Saving Poughkeepsie

by Debra Anastasia

  Nicholas left the room, looking as surly as always.

  Alison felt like crying, but the nurse and doctor were jubilant, completely oblivious to her feelings. It was as if a gun pointed at their heads had been lowered. He smiled, she joked. Alison looked out the window as her tears welled up.

  In another life, Flint would have loved this moment. She’d pictured it a million times: the positive result, twins even. But never anything like this.

  As weeks went by and spring crept over the city, the puzzle Vitullo had left behind was never far from Beckett’s mind. And it was definitely made worse by the fact that he wasn’t sharing it with Eve. He couldn’t. This sort of uncertainly just wasn’t fair. He’d done enough. He would honor her by sorting through this himself and presenting her with answers—if needed—when everything finally made sense.

  But because he lacked her wise counsel, her presence as a sounding board—and because Nicholas was the slippery bastard he was—it was slow going, and he was reduced to moments like this: impossible thoughts as he walked G. While his dog took care of business, Beckett began thinking about Rodolfo’s words, his promise to make Ted a grandfather. But Eve didn’t have a uterus. Why torture the nurse? What possible options could there be for a woman with no remaining reproductive system? Maybe the same as those for a woman with a non-functioning reproductive system? He knew only one person who was in touch with that particular problem. And it was a person he could trust: Cole.

  After giving the dog an organic chew treat, he left, shouting his good-bye to Spider. Cole was due to end his school day in less than twenty minutes, so he drove over to his house. No one was there, as he’d expected since Fairy Princess was back at work as well these days. Livia now provided what was likely the world’s best daycare for little JB at her house. It made him smile thinking of the cousins growing up together. Family mattered.

  A few minutes later, Cole pulled in behind him. Beckett got out and offered him an arm to shake. “All good things, just have a question,” Beckett quickly announced in response to the worry on Cole’s face.

  “Sure. Any time. Need a drink?” Cole opened the door and held it wide for Beckett as he disarmed the alarm.

  “Was it a bad day at school?” Beckett joked as Cole brought his messenger bag into the kitchen.

  “Water, brother. That’s what I’ve got for you. It’s three thirty in the afternoon.”

  “JB with Whitebread?” Beckett accepted a bottle of water from Cole.

  “Yep. He’s doing great. Been at it a couple weeks now, and Kyle and I are finally settling in, not climbing the walls. She was complaining that Mode had fallen to crap without her, so I know she’s glad to be back, but it’s just hard to be away.” Cole sat at the kitchen table with a sigh that sounded like he was happy to be off his feet.

  “How are all those crazy kids at school doing?” Beckett sat down as well, taking a huge gulp of water.

  “Good. Testing me as usual. I got this one kid—he reminds me so much of you. Son of a bitch will punch his way out of anything. Good kid. Horrible impulses.” Cole put a hand through his hair.

  “Sounds about right. Hey, can I ask you a weird, slightly personal question and rely on your Jesus ways to keep it private?” Beckett closed one eye and held his hands out palms up.

  “Of course. Fire away.” Cole put his feet up on one of the empty chairs.

  “Okay, so let’s say a woman can’t have kids—no inner apparatus and all that—could she still somehow have a baby? Like, scientifically?” Beckett put his hands behind his head and tried to ignore the feeling that he was telling secrets.

  Even after a long day, Cole could slide into confidante mode. “Is this about Eve?”

  “It could be. I just know you’ve probably done some research in this area.” Beckett waited to see what Cole would deduce.

  “As far as I know, from what Kyle shared, Eve has a total hysterectomy. So apart from cloning, which is way down the road and has dicey ethics, it’s not possible.” Cole pressed his hands together and rested them against his lips.

  “So there have to be eggs, right?” Beckett asked. “Can you just like pluck those from a lady at any time? I’m picturing a young Eve right after her accident.” His mind filled with the image of Eve and David he’d seen.

  “I’m going to say no. I mean, from what I learned, the body needs to be prepped. We had to give Kyle a bunch of fertility drugs to stimulate her egg-making process.”

  “Okay. That’s what I thought.” It was clear he was grasping at straws. Rodolfo had been spouting nonsense.

  “But, wait a minute,” Cole said after a moment. “I mean, if we’re talking theoretically…At one point I was reaching, really reaching, reading everything I could find online about fertility studies. I remember a study in Belgium that was sort of mythical—and still just in animal trials when I was reading.”

  Cole stood and signaled Beckett to follow as he went downstairs to his computer. He fired it up and plugged a few keywords into a search engine.

  “Here it is. This doctor published a paper on his results in mice. He was able to reactivate frozen ovarian tissue to produce viable eggs. I pretty much just read it and moved on, as that wasn’t really our issue. Besides, ultimately our infertility brought us JB, and neither of us would change that for the world.”

  “I completely agree,” Beckett said with a smile. “But can you click on the researcher’s name there? It’s a link.”

  The doctor’s home page featured a number of other articles about his work, as well as a notice that he’d left Belgium a few months ago after receiving a generous stipend to continue his research in—oddly enough—the United States.

  No coincidences. Spider’s voice echoed in Beckett’s head. Just dirty money.

  22

  Closer

  Alison wanted to scream. She’d now spent almost five months staring at the walls of this stupid room, and at the moment she was really tired of hearing all about the panel of tests the doctor was busy administering. Wouldn’t want the little million-dollar babies to want for anything. And of course, if they weren’t genetically superior and in perfect health, she could totally picture the smiling doctor terminating the pregnancy, considering the fetuses nothing more than a failed science experiment. He had the worst combination of overly friendly bedside manner and mad scientist that honestly gave her the creeps.

  “We’ll get these results shortly, but I’m expecting perfection,” he told her. “You’re doing wonderfully, Alison. I’m very pleased.” He tapped a few more notes into his iPad as the nurse removed the rubber tourniquet and bandaged the small wound in Alison’s arm from the needle. This was surreal. The doctor and the nurse focused exclusively on the minutiae of her pregnancy, ignoring the larger questions like, Where’s Flint? What will happen to these babies? What will happen to me?

  However, she’d found she learned more when she kept her mouth shut. The doctor seemed to find silence uncomfortable and would fill it with chatter. His go-to subject was always science and, more specifically, the science of creating life. If Alison was quiet enough, he would really drop his guard.

  It was through this technique that Alison had learned the eggs used for her embryos weren’t hers—though evidently they’d been cultivated inside her body. The doctor had gone on and on about donated ovarian tissue and the special way he thawed and implanted it successfully—just like in a mouse!—when he’d suddenly remembered himself and clamped his lips shut. It was like she’d watched him realize she was listening to his words.

  Then another time the nurse had let it slip that she thought the man funding the babies was involved in weapons. Alison made sure not to show any reaction to that news. They needed her docile so they would continue to confide in her. Also, the more she listened, the more the doctor and nurse would project the feelings they wanted her to have, like excitement and happiness. And she wanted them to believe she felt everything they thought she should, because she was plotting the whole ti
me.

  She had to have a plan because the second these babies were born, Sir Resting Bitchface, aka Nicholas, would kill her like she was betting he’d killed Flint. Whenever he was lurking in her room, the tension ratcheted up a million notches. And of course, Nicholas always made a point to be there for her internal exams. She was certain it was just to make her uncomfortable, keep her mentally off balance.

  She hated to admit how much it worked, yet she refused to believe he was smarter than her, or more dedicated to keeping her than she was to escaping him. All of them. And she would escape. And find these babies a good home. That’s the purpose she hung on to.

  “Next up will be your glucose test at twenty-four weeks.” The doctor tried to make it sound like fun.

  “Of course,” she responded, nodding complacently.

  The door of the van slammed, and Blake could hear Livia’s feet crunch on the stray pebbles of the driveway. Quickly, he clipped a beautiful white tulip from the garden, the snap audible. She padded over into his line of sight as he stripped the extra leaves from the tulip with the sheers.

  The May sunlight masked her features. “The kids were happy to spend a few hours with Dad and Kathy,” she said.

  He stood as she stepped into the shade of a tree. The slight incline made her taller, the garden a distance between them. He smiled at her as she looked suddenly flustered and fixed her hair, which swirled around her in the spring breeze. He locked his eyes on hers and placed a kiss on the bud he’d chosen for her.

  She bit her bottom lip. He maintained eye contact as he carefully tossed the tulip to her. She caught it with a laugh. And when she looked back at him, she was running her tongue across her top teeth. Aroused. He could tell she liked the gesture. A blush crept up her neck and touched her cheeks.

  “We are supposed to be painting,” she said. “I’m leaving right now for Lowe’s.” She tucked the tulip into her hair, and her breasts strained against her dress a bit, her lower back curving as she set her hair in a quick bun and added the flower.

  Gray eyes, brown hair, a slight sunburn on her shoulders. All she needed was minutes in a sleeveless dress to have her skin react. Blake tossed down the shears and bounded over the distance between them. He pulled her to him, her lips dry against his moist ones. He took a glove and tapped the end of her nose.

  “But you’re so filthy,” he teased.

  He ran the stubble from his jaw along her cheek, adding the soft touch of tongue against her earlobe, gently outlining the metal stud earring there. She sighed. He smoothed his palms down her body, over the sides of her breasts, feeling the curve of her hips, pulling the loose fabric tight across her stomach. Her breath quickened.

  He bent his head and her rapid breath moved a few strands of his hair. Her hands ran up his back, and the plaid shirt he wore pulled up, revealing a strip of skin above the back pockets of his jeans and the waistband of his boxer briefs.

  A bird in the distance flew closer, the flap of his wings in time with the blinking of her eyes when he looked at her again. The blue sky etched around her, highlighting the small hints of the same color in her eyes, in her dress.

  His voice was low, quiet, for her. “Now?”

  She nodded and slipped a hand underneath the shirt she’d lifted, running her finger across the waistband. He pulled her hand to his and kissed the back of it before leading her back to their house.

  The screen door squeaked as he held it open for her, finally letting her hand go and finding the small of her back with the tips of his fingers.

  She placed her hand on the wall and turned, her hastily rendered bun unraveling. Her hair spilled over her shoulder and tickled the top of his hand. The tulip tumbled as well. He closed the door behind her and touched her chin, then let his palm cover her cheek and put his thumb against her bottom lip. He came closer, running his nose from her cheekbone to the tip of her nose, the dirt there now shared between the two.

  Her shoes landed sole up as she kicked them off. He tripped slightly over one, then laughed as she fisted her hands in his shirt, steadying him. He used one foot to step on the heel of the other so his sneakers were left to lie with hers. He put his hands on her hips and turned her completely to him, pressing her against the entryway wall.

  Her dress caught on the uneven woodwork, gentle pops of fabric losing the fight between friction and passion. Her hands rested against the wall, back arching again, the sunlight streaming from the window, glinting behind her lower back. His long fingers created a shadow puppet before he tucked his whole forearm behind her, eliminating the rough feel of the wood.

  The kissing started slowly, gentle nips and tastes before he initiated the deeper movement. In sync their heads moved. He pulled up the side of her long dress, using one hand to protect her, the other to reveal her.

  The kissing continued, gentle, and finally, the searching hand found the gap, the soft skin of her hip blocked only by the white panties with the edge of lace—his favorite pair. His kisses continued, but there were breaks for the wide grin that took a moment here and there. His hand found the warmth between her legs, and she sighed, breaking their kiss to exhale warm breath on his neck.

  “Here?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer, instead letting his hand work harder. He kissed her again before freeing his other arm and sliding to his knees. He disappeared under her dress. Soon the white panties were at her ankles. She bent her knees as the fabric of her dress moved rhythmically with his ministrations. The clock struck the hour. In the house somewhere a TV was on. The dryer shouted a quick alarm, alerting them to chores undone.

  She leaned forward as he freed one leg from the panties that bound her, and her stance widened to accommodate him. He kept a hand on her upper thigh, holding her steady.

  “It’s good. God, it’s so good. Blake, don’t stop. God!”

  As her orgasm took her, he imagined her tossing her head, her hair and the sun from the window a brief, elegant latticework, the tips of it almost reaching his hand as she gasped for more air. In a flurry, he moved up and out of her dress, dipping her almost like a dancer and placing her on the floor. She fought him briefly, unzipping his jeans before taking him in her mouth.

  He struggled to stay standing, knees shaking as she worked. One hand rested on her head while his other was caught at the wrist by his teeth, His deep, guttural moans rolled from his chest. His jeans slipped lower, his elbow held his shirt above his stomach. His eyes traced a path down to where her lips were busy.

  Their sounds were fervent, active, quick. She moaned as well, a soft noise of appreciation as his hand grasped her hair harder, his knuckles going white.

  “Stop.” He stepped away from her mouth. “God, I love you.”

  He knelt finally as she laid back. He wrapped his hands around her calves and pulled her closer. His hips and hers moved together—a dance with years of experience.

  An email tone sounded, and a cell phone began to ring.

  She panted, her lips tinted a deep red from her passion. Her pupils widened, darkened. He knew his matched hers.

  “Harder,” she commanded.

  He accommodated. The look between them was only for each other.

  Intense.

  In love.

  Determined.

  A bead of sweat slipped from his temple.

  Both were gasping. He moved the neckline of her dress to free her breast, the sight of it causing his tempo to increase. They both tensed, muscles clenching, and shouts of ecstasy echoed in the foyer. The dog barked from the backyard.

  He laid next to her and kissed her forehead.

  “There’s not enough air in this room,” she said.

  Her hair was in knots now, tangled on her shoulders. Her free breast heaved as she caught her breath.

  He smiled at her. Satisfied. “What you do to me? It’s not legal,” he breathed.

  The sunlight caught tiny bits of dust in suspension, as if the air was actually thicker for a moment. She shimmied her dress down,
covering her bare bottom. The harsh sound of denim rustled as he put his jeans back in order.

  “I love you, too,” she told him, the sentiment not lost during their exertions.

  His lips placed one last kiss on the tip of her pert nipple, and her giggle spilled forth.

  As summer began in earnest, Kyle lay on the bed with Cole, watching the miracle of nearly seven-month-old JB sitting on his own. The baby, surrounded by pillows, looked from one parent to the other with his gummy smile.

  Cole reached out and touched his toe. The baby giggled again. Kyle’s iPad was almost out of space for the video, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. This was her baby laughing. Life was a miracle.

  About the time JB finally tuckered himself out and crawled into Cole’s arms, Kyle’s iPad gave up as well. She set it aside as Cole bounced a bit on the bed, watching his son begin to fall asleep. JB put his fingers in Cole’s mouth, and Kyle smiled as Cole pretended to eat them. JB let out one last giggle. They were forty-five minutes late for his nap, which explained the tired giggles they’d recorded.

  “So how’d the meeting go with my dad today?” She’d derailed his recounting when he’d arrived home by directing him to watch the show JB was putting on.

  “Okay.” Cole shrugged. “You know anything with Beck’s name on it is going to be tough to swallow. I showed him around, showed him the business plan.”

  “And?” She rolled over on her back and put her hand on his leg.

  “I think he sees what I’m angling at. I explained the role we want law enforcement to play. We want these kids to have a nice relationship with the authorities, some friends on the force before they’re out in the community full time. And I didn’t mention it to him, but I want the cops to recognize these kids’ faces, you know?” His bouncing slowed. “I think he’s warming up to the idea a little.”