The Surrogate (25 page)

“So I gathered. You just get there, and I’ll be waiting.”

“But you’ll be followed.”

“Just come, Jamie.”

“Yes. I’ll come. I’m going to hang up now. Good-bye.”

She quickly hung up the receiver, disconnecting herself not only from Joe but also from the ominous someone she knew had been listening to their conversation.

She had actually spoken to Joe.
And had a plan.

She pulled out into the traffic and drove west instead of south in case she was being followed. Could they have put a tracking device on this car? She spent several minutes convincing herself that was unlikely.
Okay, think,
she told herself.

Her pursuers would realize the location she and Joe had agreed upon would have to be within a day’s drive of Houston. They would be alerting the highway patrol and local law-enforcement agencies. She forced herself to think of the maze of highways and roads in Texas. Of the hugeness of Texas. And allowed herself to believe that it just might be possible. But she had to be clever. And she was too exhausted for clever. Too exhausted and hungry.

They were expecting her to head south into Texas, which eventually she would have to do. But not right away.

She would take her time. Let the searchers get in front of her.

She drove north, avoiding the main thoroughfares. She wound her way through an area where there were stately old mansions as large as hotels, and even farther north, past gated communities with brand-new mansions. She drove carefully, ever mindful of speed limits and stop signs.

Not wanting to waste gas, rather than driving around aimlessly she made frequent stops, pulling into a parking space and just sitting there for a time. She stopped at a service station to use the restroom and buy a sandwich and a bottle of orange juice. Twice she stopped to feed Billy and give him some time out of the infant carrier. Finally, keeping to secondary roads, she began winding her way south, continually checking her rearview mirror.

When darkness finally came, she filled the almost empty gas tank, bought a couple of candy bars, filled the empty orange juice bottle with water, then headed south on a county road several miles east of Interstate 35. Soon it was late enough that she had the rural roads pretty much to herself. When the moon rose, she turned off her headlights for long stretches, not exactly sure why, except that it made her feel invisible. She knew from her drive across the western half of the state that its county roads were laid out in one-mile squares, and she would go south for a time, then east, then south again, until she had to maintain an eastern course around sprawling Lake Texoma. She bypassed the town of Durant, then began winding her way south again until finally she turned south onto Highway 78.

Given her meandering path, it was almost dawn before she crossed the Red River into Texas. She knew that she had to sleep for a while. When she stopped for gas in Ridings, she studied the Texas map on the wall, then asked the elderly attendant if she could pull behind the building to nurse her baby and rest for a time. When he didn’t respond, she asked him again in a louder voice, and he nodded.

The clock in the car didn’t work, and she had left her watch in the apartment, but when she woke, she estimated by the sun that it was midmorning. Arriving at her destination by noon was out of the question. But hopefully she would be there by dusk.

Still keeping to country roads, she headed south once again, ever watchful even though she hadn’t a clue as to the form her enemy would take. She wondered if she would ever feel safe again. The word itself sounded elusive, like something at the end of a rainbow, something she might wish for but never achieve.

Now that she was in the state of Texas, however, she did allow herself to wonder what it would be like to see Joe again. She hoped that she could at least clean up a bit before she made her way to their meeting place.

Then what?

She knew that he would help her. That was the kind of person he was. And perhaps it was best not to go beyond that. If she didn’t allow herself to expect more, she would not be disappointed.

That was hard to do, though.

Texas was not laid out in precise squares like Oklahoma, and she had to be careful not to lose her way as she endeavored to keep to rural roads. Early afternoon, she crossed over Interstate 30, which she knew connected Dallas to southern Arkansas. A couple of hours later she crossed Interstate 20, which connected Dallas to Shreveport.

The motor began to overheat south of the town of Athens.

She stopped at a service station and sprayed water on the radiator then drove very slowly into Corsicana. She parked the car near the bus station and gathered up her baby and her few possessions.

The bus didn’t leave until the morning. After she bought a ticket to Brenham, she had just enough money to buy a banana and two candy bars. She filled the bottle with water in the restroom.

The bus station closed at five.

She walked around for a time then returned to the car. She sang to Billy and played with him for as long as he was willing then nursed him to sleep. Whenever a car drove by, she ducked out of sight. She waited until dark to eat the first of the candy bars. For the second time she had not been at the meeting place. And she wasn’t going to be there tomorrow, either. But Joe had promised to keep returning until she arrived. She clung to that promise.

The night was endless. Every muscle in her body ached with fatigue and discomfort.

She ate the banana for breakfast.

The bus arrived in Brenham just before noon. She described the place she wanted to find to the ticket agent. “It’s a very old cemetery where some of the area’s first settlers are buried.”

“That would be the Independence cemetery,” the woman told her.

“How do I get there?” Jamie asked.

“Just head up the street here to Chapel Hill and take a left. Chapel Hill runs into 105 which will take you to 50. There’s no town to speak of anymore. Just look for Old Baylor Park. The cemetery is near there.”

“How far?”

“’Bout ten or twelve miles, I’d say, but there isn’t a bus.”

Jamie had planned to walk anyway. She didn’t have the money for a ticket if there were a bus.

A block from the bus station, she left the cumbersome infant carrier in a Dumpster and put Billy in the sling.

She reminded herself that she used to think nothing of running ten or twelve miles. All she had to do now was walk. But it was already warm. And she was exhausted. And she had a baby slung across her middle.

Climbing even the gentlest of hills left her breathless and sweating. And Billy was restless. She stopped several times, seeking out a shady, private spot where she nursed him, with no sense at all of how long it had been since the last feeding.

She ate the second candy bar a bite at a time and rationed her water. There were no service stations, no buildings at all except for an occasional farmhouse at the end of a winding lane. The sole of her left shoe came loose and made walking difficult. She tore a strip from the baby blanket she was using to shade Billy from the sun and tied the shoe back together.

I can do this,
she told herself repeatedly, the words becoming a mantra. Several times a vehicle would slow as the driver considered asking her if she wanted a ride, but she would square her shoulders, stare straight ahead, and turn her dragging step into a marching gait.

The road signs told her that she was nearing Independence. She stopped at a large gardening establishment to ask for directions to the cemetery. A woman watering rose bushes pointed the way and filled her water bottle. “You all right, honey?” she asked.

“Fine,” Jamie said with all the brightness she could muster. “It was just farther than I thought.” Then she asked the woman what time it was and was on her way.

The water helped.

She passed by four stately stone columns in a grove of trees with a sign that said
OLD BAYLOR PARK
. A half mile or so past that sign was another for McCrocklin Road. A mile or so beyond that McCrocklin ran into Coles Road, just like the woman watering the roses had said.

A woman in an SUV pulled up beside Jamie and asked if she was lost.

“No, ma’am. I’m just out walking.”

The woman had beautiful snow-white hair. She stared at Jamie for a moment. “You look awfully hot and tired to me,” she said. “I live just past the cemetery. You and the baby are welcome to rest there for a time. I think I’ll make a pitcher of fresh lemonade as soon as I get home.”

Jamie thanked her again and kept on walking.

Fresh lemonade.
She felt light-headed just thinking about it.

The cemetery was on the right side of Coles Road, set among a grove of ancient live oak trees. Just beyond the entrance to the cemetery Jamie sank to the ground by the moss-covered tomb of Moses Crawford, who died in 1857. She leaned against the backside so she wouldn’t be visible from the road and nursed her baby. Then she lay down and, cradling Billy in her arms, curled her body around his and closed her eyes.

A
FTER
J
AMIE HUNG UP
, Joe stood there for a time with the receiver still to his ear. He felt the anxious eyes of his parents. Still in their bathrobes, they were standing by the sink, his father’s arm protectively around his mother’s shoulders.

It was just three days ago that he had finally talked to his parents. The ship had just docked in the Libyan port city of Tripoli. He could tell the minute he heard his mother’s voice that something was wrong. She was too chipper. When he started asking questions, she insisted that nothing was amiss and that he should continue his trip for as long as he wanted. Then she had handed the phone to his father, who had rambled on about how he wished that he had traveled more as a young man and had seen the world just as Joe was now doing, and experienced the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome, and taken advantage of what only youth can offer, which was a definite about-face from the paternal lecture on responsibility that Joe had received when he’d told his father about his plan to stay on in Europe after he’d finished the course at Oxford.

Joe finally interrupted him. “Dad, what in the hell is going on? Did the house burn down? Is Mom sick?”

“No, no, no. Nothing’s wrong,” his father insisted. “Your mother and I were a little put off when you decided to stay over there, but we do want you to enjoy yourself before you have to settle down.”

Maybe there really was nothing wrong back home, but the phone call had left him with a deep sense of unease, and after roaming through the old city center for a time, he returned to the ship to collect his possessions. He didn’t bother to announce his departure, unsure if international maritime law permitted him to terminate his employment before the end of the voyage. He had flown standby to London’s Heathrow Airport, where he was lucky enough—after running at full steam through three terminal buildings—to arrive at the gate just as the last passengers were boarding a direct flight to Houston. The gate attendant said there was just enough time for him to make a quick phone call before he boarded.

His father answered. Joe blurted out the flight number and the time it was scheduled to arrive in Houston.

When his parents picked him up at the airport, his mother insisted they stop for coffee at an airport restaurant. That was when they told him that they couldn’t talk at home. Or in the car. Just in case the house and car were bugged. They were absolutely certain that their phone was tapped and that they were being followed everywhere they went and were being watched at this very minute.

Bugged? Tapped phones? Being followed?
Joe wondered if his parents had gotten senile during his absence.

Then they explained that it had all started with a phone call from Jamie Long.

Their coffee grew cold as they told him about Jamie’s strange calls and how she seemed desperate to get in touch with him. How she behaved as though someone was listening in and wouldn’t say where she was or what sort of trouble she was in. And they told him about the mysterious “agents” who showed up at his grandparents’ house in Georgia in search of information about Jamie, including her relationship with their grandson. His grandparents had called friends in Mesquite and learned that these mysterious agents had been there, too, questioning all sorts of people—wanting to know who Jamie’s close friends had been and implying that she was in some sort of danger and that they were trying to find her so they could protect her. “But the only one who had seen or heard from Jamie since she packed up and drove away from Mesquite was the stonemason at that monument place out by the cemetery,” his mother said. “She had come by sometime in July and ordered a tombstone for her grandmother’s grave and paid him with cash. Everyone says it’s like she dropped off the face of the earth, and since Jamie was adamant that we not tell anyone we’d heard from her, we can’t tell them otherwise. I know you’ve always thought highly of her, Joe. And we are sorry for her, but now that we realize how serious her trouble must be, your father and I don’t want you to get involved.”

Joe quizzed his mother about the phone calls, wanting her to describe each one. She recalled that when she asked where Jamie was, all she would say was that she wasn’t in Texas. And she said that she was in trouble but had done nothing wrong. His mother hadn’t talked to her in more than two weeks.

His father explained that they hadn’t been home at the appointed hour for Jamie’s last phone call because they were delayed when they had to replace the alternator in their car. “Truth of the matter was we were both relieved that something beyond our control had prevented us being there. That way we didn’t have to feel guilty.”

They wanted him to get on the first available flight back to Europe. His mother had even put his name on standby for an Alitalia flight to Rome that left in two hours.

“Not until I’ve had some home cooking,” Joe joked, picking up his duffel bag.

Despite her nervousness, his mother outdid herself with some of his favorites—garlic grits, smothered pork chops, coleslaw with bacon and vinegar dressing, and strawberry shortcake for dessert. He knew that his parents didn’t eat like that anymore and that he shouldn’t either, but once in a while it sure was good.

And it felt good to crawl into his own bed rather than a narrow berth with not even enough headroom to sit up, although he did miss the motion of the ship plowing through the waves. More and more of late his before-sleep musings turned to Jamie.

He had really screwed things up with her.

He’d all but decided it was time to expand the parameters of their relationship when Marcia took his hand and led him out onto a tiny crowded dance floor in a downtown Austin bar and plastered her body against his. At the end of the dance, she led him to the ladies’ room, where she pushed him down on the toilet seat and straddled him. As they walked back to the dance floor, she reached over and shook his hand, then said, “I’m Marcia.”

Joe had been screwing Marcia for almost a year when he stopped at the dry cleaner’s to tell Jamie that he was getting married even though he wasn’t yet officially engaged. But he knew it was coming. Marcia expected it, and Joe felt like she was entitled.

Jamie seemed so forlorn, standing there at the counter in that dreary, steamy dry-cleaning establishment with rows of plastic-covered clothing hanging behind her, her hair damp with perspiration, putting on a brave, smiling face as she wished him well. A few weeks later he learned from his grandmother that Jamie had dropped out of school and gone back to Mesquite to look after the ailing Gladys. Joe knew he should call her. Or drive up for a weekend. But he hadn’t. Marcia would have expected to come with him to meet his grandparents. And he didn’t think he could face Jamie with Marcia at his side. Of course, no words had ever been spoken between him and Jamie. And there had been almost no touching—only high fives and crashing into each other when they grabbed at rebounds. But there was a place in his heart that belonged exclusively to the long-legged little girl whom he’d watched grow up into a lovely young woman with the most beautiful smile imaginable and eyes that glowed when she looked at him. But he felt kind of stupid being hung up on a kid, especially one who considered him a big brother of sorts. And if his thoughts about her turned the least bit sexual, he felt like a pedophile. Then, after Jamie developed into a shapely young woman, sexual thoughts seemed incestuous. She was still in high school when he started law school. And Marcia was gorgeous and funny and outrageously inventive when it came to sex.

For the most part, he hadn’t allowed himself to have anything but the most ethereal sort of daydreams about Jamie.

But not always.

Joe awakened early and went for a run. There was a FedEx truck parked at the end of the block. The dark tint of the windows prevented him from seeing who was inside. Since when was FedEx tinting its truck windows, he wondered.

He headed for the track at the high school, where he did laps for almost an hour. When he returned, the FedEx truck had been replaced by a black panel truck with tinted windows.

He smelled the coffee as soon as he opened the door. His parents were in the kitchen, his mother at the stove, his father setting the table. When the phone rang, Joe had gotten there first.

And now, he stood facing his wonderful parents who loved him completely and would do anything for him and said, “I have to go.”

Tears began to roll down his mother’s face. “Please, no,” she said, her head moving back and forth. “When Jamie first called I wanted you to help her. But whatever trouble she’s gotten herself into is too big, Joe. Too dangerous.”

His father nodded his agreement. “Wait until they catch her. Then maybe you can help with the legal side of things.”

Joe considered. He could do that, of course. But something in his gut told him that Jamie’s problem was outside the normal boundaries of the law. She knew something that she was not supposed to know. At one time, he would have encouraged her to turn herself in no matter how frightened she was and let the law straighten things out, but the more he learned about the law, the more he realized that being innocent sometimes wasn’t enough. The rule of law was like religion. At its heart it might be pure, but all too often it was bent by those in power to serve their purposes.

Strong voices within him warned him that getting involved in Jamie’s problem could be his undoing and cause his parents great anguish. He should look the other way.

But what kind of person would he be if he did that?

Or was it just that he was in love with Jamie Long and had been most of his life? And she never even knew it.

“I have to try to help her,” he told his parents.

The look on their faces was one of absolute fear with just a touch of pride. He was across the kitchen in an instant and put his arms around the two of them. “You’re all we have,” his mother cried, clinging to him.

Joe showered and ate breakfast. The black panel truck followed him to the bank, where he cashed out a CD.

He waited until dark—a long day, with the three of them trying to act normal as they watched a golf tournament on television and puttered about the kitchen fixing first lunch and then dinner. After the late news, he went upstairs to his bedroom. He waited until midnight, put on his backpack, and crawled out of his bedroom window onto one of the thick, spreading branches of the ancient post oak that had been the reason his parents had built their home on this particular lot.

Keeping well in the shadows cast by the six-foot fence, Joe made his way to the back of the yard, scrambled over the fence, and dropped into another backyard. He went along the side of the house toward the street. Before he stepped out of the shadows, he watched a long time for any movement.

He took a circuitous route to the storage facility on Gessner Road. When he arrived he hid behind the small office building for twenty or so minutes. Finally convinced that he had not been followed, he entered the code on the punch pad to unlock the outer gate, then closed it behind him.

He got a bit of a thrill when he opened the overhead door to his storage unit and saw the vintage Harley parked there among the other possessions that he’d acquired during his Austin years.

Minutes later, he was on his way. Even though he was fairly certain that he was not being followed, he rode around the Memorial area for a time, then took a turn through downtown and headed south on Galveston Road. Only when he was absolutely certain that he was in the clear did he make a U-turn and head north, cutting over to Interstate 45. He then took I-610 to Highway 290, which took him into Brenham. He was there before dawn and checked into a generic motel where he slept for a few hours, then ate a huge breakfast at a pancake house and got directions to the Independence Cemetery from the waitress. He arrived well before noon, parked his bike in the back of the cemetery, and wandered around for a time. With its stately old trees and ancient tombstones, the cemetery was a poignantly beautiful place. Maybe someday he and Jamie could come back here and poke around.

He waited until after one o’clock, and since he hadn’t passed any semblance of an eating establishment on the ride out from Brenham, he made his way back to the town. He ate lunch in a vintage hotel and wandered around the quaint downtown for a time.

Around five, he headed back up Highway 50 to the cemetery. He waited until dark before heading back to town.

He downed a few beers at a tavern to take the edge off his disappointment, then fell asleep watching TV in his motel room.

The next morning he killed time poking around the rolling countryside, arriving at the cemetery well before noon. He wandered up and down the rows of headstones, glancing up every time a car approached, which wasn’t very often.

At two, he got on the Harley and headed back to town. At five-thirty he was back at the cemetery. Once again there were no people, no vehicles, no Jamie.

But it was not yet dusk.

To pass the time he began to make a more methodical inspection of the cemetery. He hadn’t taken two steps when he saw a pair of tattered athletic shoes jutting out from behind a tombstone.

The wearer of the shoes was a sleeping female with a baby in her arms. Her face and arms were sunburned and smudged with dirt. Her brown hair was dusty and disheveled. Her clothing was filthy. She looked limp—more like she had passed out than fallen asleep. The baby was awake and seemed to be studying the gently moving leaves on the low-hanging branch of a live oak.

He felt as though he should look further. This person could not be Jamie. Jamie had long, beautiful blond hair. Jamie was a lovely young woman. This woman wasn’t lovely. And Jamie wouldn’t have a baby.

But this person had her long legs. And the sweet curve of her chin.

He knelt and put a hand on her shoulder. When she opened her eyes, she smiled.

“Jamie?”

“Hi,” she said, struggling to a sitting position, the baby cradled in one arm. He grabbed her free arm and helped her to her feet. Once she was upright, she closed her eyes for a few seconds and took a deep breath.