Forty-three
MARY STOOD AT the gas pump, watching the taillights on Ruth’s truck grow smaller, wondering if she hadn’t gone off the same deep end as Ruth had. She’d just allowed two possible felons to go free, and was sending an emotionally unstable woman on a five-hour drive on the outside chance she might find her baby. Even the greenest cop would groan at such ineptitude, but she figured the prospect of finding Lily would pull Ruth along like a homing beam, and the Mexicans were much like her, creatures who’d simply gotten caught in the web spun by Stump Logan.
“I hope to hell you’ve figured right, kiddo,” she told herself, pulling out her cell phone. She needed to get in touch with Jane Frey.
A black van pulled up to the gas pump. A teenage boy in an orange jacket descended from the driver’s seat, giving Mary an odd look. She supposed she did look strange, standing at a gas bay without a vehicle to fill, but she didn’t care. Curiously, she felt safe outside—able to see everything around her and run, should the need arise. Inside, in the claustrophobic aisles of the gas station convenience store, Logan could sneak up on her, leaving her no way of escape.
She turned her back to the gas-pumping boy and punched in Jane Frey’s number. This time Jane answered immediately. Mary asked if she’d had any luck finding Lily in Margaritaville, and smiled when Jane, unsurprisingly, said no.
“That’s because its highly likely she’s in Atlanta,” said Mary.
“What do you mean?”
Mary filled her in on the Tender Shepherd Home, Edwina Templeton, and the pair of Mexicans who’d so willingly admitted their complicity.
“So where are the Mexicans now?” asked Jane.
“I’m not sure,” Mary replied. “But they aren’t important. Right now, I need your help. I want to set a trap for the man who started all this.”
“You must be kidding.”
“No, listen…”
“I am listening. I’ve no doubt you’re hell on wheels in a Georgia courtroom, Ms. Crow. But this is Tennessee, and you are not a cop.”
“But—”
“End of story. It’s absolutely out of the question. You stay right where you are. I’m coming to get you. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Jane clicked off, letting Mary know that as far as she was concerned, setting a trap for Logan was not an option.
Mary frowned. Now she would have to wait and talk Jane into this in person. Wary, she looked around. It was not the busiest of nights. Three pumps over, a tall, professorial-looking man was gassing up a Miata just like hers. Inside the station, the clerk watched a small television behind the counter. She saw nothing in the scraggly underbrush into which the Mexicans had fled. Nothing out of the ordinary at all except her—the lone car-less woman making phone calls at the pump.
She clicked on her phone and dialed the number of Vanderbilt Hospital. The phone started to connect when a flurry of static assailed her ears. She glanced behind her. Another van had just pulled up to the pump, this one white.
He must be interrupting my signal, she thought, moving a few feet away. Again she waited anxiously for Gabe to answer. How good it would be to hear his voice! She had so much she wanted to say, but as the phone began to ring, she felt a sharp sting on the side of her neck. Assuming it was some gnat or fly, she tried to brush the thing away, but instead, she was suddenly engulfed by a huge wave of weakness, as if every muscle in her body had turned to jelly. The phone slipped from her fingers as her knees collapsed. She dropped to the ground, the left side of her face landing in a shallow puddle of black motor oil. She tried to move both her arms and legs, but her muscles would not respond. Her mind reeled, frantic to regain control of her body, wondering if she’d had some kind of stroke. All at once, two boots appeared in front of her eyes.
“Hey, Mary,” came the same deep voice who’d called her at the mall. “Glad we could finally get together.”
She tried to speak, but her tongue would not move. She felt hands patting her down, lifting her purse from her shoulder, then arms hoisting her up, carrying her somewhere. She heard a door slide open, then she smelled a sour, stale odor as she was dropped on what felt like a plastic tarp. Suddenly she saw a face, one eye drooping, greasy, unkempt whiskers covering cheeks and chin.
“You know, it’s never a good idea to hang around gas stations at night.” Logan’s breath was cloying and intimate on her face. “You never know what kind of trouble you might get into.” Desperately she tried to move, an arm, a leg, an eyelash, but her body would not respond.
What had he done to her? Why couldn’t she move? She watched, helpless, as Logan withdrew a plastic sandwich bag from his back pocket. Grinning, he opened the little bag and removed a white square of cloth no bigger than a deck of cards. “This won’t hurt a bit, Mary,” he said, and clamped the cloth over her nose.
She tried to scream, then to hold her breath, but it was impossible. Soon she sucked in a noseful of air that smelled like fermenting pears. She held that breath until her eyes began to water, then she had to breathe again. With that breath the world began to spin. Then her third breath came easier, and with her last breath she felt as if she were dreaming, running down an endless hall on legs of air, with Logan’s words reverberating in her ears.
“Just like I said before, Mary. You’re as dumb a fuck as your dad.”
Miles to the east, in Nikwase County, Tennessee, Jonathan Walkingstick also dreamed of running. In reality, he was walking, an endless circuit of his cell, ten strides down, four strides across, then repeating the process to the point that he’d driven his cell mate into a frenzy. As Jonathan crossed the top end of the grim little enclosure, Happy Lavalais bolted up on his cot and looked at Jonathan, wild-eyed. “So what is it with you, eh? You gonna walk all night and drive everybody crazy?”
“Everybody’s only you, Lavalais,” Jonathan replied. “And you’re crazy already.”
“So? Crazy people need sleep, too,” Lavalais shot back. “Or else they grow crazier.”
Jonathan snorted. He could tell Lavalais a lot about what drove people crazy, and it sure wasn’t losing your eight hours of sack time. “Roll over, Lavalais. Put that pillow over your face and breathe deep.”
“Fuck you,” Lavalais muttered, flopping back down on his cot.
He wasn’t intentionally trying to drive Lavalais nuts. He’d tried to sleep, last night, after Ruth left. Lay down on his cot, pulled the scratchy wool blanket over his shoulders, but every time he closed his eyes all he could see was Lily, in those pictures. The thought of someone stripping her naked and leaving her crying at a gravestone sent such a rage through him that he’d gotten up and started ramming his cot against the cell door. His third blow sent plaster dusting down from the ceiling; his fourth blow turned his cot to kindling; the next blow brought in his old buddies, Deputies Jenkins and Green. A few minutes later his cot was gone and he was lying in the corner, clutching two of the teeth they’d knocked from his jaw.
His fury, though, had raged on unabated. When he could get up without seeing double, he’d risen to his feet and started to walk. Up one side of the cell, down the other, stepping over Lavalais. Around and around. Every time he stopped, he felt that crazy rage start boiling through his veins all over again, so he’d continued his pacing. Though it got him no closer to Lily, at least it kept him marginally sane.
It had been twenty-four hours since he’d said goodbye to Ruth. He’d heard nothing from her or the lawyer she was supposed to have called. His only news came from Mrs. McClellan, the lady who brought their meals. She’d said Dula was still working on the case, but had nothing to report. He turned at one corner of the cell and began his miserable march to the other end. Dear God, he wondered. How could everything have gone so wrong?
His route took him toward Lavalais now, his tread as regular as the beat of a clock. Just as he reached the man’s cot, Lavalais leapt to his feet.
“I tell you to quit walking, you crazy bastard!” Lavalais screamed, grabbing him by his collar. “You are like an animal in a cage!”
“Get your hands off me.” Staring into Lavalais’ bloodshot eyes, Jonathan shoved him backward. The angry Jamaican staggered, and fell against his cot. It wobbled, then broke under his weight, making a loud, splintering crash.
“You son of a bitch! You broke my bed!” Lavalais snarled, picking up one dismembered leg of the cot and swinging it at Jonathan’s shin. When Jonathan kicked it from his hand, Lavalais threw himself at Jonathan’s knees. Both men grappled on the floor, grunting and cursing.
They fought their way to the middle of the cell before a door opened and lights came on. Jonathan looked up to see Green and Jenkins standing there, grinning.
“Lookee there,” said Green. “Rolling around like cats in heat. Did Happy try to put it to you, Walkingstick? Or are you missing your little wife and child so much you decided to bugger him?”
“Fuck you, Green,” called Jonathan as Lavalais landed a painful jab on his broken ribs.
“Aw, don’t get ugly, Tonto. I was just coming to give you some news about your kid.”
“You what?” Jonathan looked at the whey faced man.
“You heard me. We just got a call about her, not twenty minutes ago.”
“What?” Jonathan disengaged himself from Lavalais, sorry that he’d paced, sorry that he’d broken his cot, sorry that he’d done anything that might keep him from hearing news of Lily. He grasped the bars. “What did you hear?’’
“Oh, just that they’d found her.” Green leaned against the door jamb and casually examined his manicure. “Down in Atlanta, wasn’t it?” he added, looking at his partner.
“Yep.” Jenkins nodded in agreement.
“Is she alright?” asked Jonathan.
“What was it they said?” Again Green turned to Jenkins for corroboration. “She got adopted. By a couple in Florida.”
“Adopted?” Jonathan felt as if someone had plunged an ice pick into his gut. He wanted to cry, to scream. How had strangers adopted his Lily?
“Yeah.” Green gave up looking at his nails and grinned at Jonathan. “The law down there tried to stop her, but they got there just a few minutes too late.” The deputy chuckled. “Your little girl’s gone,Walkingstick. Next time you see her again, she’ll be wearing bikinis and fucking boys on some beach.”
“Wait,” Jonathan pleaded, the world spinning crazily as the two switched off the light and started to leave the room. “Those people can’t just adopt a child who already has parents!”
Green shrugged. “I reckon if they got enough money, Walkingstick, they can pretty much do what they damn well please.”