Authors: Rick Mofina
41
Garland, Texas
A
lush grove of oak trees gave Remy and Mason cool sanctuary at the edge of the I-30 truck stop southwest of Garland.
They were nearly out of sight, sitting back in the shade on the soft grass. The baby was content lying on their blanket. Remy had just fed him and was engrossed in the news reports she was reading on her laptop. Mason was studying a new map that he’d folded precisely. Take-out wrappers, drink cups and grease-stained bags dotted the blanket.
They’d been driving across the Metroplex for the past few hours.
Their pickup truck was the only vehicle at the far end of the lot. To anyone who saw them, they were a young family enjoying a private picnic.
The hum of freeway traffic rushing along the causeway over Lake Ray Hubbard was punctuated by the growl and grind of rigs wheeling in an out of the Exxon station. Remy lifted her face to the ensuing breezes. It calmed her and she paused, allowing herself to believe that she and Mason were really on their way now. They were really closer to their dream. She reached for Caleb to stroke his cheek lovingly. But touching him underscored her aching emptiness, her overwhelming sadness over the baby she’d lost and all that she’d been through.
Remy battled her painful maternal feelings as she gazed at Caleb.
Your mother does not deserve you. No one deserves you more than me. I saved you. It was all meant to be. You’re MY angel.
Yes, it’s all meant to be.
Just like it was with Mason, the way he knew, absolutely knew that we had to get out of the motel at the right time. Thank God he talked some sense into me. I was not thinking right when I walked to the park. He was so smart to get us out of our motel before the police found us.
Remy went back to the news stories about the SWAT action at the Tumbleweed Motel. It was such a close call. Still, she didn’t think that the police sketches accompanying the reports looked much like her and Mason. He’d let his beard grow, wore sunglasses and long sleeves to cover his tattoos. She touched her short dark hair while considering other ways to ensure that she didn’t resemble the wanted woman in the sketches in any way.
Remy found a new story by the Associated Press, which reported that the FBI was still relying heavily on the public’s help in the tornado baby case. Agents had little information on the two people using the aliases of Luke and Ashley Johnson of Houston. Remy knew that Mason had changed their plate again after they’d pulled away from the motel. He’d been careful, even lining up a place for them to go and, judging by everything that she’d read, she and Mason still had an advantage.
“We were lucky to get out of the motel when we did. It was a good call, babe,” Remy said.
“Damn straight, it was.” Mason lifted his attention from the map, but when he saw her caressing the baby his jaw tensed. “Stop that,” he said.
“Stop what?”
Mason slapped Remy’s hand away from Caleb.
“Hey!” she said.
“You’re not keeping him, so don’t get attached.”
“Don’t you ever, ever hit me!” Remy’s breathing quickened as she glared at Mason. Since they’d left the motel, he was tense, irritable and sweating, which signaled that he needed his drugs. She hated it when he got that way. She glanced at the bulge in the blanket near him where he’d put his gun. She also hated it when he carried that thing around.
He stared at her for a long, cool, moment.
“We’re under a lot of pressure,” he said. “Once we get to my friend’s place we’ll be totally off the grid. That’s when we’ll call the agency, close this deal, get our money and be gone. I know a guy who’ll help us get new identities, good ones with social security, passports, everything. We’ll freakin’ disappear.” Mason looked at his cell phone on the blanket next to his soda then pursed his lips. “Lamont better damn well give up the location. I gave that mother a lot of money.”
Mason glanced around at the tractor trailers and rubbed his lips.
“I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up,” he said. “Sooner or later they’ll get on to us, and if your agency in Chicago finds out, there’s no way they’ll take the kid. We’ve got to get off the grid to keep the heat off.”
“I don’t think those drawings look like us.” Remy was working on her laptop. “Besides, I thought of something I can do to help. It’s a bit risky but if you keep your cool, you can pull it off.”
She turned her screen to him and he approved of what he saw.
“All right, that’s near here. Let’s go,” he said.
* * *
Less than two miles from the truck stop, Mason and Remy turned into the parking lot of a strip mall. Sandwiched between Aunt Marva’s Donuts and On-the-Spot Payday Loans was Flo’s Fabulous Hair Emporium. Remy stayed in the truck with the baby while Mason entered the hair shop.
Bells chimed on the transom.
Scores of blank faces of mannequin heads crowned with every style and color of hair you could think of stared at Mason from displays and shelves.
It was creepy.
The store wasn’t busy. A woman was behind the counter replacing paper in a small credit card terminal. She had long straight black hair, a dark tan and revealed bright white teeth when she smiled.
“How can I help you today, sir?”
“Well, I’d like to get a couple of wigs for my wife.”
“You’ve come to the right place. Is she going to be joining you?”
“No. She told me what to get.”
“Well, what color and style is she looking for? Short, long, curly, straight?”
“She said she wanted a blond, sorta long and wavy and an auburn one about the same and curly, sorta.”
“Hmm.” The woman left the counter and led Mason to a side display. Mason detected a hint of citrus-scented perfume. “Do you know if she prefers synthetic or human hair?”
“What’s the difference?”
“They’re both nice, but with top-of-the-line synthetic the curls keep, even in the rain, while human hair is more natural.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter then.”
The woman reached for a head with a blond wig.
“How about this one? It’s got layered spiral curls, about fourteen inches, that’s shoulder length, and it’s got a stretch skin cap. It’s synthetic fiber.”
“Looks good. I’ll take it.”
“That was easy.” She then moved down the row and picked up a head wearing a dark-colored wig, which was shorter but fuller.
“This one is auburn, synthetic, styled in a layered bob with sweeping bangs and—” she turned the head “—soft curls in the back.”
“I like it. I’ll take that one, too.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to see some others?”
“No, these two are good.”
“All right, let me package this all up for you.”
The woman took the two heads bearing the wigs, set them on the front counter then glanced through her storefront to the parking lot at the pickup truck parked out front.
“Is that your wife in the truck with the baby?”
Mason turned to follow her attention then saw Remy and the baby. “Oh, yes.”
She hesitated as if stopping to address a sudden concern.
“Is there a problem?” Mason asked.
“Um, no.” The woman smiled, shifting her concentration back to the counter. “Most women want to be custom fitted. Are you sure your wife doesn’t want to come in for a custom fit and style? It comes with the wigs at no charge.”
“No, I think we’re good that way.”
Mason watched her closely as she shifted her focus back to the sale.
“Okay. I’ll just get some foam heads and box these up for you. They’re one-fifty each, plus tax. But if you’re military or hit by the tornado, we’ll give you twenty percent off.”
“I’m not military—my dad was. But we did get caught in the storm.”
“Is everybody okay?”
“We’re still a bit shaky, but I need to get going.”
“Of course. And how would you like to pay, sir?”
“Is cash all right?
“It certainly is.”
Mason left with the woman watching him through the window. For an instant, as he reached for the truck’s door, they exchanged a glance.
* * *
As the customer got into the cab of his truck, the clerk bit her lip.
That was very weird, she thought.
Then she reached for her phone and searched for the news story about the baby kidnapped in the storm.
She found the number for the police tip line.
Maybe she should call.
No. She put her phone down. But that was definitely odd.
* * *
Mason returned to the truck, gave the boxes to Remy, who was fussing over the baby in his car seat. Before turning the ignition, Mason checked his phone and cursed it. No messages from Lamont. Mason took a moment to think where they could go then started the truck and pulled away from the strip mall.
Remy opened the boxes with the wigs.
“Oh, these are nice. They’re gonna work fine, babe.”
But Mason wasn’t listening.
He was a little worried about the strange look from the saleswoman at the wig store but shook it off. He had bigger problems, chiefly the fact that Lamont still hadn’t contacted him. Mason speculated on the reason. Did Lamont rip him off? Did he turn him in? Mason ran the back of his hand across his mouth. They had gone about six blocks and turned from a quiet street onto a busy thoroughfare.
That’s when they heard the wail of a siren behind them.
42
Garland, Texas
R
ed-and-blue police lights blazed in Mason’s rearview mirror.
“Oh God, what’re we going to do?” Remy looked over her shoulder.
Mason tightened his grip on the wheel and he kept an eye on the mirror, on the grill of a marked police unit coming up behind him fast.
“Quit gawking at him,” Mason told Remy. “This can’t be for us. He’ll go around.”
But the patrol car didn’t go around them. It stayed right behind their pickup truck until the cop got close enough to read a plate.
If that’s what he’s doing
.
The siren was blaring, shredding Mason’s nerves. His reflex was to take the next turn while his gut was screaming at him to flee. Punch the gas and run because there was no way he was going back inside.
Damn it, why isn’t that guy going around us?
Options blurred through Mason’s mind. He eyed the mirror for any telltale signs the cop had read his plate and called it in. The cop hadn’t reached for his microphone. He was not on a cell phone. His mouth wasn’t moving like he was talking to a dispatcher on a hands-free unit.
Nothing like that.
So why’s he coming up hard on my ass?
“MASON, LOOK OUT!!!”
Standing on the road directly in front of them was another police officer, his arm extended and finger pointed at Mason. His free hand hovered over his holstered sidearm. Eyes fixed on Mason as he braked hard, the cop pointed for him to pull over to the right, up close behind another parked vehicle, a white Toyota, and shut the truck off.
The siren behind him made a last loud yelp before it went silent as the patrol car parked tight behind the pickup truck so that Mason could not drive out. The emergency lights lit up the cab with pulsating intensity.
“Goddamn it,” Mason growled under his breath.
“GOD-DAMN-IT!”
It had all gone down so fast.
“This isn’t good.” Remy pulled the baby from his car seat and held him as she craned her neck in both directions. “What the hell’s going on?”
Watching the cop on the road and the cop in the car behind him, Mason dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, assessing what had befallen them. Suddenly he reached under his seat for his gun and tucked it under his left leg.
“Mason, no! Oh Christ, what’re you doing?”
“I’m not going back inside.”
“Mason, don’t! I’m begging you!”
The driver’s door of the car behind them opened and the officer got out quickly. “Please stay in your vehicle!” he said, keeping his hand on the grip of his holstered weapon as he trotted past them while talking into his shoulder microphone.
Surveying the situation Mason saw people in the Toyota in front of them waiting in their vehicle, then realized more people were doing the same in the line of cars and trucks that had been stopped up ahead.
Other police vehicles were blocking the intersection.
This is a choke point. Something’s going on,
Mason thought.
The running officer joined the other officer in the street. Then two more cops came from behind, ran alongside Mason’s pickup truck. Their portable radios were turned up loud and crackling with transmissions as they jogged down the line of cars.
Several long moments passed. In all, about fifteen heart-pounding minutes went by before Mason and Remy saw one of the marked police units in the street drive off, its tires squealing.
One officer on the road began directing the line of cars to flow back into traffic, while other officers walked in a relaxed manner by the pickup truck.
“I think it’s over, Mason,” Remy said.
“Excuse me, Officer?” the woman in the Toyota asked one of them.
A cop stopped at the Toyota, close enough for Mason to hear.
“What’s going on?” the Toyota woman asked. “What happened?”
“A bank was robbed,” the young officer said. “The suspect was in the area. They grabbed him about seven blocks from here.”
“Wow, glad to hear it. Good work, thanks.” The woman started her car.
“Wait.” The cop stepped forward and pointed at Mason and his heart skipped.
“You folks should put your baby in the car seat before you drive off,” the officer said.
“Yes, sir.” Remy smiled and secured Caleb Cooper.
43
Lancaster, Texas
I
was so close to Caleb at that motel.
Jenna could almost feel her baby boy, almost smell him and taste the sweetness of his cheek. How she ached to hold him in her arms again. She’d been awake most of the night in their room at the Embassy Suites, watching over Cassie and Blake and staring out the window into the night.
Caleb’s out there. Please keep him safe. I need him back. Please.
Yesterday, they’d come so close to catching that sick, scheming red-haired woman and her boyfriend at the motel. Now, in the hour before dawn, Jenna prayed with each passing minute for her phone to ring with news from the FBI, Kate or Frank. From anybody.
She’d lost her mind at the motel to fear, to anger and panic before FBI Agents Grogan and Quinn took her and Blake inside and told them all that they could.
Grogan said that the motel manager had called 911 because he was certain a man and woman with a baby, fitting the descriptions reported in the press, were guests. The Dallas SWAT team took action, but the people remained at large. The FBI’s crime-scene experts were processing the room, which would take time. It was challenging because a motel staffer had cleaned it thoroughly. The FBI was continuing its investigation.
“We know this is difficult for you, but I give you my word we’ll keep you updated,” Grogan said. “But our primary focus is taking immediate action on valid leads in order to find Caleb and return him home safe to you.”
Not long after the sun rose, Jenna was oblivious to the sounds of Holly and Garrett rising in the next room. She barely noticed Blake and Cassie getting up and dressing, then the smell of coffee and scrambled eggs.
“Jen, we got you some breakfast from downstairs,” Holly said.
“You’re not sleeping and you’re not eating,” Blake said. “Come on, hon. Have something.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t.”
“I’m sad, too, Mommy. Just take one bite,” Cassie said, using a line Jenna had used on her when she fussed over food.
“Please, Jen,” Blake said before his cell phone rang and he answered. “Hey, Doug,. Yeah...thanks. We’re doin’ our best. Thanks... No, go ahead... Really? Now, today? Okay, thanks.”
Blake hung up then turned to Jenna as Holly and Garrett joined them.
“What is it?” Jenna asked.
“That was Doug Carlin, our neighbor. We have to go to our house.”
Since the storm and Caleb’s disappearance, Jenna had not been to their home. It was gone, and her attention was on Caleb.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why? Why do we need to go now?
“Doug said there are officials in our neighborhood and there are deadlines this morning for permits and insurance.”
“No,” Jenna said. “I don’t care. Without Caleb we don’t have a home. Our home is here.” Jenna jabbed her thumb to her heart. “Where we are. And we’ll put it back together when we have him.”
“Jen.” Blake got down on one knee before her. “I know. We all want Caleb back more than anything. But we have to go. They need both our signatures and there are things there we’ll want to keep, things belonging to Caleb.”
Tears streamed down Jenna’s face, then she felt the small strong warmth of Cassie’s arms around her.
“Don’t cry, Mommy.”
* * *
Garrett and Blake sat up front in the rented SUV.
Jenna and Holly sat in the back holding Cassie’s hands as they drove to the south end of the Metroplex and into Lancaster.
They lived in One Mile River estates, a family neighborhood of modest bungalows on curving kid-friendly streets sheltered by tall green ash and cottonwoods. But Jenna’s first thought when they neared One Mile was that they’d taken a wrong turn.
This isn’t it.
She couldn’t recognize the community. Everything was flattened.
A Lancaster police car and a couple of city emergency vehicles were posted at a barricade blocking the entrance to the street where Jenna and Blake lived. Beyond it, nothing but a wasteland of rubble.
“Sorry,” a police officer said. “Access is restricted. Only residents with permits can enter, or emergency people or press.”
“My wife and I are residents,” Blake said.
“Okay, then this is what you’ll have to do.”
Blake had to show acceptable proof of residency, such as his driver’s license, to a city official in a truck nearby. The official issued the Coopers a temporary permit for access to their address and advised them to assess and record the damage. Other officials in fluorescent vests emerged and directed them on recovery, noting that most insurance companies had adjusters on-site. There was talk about inspections, the replacement process, applying for living expenses, insurance forms, requirements, deadlines and all available services from groups like the Red Cross and the Salvation Army.
“There’s no gas, no water and no electricity, so make sure you have flashlights and your cell phones are charged,” one official said. “And as you see on the permit, there’s a curfew.”
Garrett had thought to bring a flashlight if they needed it. Blake had ensured they charged phones at night at the hotel. Once they were set, they began walking in but had trouble locating their home.
Their neighborhood was obliterated, street signs and landmarks were gone. The trees had been shredded, stripped, uprooted, leaving jagged pronglike branches spearing the sky, reminiscent of images found in footage of a war zone.
Cars had been flipped and crumpled, like emptied soda cans, roofs had been torn from houses; some homes were severed, exposing bedrooms, living rooms, bathrooms. Furniture had been tossed to lawns that resembled landfill sites with debris everywhere. The air smelled of damp earth, garbage, backed-up sewers and loss.
Jenna, Blake, Cassie, Holly and Garrett walked in silence, reverently observing neighbors picking through the aftermath to the rip-crack of plywood being smashed or moved, punctuated with soft weeping, then the subdued joy as someone recovered a treasure. “I found the box with Mom and Dad’s wedding rings!” or “I found the picture album!”
They came to their address.
Jenna and Blake stared at the heap that had been their home.
Jenna’s chin trembled. Blake pulled her and Cassie close as together they confronted the fact that their home was gone.
Garrett and Holly touched their shoulders in consolation. There was nothing to say and the small group stood in mourning for a long moment until a neighbor greeted them.
“I’m so damn sorry,” Doug Carlin, a seventy-year-old retired U.S. Marine Sergeant, said. “About Caleb, about your house. Bev and I have been asking the good Lord to step up to the plate for you, Blake.”
“Thanks, Doug,” he said, “and thanks for calling me.”
“We lost our place, too, and down the way—” Carlin pointed his wooden walking stick “—the McKinley’s and the Franklins didn’t make it. They were killed in the storm. We found Del and Sam in each other’s arms in the kitchen. The roof came down on them. This place got hit bad, no doubt about it.” Carlin glanced around. “I’ll let you get to it. You got my cell, I got yours. I’ll keep you posted on things here while you do what you gotta do to find your baby. God bless you, now.”
Jenna hugged him, and after Carlin left, Garrett asked Blake the name of their insurance company.
“I’ll head down the street and ask around to get an adjuster to come over and talk to you,” Garrett said.
“I got a card.” Blake reached for his wallet. “We just updated the policy last year, when we knew we— Well, when we knew we were having another child.”
Blake gave the card to Garrett then, after cautioning Cassie to be careful around the debris, Blake and Holly started sifting through it for valuables.
“KAY-leb!” Cassie crouched down and called into the wreckage for her baby brother. “Are you in there, KAY-leb!”
Jenna didn’t move.
This is our old life,
she thought,
the old life that I lived. The life I loved is gone—it’s never coming back. This life has stopped. It stopped the moment Caleb was taken from me. Our new life won’t start; it can’t start until I’m holding my baby again. I don’t care about the old house, about
things.
Finding Caleb and putting our family back together is what we have to do.
At that moment, Jenna’s heart skipped for she heard the familiar soft sound of Caleb’s rattle and turned.
“Look, Mommy!” Cassie held up the small yellow plastic ball by its handle. “I found Caleb’s rattle.”
Hearing it was balm for Jenna’s broken heart, and she swept Cassie up in her arms and kissed her. “Good work, sweetheart!”
“I think we should keep it for him for when we fix our home better.”
“I think so, too.”
Jenna turned to see Kate Page standing at the edge of the property.