Call the Devil by His Oldest Name (25 page)

Forty-one

MARY SWUNG AROUND. A
Latino couple stood in the shadows, ghost-like in the darkness. A small man who looked remarkably like the drawing of Joe Little Bear gripped Mary's shoulder while an equally petite woman stared at Ruth, her eyes big as an owl's.

“Take your hands off me,” Mary snarled, hoping she sounded more threatening than she felt.

The man loosened his grasp. “We know where your baby is.”

“You what?” Ruth lunged forward and grabbed the little man as if she might shake the words out of him.

“She got adopted,” Joe Little Bear gasped, his forehead glistening with sweat. “Just a few hours ago.”

“Adopted?” cried Ruth. “Who adopted her? And how do you know it was my baby who was adopted?”

“We saw you at the
manifestaci
ó
n
,
” the man explained breathlessly, “We hid in the bushes and watched you leave your baby in the care of a young woman. You told her to play music so the baby would not cry.”

“You son of a bitch!” Ruth screeched.

Mary grabbed Ruth. The man's companion started speaking Spanish, too rapidly for Mary to understand. She did notice, however, that be­neath the woman's denim jacket, a crucifix dangled from her neck and small turquoise earrings studded her ears. Finally Joe Little Bear
shusshed
her, and keeping well away from Ruth, began talking to Mary.

“We need to leave here, Se
ñ
orita.
Pronto
!” he said, his gaze darting between her face and Ruth's. “If you will take us with you, we will help you find your baby. I swear it upon my mother's grave.”

“But you took my baby in the first place!” cried Ruth.

As Joe Little Bear tried to formulate a response, the woman stepped forward, her hands clasped in supplication.

“
Por favor
, Se
ñ
oritas. It is not as it seems. We are not
secuestradors
. Just let us come with you, and we will explain.”

Mary looked at the pair. Though they gave a good impression of people in desperate trouble, she couldn't help but wonder if they were true Latinos at all, or just ethnic-looking con artists milking a lift. Both seemed suspiciously anxious to talk about the child they'd stolen.

“Señoritas, I beg you,” the woman pleaded again. “We must leave now. Men—bad men are chasing us. We have no more time!”

“Okay” Mary agreed, against her better judgment. “But once we get inside that truck, you've got one minute to tell us where the baby is.”

“
Gracias
, Señorita. You will not regret this.”

“You might, though,” Ruth warned, her mouth a snarl. “Because if you're lying, those bad men chasing you are going to be the least of your worries.”

The man introduced himself as Paz Gonzalez, the woman as his wife, Ruperta.

“Where's my baby? Why did you steal her?” Ruth faced backward, leaning against the dashboard, glaring at the two while Mary drove back to the more public area of the shopping mall.

“We work for Señora Templeton. Young girls who are
encinta
with no husbands come to her house. She finds their babies good homes.”

“Lily had a good home.”

“
Sí
, Señorita. But another man wanted your baby. He too works for Señora Templeton, as a guard. His name is Duncan, but we call him
Gordo
—the fat one. He has a limp, eats candy all the time.”

Mary gasped, dumbfounded. Edwina Templeton's security guard! It was Logan! She listened as the man continued.

“Last week, Se
ñ
ora Templeton asked us to go with Gordo to pick up a baby. He told us the child was his, but Ruperta and I did not think so.”

Ruperta began to cry again; Paz shushed her. “We drove to a campground far away, in Se
ñ
ora Templeton's van. Gordo told me he would turn us over to the cops if I didn't help him. He told me what to say and drove me to your campsite.” Paz lowered his eyes in deference to Ruth. “The woman who tended your baby was with a man. She gave her…willingly.”

Ruth's lips curled. “That was my former cousin,” she said. “Go on.”

The man shrugged. “After she gave me the baby, I walked back to the van and we drove away. Nobody said a word.”

“Dile lo dem
á
s!”
wailed Ruperta.

“I'm telling her, Ruperta! After we took the baby, Gordo began to do crazy things. He drove us to graveyards, took pictures of the baby. We drove around and he took more pictures, of us holding the baby, as if she belonged to us.”

“Like at the mall?” asked Ruth bitterly.

“
Sí
, Paz replied, shamefaced. “But we took good care of your little one the whole time,” he added softly. “Twice Gordo came close to killing her, but Ruperta talked him out of it.”

“So where is Lily now?” asked Mary.

“A rich young couple came and adopted her this afternoon. They paid a lot of money for her, I think.”

“What was their name?”

“I never heard their names, Señorita. The wife was a pretty blond Anglo. Ruperta thinks the husband was Arab.”

“Oh, my God!” Ruth looked at Mary, pan­icked. “An Arab! What if they've taken her to Saudi Arabia? Or Iran? Once they take children over there, you can never get them back!”

“Hang on, Ruth. Let's hear the rest of the story.” Mary asked Paz, “Do you know where they went? Did they live near here?”

Paz shook his head. “I listened when they called to change their airplane reservations. They asked for a flight to Fort Lauderdale, Florida.”

“What time was that flight leaving?” asked Mary.

“I think they said seven.”

Mary glanced at her watch. It was seven twenty-two. The flicker of hope she was beginning to feel died. If these two were telling the truth, the couple who'd adopted Lily were probably on their way to Florida. The jurisdictional squabbles involved in finding a North Carolina baby who was illegally adopted in Tennessee and then relocated to Florida would be a nightmare. Florida courts were notoriously erratic in their dispensation of child custody disputes, and Lily's affluent new parents would surely fight any action every step of the way. It wasn't quite Saudi Arabia, but Ruth's panic was justified. Lily could well be grown before her real parents ever saw her again.

Blinking away her own tears of frustration, Mary chanced one last question. “Do you know what airline they were on?”

“Pardon?” Paz frowned.

“Do you remember what airline they called?”

Paz put a protective arm around his wife. “I'm supposed to pick up Señora Templeton's car seat tomorrow morning at the Delta counter.”

Delta!
The airline that served the South!
The airline that routed nearly half its flights through Atlanta!
If this flight was like most Delta flights that originated south of Cincinnati, the couple who'd adopted Lily were probably at Hartsfield right now, bouncing their new baby girl and waiting to board the next plane to Florida.

She pulled off the road and screeched to a stop, throwing Ruth and the Mexicans hard against the dashboard. If she could get in touch with Danika before that plane took off, she might be able to stop the couple who adopted Lily before they reached Florida. If she could keep just them in Atlanta, they might be able to sort everything out! Grabbing her cell phone, she punched in Danika's number, knowing that this might well be their last chance to get Lily Walkingstick back home.

At that same moment, Danika Lyles was enduring yet another poke in her breast from her boss, Hobson T. Mott. As opposing centers in a pickup basketball game, Danika and Mott had battled each other for the better part of an hour. Danika was taller and faster, but not as strong. Hobson was a moderately good shot, playing the way a lot of men played against women, trying to intimidate them with bulk, then sneakily copping feels of their breasts and asses, all in the name of sport. Though Danika had long accepted it as the price of playing with boys, tonight Mott's constant mauling of her left breast was getting old. In the first place, it hurt. In the second place, she loathed Hobson T. Mott. Never would she forgive him for firing Mary Crow.

“This time, you're mine, boss man,” she murmured, loping into position as Mott's team brought the ball down court. Hobson stood at the top of the key, waiting for the pass. She stood in front of him, her long, spider-like arms ruthlessly effective at keeping the ball away from him. He rubbed up against her backside, his hand on her ass. She moved up; he followed. The point guard dribbled back and forth, ignoring Hobson, looking for an opening under the basket. Suddenly he threw cross-court, a line drive that she could almost reach. She leaped. Hobson leaped too, but too late. She grabbed the ball and pulled it in, coming down with elbows out. Immediately she pivoted on her left foot. She felt her elbow crack against some kind of bone, then watched as Hobson crumpled to the floor, clutching his jaw.

“Sorry, Mr. Mott,” she gushed as she began to dribble away. “Guess I forgot you were there.” As the horn sounded for the dazed Mott to leave the court, Danika stood with her face lowered, trying to hide her grin. She was still gazing at the mid-court line when the cell phone that she kept stashed in her sock rang. Tossing the ball to her point guard, she dug the little phone out and answered the call.

“Danika Lyles.”

“Danika?” The voice was hard to hear in the cavernous gym.

“Mary?” Danika frantically motioned her substitute into the game as she hurried off the court, holding the phone tight against her ear. She'd been desperate to talk to Mary all day, but she'd only been able to reach Mary's voicemail. “Girlfriend, what's going on? Have you found that baby?”

“That's what I'm calling about, Danika.”

Five minutes later Danika had the particulars. “A racially mixed couple with a baby traveling to Fort Lauderdale on Delta,” she repeated back to Mary. “Any names? Flight numbers? ETAs?”

“Nope.”

“How am I supposed to stop them? You gotta have a name to get a warrant.”

“Call Hartsfield Airport Security as soon as we get off the phone. Call Diane Hart, the ADA in Clayton County. Tell them these people are suspects in an ongoing kidnapping investigation in Nikwase County, Tennessee.”

“Okay.” Danika scribbled notes on the back of a chewing gum wrapper. “Anything else?”

“I want you out there, too, Danika. Get a squad car. Tell whoever's driving that you needed to be there ten minutes ago.”

“Where are you now?

“South of Nashville. I'm leaving right this minute. I'll meet you there in about five hours.” Danika switched off her phone. Collecting her gym bag, she hurried to the dressing room, ignoring the taunting, curled-finger summons from Mott to reenter the game.

“No more, you sorry-ass white boy,” she muttered. “Tonight I'm working for Mary Crow.”

In the locker room she placed a call to Security at Hartsfield. She was routed to one Arthur Stewart, a man who shot his words out like he was cracking a whip. She explained the situation as she tore off her gym clothes; she could almost see him salivating with excitement.

“Multiracial kidnappers?” Stewart's voice quavered. “Flying to Fort Lauderdale?”

“We think they're on Delta.” Danika struggled to pull her trousers on. “But let me stress that they may not be the perpetrators of this crime. This couple could well be victims, too.”

“What sort of racial mix are we talking here?”

“Our information indicates that the woman is white. The man is of Middle Eastern descent.”

“Jesus! An Arab using a white girl for cover! You think they might be carrying explosives?”

Danika closed her eyes.
Why, during the one chance she had to shine for the great Mary Crow, did she get stuck talking to a moron?
“No, Mr. Stewart,” she said forcefully, trying to put on her blouse and hang on to the cell phone at the same time. “We do
not
suspect them of any kind of terrorist activity. At this moment, we don't know if they're guilty of anything. We just want to keep them from going to Florida until we can get everything straightened out.”

“I've heard they strap bombs to their babies' backs,” Stewart continued to rave. “Don't even respect the lives of their own children as long as they can murder good Christians.”

Danika envisioned foam frothing from Stewart's mouth. This idiot sounded ready to shut down the airport and shoot Mary's couple dead as they boarded their plane. “Mr. Stewart, could I speak to your superior?”

“I'm the officer in charge right now,” Stewart replied, full of self-importance.

“Then please remember, sir, that all Deckard County is asking is that you detain these people until we get there. They have a three-month-old infant with them. You absolutely must
not
use excessive force.”

“I'll be the judge of how much force to use, lady,” Stewart growled. “I've got the second busiest airport in the country to protect. Up against that, your little A-rab baby doesn't mean squat.”

“I'm leaving right now, Mr. Stewart.” Danika tucked her pumps under her arm and ran out of the dressing room barefoot. “I'll see you in twenty minutes.”

“It should be all over but the shouting by then,” Stewart promised.

Dear God
, prayed Danika, sprinting for the door.
Let that idiot shout all he wants, just don't let him hurt that child.

Forty-two

MARY RACED BACK to
the interstate high­ way that would lead them to Atlanta. If Danika could indeed stop this couple at Hartsfield, she would need several things from Ruth and she would need them fast—DNA tests, birth certifi­cates, an incredibly detailed statement for the police. First, though, they had to get there, to see if the child in question even was Lily. As she sped along the dimly lit roads, she found her attitude toward the Gonzalezes softening as they revealed more about their troubles in Tennessee. Not only had Logan coerced them into snatching Lily, but they also claimed they were being stalked by members of a gang they called the Scorpions.

“That is why we agreed to go with Gordo in the first place,” explained Paz. “The Scorpions were going to pour acid in Ruperta's eyes.”

“Acid in her eyes?” Ruth shuddered. “Why?”

“To punish me. They think I stole drug money from them.”

“Did you?” Mary asked.

“No, Señorita. They blame me for something Jorge Menendez did.” Paz crossed himself. “They are true devils, spawn of the evil one himself.”

Mary looked at the pair squeezed against the door. The man sat trembling, pathetic with fear, while the woman's eyes brimmed with tears.
If they're conning us, they're doing a hell of a job
, she decided with growing sympathy.

They finally reached the Cool Springs mall. Mary turned into the same high tech gas station where they'd bought their map and screeched up to one of the pumps. She turned to Ruth.

“Go in and get whatever you need to go to Atlanta. Food, Cokes, hot water for tea. I'll fill the tank. Once we get on the highway, I don't want to make any stops.”

“What about them?” Ruth gestured at the pair crouched beside the door.

“I'll watch them,” said Mary. “Hurry, Ruth. We can't waste any time.”

Ruth ran into the gas station. Mary walked to the rear of the truck, zipped her credit card through the scanner, and started filling the tank. It had been an amazing night; her wild hunch had paid off big-time. If the couple who now huddled in the truck were telling the truth, they might be within hours of finding Lily.

Shrugging to release the tension from her neck, Mary leaned against the truck and watched the orange numbers of the pump. Tonight everybody had a devil nipping at their heels. For this couple, it was a Mexican drug gang; for her, it was Stump Logan. It seemed that whatever they did, however far they might run, their respective demons were always just half a step behind, their breath icy on the back of their necks. She sighed. Even if they did manage to rescue Lily tonight, Logan would simply come at her again, through something else or somebody else she loved, farther down the line.

She felt the truck wiggle. Logan's accom­plices, no doubt, moving around inside the cab. She knew she should keep an eye on them, turn the pair over to Jane Frey. But for some reason, she felt a kind of kinship with the pair inside the truck. Though they were far from innocent, her instincts told her that their crime against Lily had been born of circumstance rather than malice. Everything they'd said about Logan rang with total veracity, and their story of the Scorpi­ons squared with all she knew about Hispanic gangs. Some very bad men probably did intend to dribble acid in the woman's eyes. The image sent a shiver down her spine. Suddenly the truck gave another, bigger bounce and she heard foot­ steps pattering across the concrete. Though she knew exactly what was happening, she kept her eyes focused on the gas pump.

“Since you came clean about Lily, you two get a free pass tonight,” she whispered softly. “Tomorrow, I will not be so kind.”

The pump switched off. Mary grabbed her receipt and walked back to the driver's seat. Unsurprisingly, the cab was empty. The Gonzalezes had taken their fate into their own hands. As she stared into the shadowy darkness surrounding the gas station, she realized it was time for her to do the same. Punching a number on her cell phone, she fished in her purse for the small notepad she carried and began jotting down numbers while she waited for her call to connect. A moment later Ruth appeared at her elbow, thermos in hand.

“Are you ready? I've got some tea brewing, and I bought us some snacks.”

“We're good to go,” replied Mary, moving aside so Ruth could climb into the driver's seat.

Ruth stopped with one foot inside the cab. “Where are Paz and what's-her-name?”

“They're gone,” said Mary. “I let them go.”

“Let them go?” Ruth's eyes widened in horror. “Are you crazy? They were the only leads we had to Lily!”

“Forget them, Ruth. Anything they can tell us, Edwina Templeton can tell us better.” Mary clicked off her phone and handed Ruth the notepad she'd been scribbling on. “Listen carefully. I just called Danika Lyles, the ADA who's trying to stop Lily at Hartsfield. She doesn't answer her phone, so let's assume she's in the middle of something she can't break away from. If she does find Lily, I don't imagine her adoptive parents will give her up without a fight, so here are some numbers you'll need. You can stay at my house—there's a key under the big stone in the peony bed.”

Ruth blinked, stunned. “Wait a minute. Aren't we going together?”

Mary shook her head. “I'm staying here.”

“But why?”

“Because Stump Logan isn't going to quit just because we might have figured out where Lily is. He'll just come after me again, through some other innocent person I love, somewhere further down the road.”

“But why not come to Atlanta with me, and then come back here with the cops?” Ruth looked as if she might cry.

“Logan's too clever, Ruth. He'd just go underground again. I need to end this now, tonight. I don't want to live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, wondering when he's going to show up.”

“But—”

Mary reached out and wrapped her arms around Ruth, holding her tight. “You go. Hurry to Hartsfield. I've got a real strong feeling that you're going to see Lily very soon.”

“Are you sure?” Ruth's voice was choked with tears.

“Positive. Now get going! Just follow the signs, once you get to Atlanta. The road's dearly marked.” Mary released her friend. Ruth climbed into the truck, started the engine, and with a small, sad wave, left Mary standing alone in the night.

“Yank-ee Doodle went to town, riding on a po-ny; Da da dum dum da da dum dee da-da macaroni!”

Bijan Khatar glanced around, hoping no adult was listening to him. Since he had spent the first decade of his life in Iran, his knowledge of American folk songs was sketchy, at best. He could sing most of the first lines, but the rest of the lyrics often eluded him, American enunciation being what it was. Though he'd finally figured out that the lyrics to “Jingle Bells” were not “dashing through the snow, with one whore, soap, and sleigh,” he'd thought he'd soon better ask Kimberly exactly who Yankee Doodle had been, and what Mr. Dandy had to do with pasta. “We'll find out together, Jennifer Aziz.” He grinned down at the little girl in his arms. She'd slept through most of the three-hour layover they'd had in Atlanta. Slept while he and Kimberly had taken turns holding her, slept through their discussion over what school she should attend, slept through whether she would grow up to sing at the Metropolitan Opera or captain the U.S. women's soccer team. Now the little diva jock had woken up and Kimberly had fallen asleep, no doubt exhausted by all the possibilities that existed for their new baby girl.

“It's just you and me, kiddo,” Bijan said as the child gave a mighty yawn. “You and your
Baba
.”

Baba
. The Persian word for Daddy. It sounded strange to his ears—an appellation meant for his father, rather than himself. He had never had any responsibilities for anyone other than Kimberly. Yet now, as of this afternoon, he did. The little girl who was waking up in his arms was his. For the next twenty years it would be his duty to keep her dry and well fed, safe and warm. Her
Baba
. Him.

He flexed the muscles in his shoulders, feeling both pride and terror.
My God,
he thought, gazing into the luminous brown eyes that looked up at him as if there were no one else on earth.
She is so tiny.
He'd never realized human beings started out so small. As he watched, her mouth curled down and her feathery little brows began to furrow. Suddenly he realized she was about to cry.

“No, no, no,” he cooed, jumping up and jiggling her in his arms. “Let's not wake Mommy up. She's so tired.”

And yet he almost hoped Kimberly would wake up. He wasn't quite sure of the protocol with babies. Did you change their diapers first? Then feed them? That seemed odd, but the reverse seemed disgusting—who would want to eat their supper wearing wet underwear? Besides, he didn't think he could change a diaper here in the terminal. There wasn't much space and he needed room to maneuver—to see what went where, and how it all fastened together.

Nuts
, he thought as Jennifer Aziz grew more fidgety in his arms.
Just hours into this and you're already goofing it up. Some Baba you are.

He glanced around the waiting area, hoping they would announce their flight. Their plane from Nashville had arrived on time, but the connecting flight to Florida had been delayed. For hours, Delta agents had chatted away behind their desk, oblivious to the weary travelers waiting to fly south.

Shifting the baby gingerly to his shoulder, he turned toward the food court. If he could keep Jennifer Aziz from squalling for the next few minutes, Kimberly could get in a few more winks of sleep before a diaper change became critical. With the little girl warm against his cheek, he strolled past a newsstand, a Sbarro pizzeria, and a man who would put a shine on your shoes for five dollars. People hurrying to other planes looked at him with hostile eyes, giving him the cold, distrustful stare he'd grown accustomed to since September 11. Suspicious looks, glares directed at him in restaurants, once a strip search in the Pittsburgh airport—he'd still had it easier than many of his Iraqi friends. In the heartland of America, anybody who looked even vaguely Semitic was a terrorist until proven otherwise. He smiled bitterly. He hoped Jennifer Aziz would have an easier time of it, but with a name like Khatar…

Sighing, he wandered toward the bar. Three businessmen were nursing drinks, idly watching Peyton Manning pick apart the Washington Redskin defense. He started to go in and order a beer, but as he stepped into the dimly lit space, he stopped. Somehow it didn't seem like the thing to do. He wanted his daughter's first solo excursion with her
Baba
to be church or the beach or even Disney World—not some lousy airport bar where men anesthetized themselves against the rigors of travel with overpriced drinks and endless replays on ESPN. With a small kiss on her ear, he turned and headed back out into the terminal.

They strolled over to their gate. He could see that Kimberly had woken up and was looking for him. He quickened his pace.

“Hi,” he called.

“Where have you been? I was about to get worried. They're starting to board the plane.”

“Really?” He looked at the counter, where the attendants were beginning to check the first­ class passengers through. “I didn't hear them announce anything. Jennifer Aziz seemed restless so I took her for a walk.”

“Is she hungry?” asked Kimberly. “Has she cried?”

“No. I think she might need her diaper changed, though.”

“Then let me have her. I'll change her and then we can get on the plane.”

He handed his new daughter to his wife and watched as she carried her into the ladies' restroom. A few moments later they returned.

‘'There!'' Kimberly said, smiling at him. “All fresh and clean. Now you can go back to your
Baba
!” Bijan grinned. As Jennifer nestled down in his arms, Mrs. Hatcher came trundling over from the souvenir shop.

“How's it going, Mommy and Daddy?” she called loudly.

“Fine, Mrs. Hatcher,” said Kimberly. “I think they're about to call us onboard. Have you got your pass?”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Hatcher waved her card. “Right here.”

“Good. Then let's go.”

Hoisting the pink elephant diaper bag over her shoulder, Kimberly took Bijan's arm. “You and Jennifer just look so perfect together,” she murmured as they walked to the gate. “We are the luckiest people in the world.”

Bijan held his daughter tighter as Kimberly handed the diaper bag over for the gate attendant to search. As he breathed in her sweet baby smell, a feeling of utter happiness came over him. He had a wife who loved him and a beau­tiful new daughter whose eyes reflected the stars. Kimberly was right. Tonight they were the luckiest people in the world.