Vicious Cycle (10 page)

“No, nobody’s been here for her since she came in by ambulance.”

Sorrow rushed over Barbara. Once again, this baby’s needs were being neglected by her family. Had Lance cared more about her than her own flesh and blood? Tears filled her eyes. “Could I … rock her or something?”

“Sure, we can always use volunteers to do that.”

The nurse scooped the baby up and put her in Barbara’s arms.

“Do you know her name?” the nurse asked.

Barbara shook her head. “I don’t think they’ve named her yet. If they did, they didn’t tell my son.”

“Your son?”

“He’s a friend of the mother.”

The nurse pulled a rocking chair over. “You can rock her right here. Just don’t let the leads pull off, and watch the IV on her foot. It was the best place to find a vein on her. She’s having some drug withdrawal.”

Barbara nodded. “Her mother’s a crystal meth addict.”

“That’s what the tox screen showed, among other things.”

Barbara knew that Xanax was probably in the mix, since meth addicts used anxiety drugs to cushion their crashes. Withdrawing from that drug would have neurological implications for the baby. She hoped she could overcome it.

The nurse nodded. “We’ve got her on some medication to help with the seizures. It makes her really sleepy.”

Barbara sat down, enjoying the feel of the child in her arms. It brought back so many memories. When Emily and Lance were babies, when John had been alive and they’d on
a whole new phase of life called Parenthood, everything had seemed perfect. She’d never in her wildest dreams imagined herself a widow with one child in drug treatment and the other in jail.

Failure throbbed through her head.

“Is she going to be all right?” she managed to ask.

“Probably. She may have some developmental delays, but lately we’ve seen some good studies that say these babies can rebound and do very well, depending on their care.”

That was what worried Barbara. If Jordan kept this baby and continued to use crystal meth, what kind of life would she have? It was a violent home, rife with beatings and hostility—not a safe place for an innocent infant.

She rocked the baby, counting her tiny fingers and toes, trying to imagine Lance taking care of her. She didn’t think he’d ever held a baby in his life. Of all people, why would Jordan choose to give the baby to him?

Maybe because she knew Barbara would be there to help. Or maybe she just hadn’t had time to think. She’d probably been trying to save her baby any way she could.

As she rocked the child, she kept looking toward the window and the door, hoping Jordan would show up. But she never came.

Barbara’s phone beeped, and she saw the text she’d been expecting from Kent:
We’re thirty minutes out. See you then.

She responded,
I’ll be there waiting.

She checked her watch. It would take fifteen minutes to get to the airport. That gave her fifteen more minutes with the baby … fifteen minutes to wait for Jordan.

She stroked the baby’s curls, wondering if the trauma of her first day out of the womb would scar her for life. Barbara prayed that God would intervene and help this child. He was the only one who could.

F
atigue took hold of Kent as they made their final approach. Blake self-announced, since there wasn’t a tower and no one working the radio at the small airport this late. As the plane touched down, Kent scanned the area for Barbara’s headlights.

“There she is, buddy,” Blake said into his mike.

Kent spotted her car in the parking lot beside the small building. His heartbeat sped up as adrenaline kicked in. How long had it been since he’d seen her? Four or five months, at least. He hoped he didn’t look too rough, too old. It had been a long time since he’d showered and shaved this morning.

He pulled some breath mints out of his pocket, popped one in his mouth.

“Can’t wait to meet her,” Blake said.

“Do me a favor. Don’t let on that I’ve told you anything about her.”

“No problem. I won’t embarrass you.”

Blake pulled the plane onto the tarmac and cut off the engine. Kent welcomed the silence after the plane’s noise. “Go ahead and say hello,” he said. “I’ll tie her down and meet you at the car.”

“I don’t know how to repay you for this, Blake. You’re the man.”

“Yeah, well, if I ever get murdered, you can find my killer.”

“It’s a deal.”

Kent waited until the prop stopped turning, then got out and headed around the small building to Barbara’s car. She opened her door.

“Kent!”

Even in the dim light, she looked more beautiful than he remembered, though her eyes were red and she’d cried off any make-up she may have had on earlier. She threw her arms around his neck, and he lifted her a few inches off the ground and squeezed her.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said into his ear. “Thank you for coming.”

He held her a little too long, savoring the feel of her small frame in his arms, the tightness of her embrace, the feel of her neck against his lips. He set her down and pulled back. “What else could I do? I can’t let Lance go down for something he didn’t do.” He took her hand and led her back to the car. “Have you found Jordan?”

“No. She’s not at home or at the hospital.” She told him what she’d done in the hours since they’d last spoken. Kent breathed relief that she hadn’t gone off half-cocked to hunt down Jordan alone. She was an independent woman, and he
would have bet that she’d disregard his warnings in order to help her son. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

But she had listened and taken the attorney with her to the Rhodes house, and here she sat … safe and whole. Maybe now he could really help her.

When Blake got to the car, he introduced himself with an amused grin on his face. “Blake McCallister. Nice to meet you, Barbara.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “Thanks for bringing him.”

“I always love making cross-country night flights. It’s pure fun.”

They all piled in the car, Blake in the backseat. Kent couldn’t take his eyes off Barbara. “We can take Blake to a hotel, get our rooms, and then you and I can go and talk, if that’s all right.”

“Sounds good.” Barbara glanced at Blake in her rearview mirror. “Do you work with Kent, Blake?”

Blake shook his head. “No, we’re in a men’s group together at church.”

Church. The word brought a faint smile to Barbara’s lips. Kent knew that surprised her. He’d told her he was going to church, but he hadn’t elaborated, afraid she would think he was only trying to impress her.

“You’re in a men’s group?” she asked Kent. “What do you guys do?”

“We study the Bible,” Kent said. “Insult each other. Watch games together.”

“And we learn how to be manly men,” Blake said with a laugh as he slapped Kent’s shoulder.

His laughter was contagious. “Oh, I doubt either of you need help with that.”

“Tell it to my wife,” Blake said.

Kent chuckled and rested his arm on the back of her seat. “Don’t listen to him. His wife adores him.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You okay?”

“Better now,” she said, and her soft smile sent warmth through him. “I hope you can help. Lance has already been in jail for hours. I have to get him out. I can’t rest knowing he’s there.”

“I’ll do my best to resolve this tonight,” he said.

He hoped he wouldn’t let her down.

L
ance shrank into a back corner of the concrete cell, trying to stay out of the way, as fists began flying. His cellmates had turned on each other, even though they’d come in here as friends. They fought as if trying to kill each other, rage and blood behind every blow.

By the time the guards slid the door open and broke up the fight, Lance was drenched with sweat. He was nearly limp with relief when the guards marched all four of them out of their holding cell, Lance included, then led them upstairs to change into their prison clothes.

“I see any more trouble from you stupid juvies, and I’ll take care of you myself,” the guard warned the bruised, bloody boys.

Stupid Juvies.
He couldn’t believe he was considered a
juvenile delinquent. What if his school friends heard about this? How would he ever face any of them again?

Up on the next level, he was handed a mattress, blanket, jumpsuit, and flip-flops. The guard looked bigger and scarier than Mr. Bilhorn in history class, and he wasn’t bound by laws about teachers touching students. Lance had the feeling that this guard got his kicks slapping kids around when they smarted off to him.

After being treated in a way that would have been called abuse in any other setting, Lance stepped into his orange jumpsuit. It didn’t fit. The pants were too long. He looked like an idiot with the legs rolled up around his ankles, but he supposed that was the point.

The boys were divided into three groups headed for three destinations, depending on their ages. Only one of the guys was his age—the one with the bloody lip. They were handed off to another guard, then herded onto the elevator and taken up to the fourth floor.

Stepping out of the elevator, Lance saw the glass-enclosed pod he’d heard about in holding, and the guards’ room high above, where they observed the kids. The glass doors to the pod opened and the guard ushered them inside. Some of the guys clustered on the other side of the room got to their feet and leered at the newcomers with murderous eyes, and Lance felt the threat radiating over the room. Why were they looking at him like they already hated him?

He stood taller, chest out, refusing to show weakness, or they’d be on him in a moment, like hungry animals after fresh blood.

“I’ll kill those guys.” The words were muttered behind him, and he glanced back. Bloody Lip was leering at the guys across the room, and Lance realized that this guy was
the target of the hatred they felt. He decided to move away from the kid as soon as he could.

The guard led them to an empty cell with two beds and a desk. “Put your stuff down and wait for me. I’ll be back.”

Lance set his mattress down on one of the metal beds and glanced back at Bloody Lip, who lingered in the doorway, looking out as if expecting to be jumped. “Probably nothing’ll happen here,” Lance said. “The guards are watching. Those guys won’t want to get in more trouble than they’re already in.”

“You don’t know those dudes.” The kid turned around, tossed his foam pad onto the other bed. “I hate it here. I can’t believe I came back.”

“If we’re roommates we ought to know each other’s names. I’m Lance.”

The kid stared at him. “What kind of name is that? Lance.”

“Guess my mother had a white knight complex when she named me. Lancelot? You know, the prince?”

The guy breathed a derisive laugh. “How ‘bout I just call you Prince?”

Lance didn’t think that would go over well here. “I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t like nicknames. What do you want me to call you?”

“My name’s Turk.”

“Turk?” The guy looked Hispanic. “You don’t look like a Turk.”

“I do believe in nicknames, okay? Been called that since I was two.”

Lance glanced at the plastic ID card clipped to Turk’s jumpsuit. The kid’s name was really Juarez.

Turk sat down stiffly, his shoulders boxed and tense.

“So do you think anybody’ll come bail you out tonight?” Lance asked.

“I don’t have nobody to come.”

Lance shrugged. “I have my mom, but I don’t know what she can do this late at night.” His mouth was dry. He wished he had something to drink, but he doubted they had vending machines in a place like this. He didn’t have any money anyway. “They think I stole a baby. Who would do that?”

“Don’t matter what the charges are. If you don’t have nobody to bond you out, you just sit here until you rot or till some dude gets around to your paperwork and realizes they’ve held you too long.”

Lance knew his mother would never let that happen. “What about your mom?”

Turk got up and went to the door, peered out again. “You talk a lot, you know that?”

Lance swallowed. “Sorry.”

Silence passed between them for a few moments, then finally, Turk turned back. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I never depended on my mother, even before she killed herself.”

Lance sucked in a breath. “Suicide?”

“No, she OD’d on heroin.”

“Wow. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t shed one tear. All she gave me my whole life was grief.” He said it as though he was livid at Lance for asking, as though the memory had dragged up more violence.

Lance was sorry he’d asked. Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut? He looked at the floor, feeling a little more sympathy toward the kid.

Turk’s chin jutted out. “I been on my own since I was fourteen, and I do just fine.”

Lance’s eyes narrowed. The kid was apparently Lance’s age, since they’d ended up in the same group. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Why wasn’t Turk in foster care? Maybe the government just didn’t know about him.

Had he really been fending for himself since his mother died? He imagined being the child of a heroin addict. Turk had probably been raising himself for a lot longer than a couple of years.

“You got a dad?” Lance asked quietly, knowing he shouldn’t.

Turk blew out a laugh. “Yeah. Sure. I got a sweet old man who’ll drop everything and come bail me out and then go out back and toss a baseball around with me. That’s probably the kind of Daddy you have, right, Prince?”

Lance’s throat got tight. “My dad died.”

For the first time, Turk met his eyes. Did he think that gave them some point in common? As if he couldn’t bear the look on Lance’s face, he turned away. “Yeah, well, I never knew mine.”

“Grandparents? Aunts or uncles?”

“My granddad’s in jail for life. I only seen him a couple of times when we went to visit.”

Lance tried to imagine a grandfather in jail. It was too weird. “What did he do? Kill somebody?”

“Yep.”

Lance tried not to look shocked.

“All my relatives are dead or in jail or drunk somewhere.” An undercurrent of anger rippled on his voice.

Lance sat quietly, studying Turk. He had no right to judge his cellmate, he realized. Turk hadn’t had the same start Lance had, with a mom and dad who loved him and saw to his every need and protected him from trauma and pain.