Tennessee drivers were no more polite than the ones in Georgia. She started to turn her attention back to the photo strip when she noticed the rear end of the SUV. Rampant anti-abortion stickers covered it, making a garish collage of conservative political sentiment. “Abortion Stops a Beating Heart!” “I'm Pro-Life and I Vote!” “Every Child Is a Gift From God!”

Though she'd seen them all a hundred times before, one bright red sticker caught her eye. “ADOPTION NOT ABORTION!”

“Adoption.” She tested the word on her tongue as Ruth collapsed back into sleep. Why hadn't she thought of that? Could Logan have given Lily to the Mexicans to adopt? No, that couldn't be right. From what she knew of Logan, he never
gave
anything away. Or at least not unless his interests were served in the bargain. But maybe there was some other angle to adoption…She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, trying to pull up the details of a case her old friend Frances Pratt had prosecuted. Frances had been an ADA in Suffolk County, New York, when she prosecuted a pair of French Canadians for running a baby scam—buying ba­bies low from naive girls in eastern Canada and selling them high in New York. Frances had to brush up on her French, which she despised, and had gone to bed with a throbbing headache every night.
Avoid cases with children
, Frances had warned Mary afterward.
They never leave you alone.

Suddenly it fell into place! If French Canadians could broker children in New York, why not Mexicans in Tennessee? Children were readily available, easily disguised, and could cross the border without identification papers. And dark skinned Lily would look like she belonged with Mexican parents. But how could Stump Logan have gotten involved in that? You couldn't just walk up and join illegal adoption rackets; you had to be connected, the players had to know you. When could Logan have made those kind of contacts?

She tried to come up with other reasons that Lily might be traveling in the care of Mexicans, but the idea of adoption kept niggling at her like a kettle left on the stove. She couldn't put it out of her mind and finally gave up trying to. What would it hurt to see how many local adoption agencies there were? Most likely it would be a waste of time, but until they heard from Logan again, they had nothing but time to waste. And at least she would be satisfied that she'd left no stone unturned in the search for Lily.

She shook Ruth's shoulder, hoping the good Ruth would open her eyes and leave demented Ruth in dreamland. Though the beleaguered woman startled at Mary's touch, she woke up and looked at Mary with a clear, rational gaze.

“Did we get another phone call?”

“No. But we need to go back inside the mall.”

“Why?''

“I need to look up something in the phone book.”

Ten minutes later they sat at an empty desk at the mall security office. With Ruth at her elbow, Mary turned to “Adoption Agencies” in the Yellow Pages. The directory listed fifteen—most in Nashville, with religious affiliations, a few sounding like state-run agencies. Picking up the receiver, she started at the top of the page. The calls went as she had feared; the people she spoke with were kind, concerned, and willing to help, but no one would admit to any recent knowledge of a baby fitting Lily's description. In half an hour she'd worked her way down to the last one on the list.

“Is that all of them?” Ruth sat listening to every call, twisting her shirt into yet another knot.

“One more to go,” Mary said. Squinting at the last entry, something called the Tender Shepherd home, she dialed the number. The phone rang once, twice, then someone picked up. Mary heard rustling sounds, as if someone were juggling the receiver, then a high, breathy voice said,
“
¡
Diga!”

Mary gasped. “Excuse me?”

“Por favor, llama despu
é
s.”
A woman began speaking hurried Spanish, then switched to English. “Please call back later. No one can talk now!” She spoke with great agitation, then the line went dead.

“Holy shit!” cried Mary.

“What?” Ruth's eyes grew wild.

“Somebody at that adoption home speaks Spanish way too close for comfort!”

Quickly Mary rechecked the directory. The Tender Shepherd Home had a Franklin address! Suddenly she felt as if the phone had turned into a slot machine and all the coins were spilling into her hands. Could her wild hunch have actually played out? Stranger things have hap­pened, she reminded herself, remembering that a cop stopped Timothy McVeigh on a traffic violation. Even her own pornographer Dwayne Pugh had originally been ticketed for vending food without a license. She grabbed Ruth by the arm.

“Come on,” she said. “We're going to pay the Tender Shepherd Home a call.”