Even Steven (25 page)

"Susan?" Maybe if he yelled it loudly enough, he'd be able to shake the feeling of dread. He found himself walking on tiptoes as he passed through the bare dining room and on into the faux-marble foyer. Out here, his voice echoed when he called her name. He climbed the sweeping staircase.

What were we thinking when we got white carpeting? Funny what invades your mind when you're scared shitless.

"Susan?"

He moved faster now, and he headed first for the nursery, where once again he found no sign of people.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit . . . The only other logical place was the master bedroom. The door was closed, and as he approached, he called out one more time, "Susan!"

Boxes lay strewn about the bed, some opened, most not, and he recognized little bits of festive wrapping paper from the day of the baby shower his staff had thrown for Steven back in December.

What the hell ...?

And then he got it. She was digging for baby clothes. But why? That's why he'd sneaked out to Kmart. She had to know that, because she'd obviously read his note. And what good would it do to try to stuff the kid into clothes designed for newborns?

Daniel Portis.

The name popped uninvited into his mind, and in that second, everything became clearer. Daniel was a junior sales rep who dealt only with small-business accounts and had no concept of how large a baby might be. He'd given as a gift an overalls outfit that looked more like a first-grade ensemble than something for a baby. Bobby remembered how hard a time everyone gave the young man for being so out of touch, and how well he took it. "Say what you like," Daniel had countered at the time, "but they'll have forgotten all about your silly-ass presents when the kid is just beginning to appreciate mine."

Obviously, Susan had remembered that as well, and she'd come in here hunting down the outfit for the baby. But why? Where could they possibly want to go?

The hospital. Suppose something had gone terribly wrong, and either she or the baby was hurt. How could he find out if that's what had happened?

Samuel.

That name kept shooting to the forefront of his consciousness. The mysterious Samuel, who refused to help his friend. Maybe he'd finally figured out who they were, and he'd come to get his revenge. Maybe he'd come and taken them.

No, that was ridiculous. "Stop it, Bobby," he told himself. He spoke aloud, as if audible wishes were somehow more binding. "Just stop it. There has to be a logical explanation for it all."

People don't just disappear.

He scoured the bedroom for a note, for some indication where she might have disappeared to, but all he found was unending neatness, marred only by the mess on the bed. He searched the nursery next, and finally the entire downstairs. Not a trace.

So, what was he supposed to do now?

This was a silly, stupid thing to do, and Susan knew it.

She should have stayed cloistered in the house, with the shades pulled, but she just couldn't stand it anymore. Bobby had run off, hadn't he? He never did any shopping-always bitched when she wanted him to go, even when the trip to the mall was to replenish his wardrobe. Why, then, did he decide to go today? It was obvious, wasn't it? He needed to get out of the house. She couldn't blame him for that, and she certainly harbored no ill feelings because of it, but she had to have a life, too, didn't she? If she spent one more minute cooped up in that house, she'd surely go crazy. There hadn't been any cheer in that place in

weeks, and even with the new addition to their family, the depressing pall still lined every room like so much black wallpaper.

Besides, Steven needed a change of scenery, too. Now that he was rested and fed, there was no containing him anymore. He bolted non-stop around the house, exploring every corner, turning every knob, and opening every drawer. Watching his antics reminded her of the Tasmanian Devil from the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. She'd never seen a child so intent on exploring his surroundings. And his touch was anything but light. Jamming the buttons on the hundred-disc CD changer in the family room, he might as well have been using a hammer as his fingers, and as she tried to keep up, her mind conjured a vision of abject destruction. It was just Susan, Steven, and the ever-present Tiger. The poor creature's ear would likely never recover from the crushing grip it had endured all morning.

So, here she was, in Montgomery County, Maryland, unloading her new son out of the car, and wondering what exactly she was going to say if she ran into someone she knew. Thanks to a huge haul in shower gifts, combined with Steven's relatively small size, she'd been able to dress him and to provide him with a car seat. (And just who were the brilliant engineers who designed a piece of safety equipment that required four hands to operate?) As she wrestled the stroller out of the trunk, she kept a vise grip on the boy's hand to keep him from bolting out into the parking lot and playing the chase-me game through acres of shopping mall.

Steven whined and squirmed against the restraint, pulling with all he had to get away from her. For someone who couldn't yet weigh thirty pounds, he pulled with the force of a tractor, making it impossible for Susan to keep her balance. Finally, she'd had enough, and she turned on him angrily.

"Steven, now stop it!" she commanded, but he wouldn't listen. He let his legs fold under him and he dangled from one arm, his knees barely suspended over the pavement. Susan jerked him once to his feet and gave him a quick shake. She couldn't possibly have hurt him, but judging from the look of shock on his face, she'd finally gotten his attention.

"You will hold my hand while we're in the street, do you understand?"

He just stared, though she could see in his eyes that he considered pulling against her again.

"I said, do you understand me?"

Finally, he nodded, pulling Tiger in a little closer.

She rewarded him with a smile. "Good. Then you just hang on a minute and I'll get your stroller."

This time, the boy stayed still, and a few seconds later, she had the stroller out of the trunk. She nearly cheered when the whole thing came together with the push of a single button.

"I'm guessing he's two," said a voice from close behind.

Susan jumped and whirled to see somebody's grandmother crossing the parking lot behind her. The lady was smiling, but the warmth in the smile cooled when she saw the look in Susan's face.

"Your little boy," the woman explained. "I haven't had a two-year-old in my house for nearly forty years, but you learn to spot them at a distance."

Susan felt hot as she forced her shoulders to relax. "Oh, he's a handful, all right."

The grandmother smiled and kept walking.

That was precisely the kind of encounter that made this trip to the mall so foolish. That woman could have been her next-door neighbor, for God's sake, or someone they knew from Bobby's work-people who knew about the real Steven and would undoubtedly ask questions she was ill-prepared to answer.

At that moment, she realized what Bobby had wanted to talk to her about. They needed to leave Clinton, needed to leave Virginia altogether, and maybe even the East Coast. They had to go someplace where no one would ask questions for which there were no reasonable answers. They had to buy time to let things untangle a bit; time to let people forget about the body in the woods, and for Bobby and her to get to know this little boy who was now such a part of their family.

Suddenly, it was all so clear. This was what God had ordained when He set this little boy loose in the woods for them to find. His will be out as he got older. She'd seen a piece on television once how neglected children from the old Soviet Union had difficulties with their emotions, long after they'd been thoroughly assimilated into wonderful, loving American families. There was just no predicting the results of early-childhood emotional trauma.

But that was a mother's job, wasn't it? To protect her baby from all things that might harm him, whether the threats be physical or emotional. She and Bobby were fortunate to have the means to provide for Steven in a way that many other children would never see. They could afford the best doctors, whether here in the United States or somewhere abroad. And God knew they had a big enough and deep enough reservoir of love from which to nurture the boy to his full potential.

Steven's days of mistreatment were over. No more filth for him; only the best clothes and toys. The world would be his for the asking, and she would personally guarantee the delivery. Just look at how well he responded to her gentle discipline out there in the parking lot. If she weren't a natural at parenting-and if all if this weren't as preordained as it obviously was-then he would never have responded as well as that.

Inside the mall now, Susan strolled tall and proud. Oddly enough, this was one of the moments that she had most looked forward to back in the days before Steven was born. Just as she was sure that Bobby had fantasized about vicarious victories on the baseball diamonds and soccer fields, she used to dream of the all-day trips to the mall. They'd buy some clothes and eat some junk food and maybe even play on one of those little McDonald's playgrounds for a while. This would be their bonding time, when they could just stroll and talk and watch the people as they walked by. In her fantasy, her little boy would tell her about his fears and his loves. There'd be none of those communication problems you hear about in other families. Not in the Martin household, no indeed. Susan and Bobby would provide an environment where the children could talk about anything without fear of disapproval. And part of that environment came from places like this, where mother and son could be friends among strangers.

She knew it was unreasonable to push so hard, but she worried about the boy's refusal to talk. If he wanted something, he would point and whine and squeal, but he wouldn't form words. She wondered if that didn't have something to do with the filth and the lack of care for the boy. He probably suffered from some developmental challenge that his former mother had never thought to have checked.

But he sure said the word Tiger clearly enough. That one rang like a bell in his sweet little angel voice.

How could anyone ever hurt such a beautiful child as this?

Their first stop was the children's department of Saks Fifth Avenue. She'd long ago surveyed all the stores in the area and decided that her baby would have only the best, and the best of the best was right here in Saks. In just over thirty minutes, she'd bought him four new pairs of pants, six shirts, a pair of nightie-nights, and a stack of underwear. For the most part, he behaved like a champ, diverting himself by pulling on the dangling price tags and squealing with laughter when something would pop off the rack and fall down on his head.

Susan didn't even bother trying things on. He was way too squirmy for that. Besides, why should she risk it? She'd never forget the words of wisdom she'd received from her mother, back before . . . well, before the bad times: Never try to make a happy baby happier.

Finally, it was time to check out. Susan carried the mound of clothes in one arm as she wrestled the stroller with the other.

"Isn't this one a cutie?" the sales-clerk bubbled, coming around the register to tickle Steven with a playful poke to his tummy, and getting the giggle she'd been mining for. "Good heavens," she said as she stood up again. "He looks just like you, doesn't he?"

Susan beamed.

CARLOS ORTEGA HADN'T driven himself in years. He could afford any car in the world, but chose a Jeep Cherokee. Decked out with every trinket the manufacturer offered plus a few more, the Cherokee gave him all the comfort and status he wanted, without the baggage that accompanied glitzy limousines and flashy sports cars. He wasn't a pimp, and he had no desire to make people think otherwise.

Pena drove. That was it; no big entourage of bodyguards and hangers-on. He left that shit for the Italians in New York. Carlos believed that strength was a perceived commodity, rooted in fear and respect. People who travelled from place to place surrounded by paranoid thugs projected weakness, a fear that they could not handle themselves without reinforcements. By keeping an image that was close to the population he served, Carlos demonstrated that he was first a friend, and then a businessman. Those who needed to know differently were fully informed, in terms that were universally understood. If anyone wanted to take a shot at him, they'd first have to get past Pena. To date, only two people had tried, and neither of them had lived through the experience.

Carlos didn't think about his own death much anymore; not since he'd settled on his franchise theory of operation and educated all his suppliers on the benefits of mutual dependency. In the Milford neighbourhood, everybody knew Carlos, and most admitted that life was a hell of a lot better for them now than it had been when a different gang controlled every corner. Even the cops knew, and they showed little interest in interfering with the flow of commerce. As long as things stayed peaceful, everyone was happy.

Which brought him to the reason why his black cherry Cherokee was navigating the litter-strewn street en route to his surprise meeting with Logan: he was here to keep the peace.

As Pena whipped the Cherokee into a narrow space between two junkers in front of Logan's brownstone, Carlos noted the three young men who lounged at the foot of the stairs. The tallest of the three saw the vehicle first, and from there the word spread in less than a second. The tall one dashed up the concrete steps and disappeared inside, while the other two closed ranks down below.