by Jeff Abbott
Then he feels the weight of a gun barrel pressed against his neck. He freezes.
“You’re not going to give me trouble, are you?” a voice says. Low, hissing, harsh.
And then blow after blow to his head, shielded only by the cloth bag. He feels blood on his face, a hard cut on his ear, a hammering blow beneath his eye. Dazed, he feels himself draggged across the den, the gun pressed against his head, out the patio door, across the yard. The gun. This person is going to shoot him. Kill him. He climbs to his feet, but he’s rushed along and then he’s standing in the cool of the creek.
His brain is spinning, his ears ringing with the blows. The barrel of the gun is a burning constant against his throat. “Please!” Kyle says, crouching into the water, cringing. He feels a hand groping his pockets, the top of his socks. It finds nothing. He freezes. But the fingers don’t dig into his shoe.
“Why are you here?” the voice says again, a harsh forced whisper.
“I just wanted something of hers. Something to remember her by. Please.” He can feel his own blood on his face. He’s never been hit like this in his life.
Four hard punches, brutal and unyielding, smash into his face. The cloth bag protects him, but not much. He falls into the creek, stunned, the bag still over his face.
“If you talk about this,” the voice says, “I’ll kill one of your kids.”
Kyle can’t speak. He can hardly make out the words due to the cinematic guttural whisper, but he nods.
Then there is only the sound of someone moving through the woods and the water against him. Everything hurts. He’s too scared to take off the bag; the faces of Iris, Grant, and Julia dance in front of his closed eyes. Whoever that is, he knows who I am. And that I have children. Finally he does, and there’s blood in the bag. Blood from his nose and mouth and ear. He can hardly breathe for fear. The cloth bag is from the Lakehaven Library. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He can’t leave it in the creek. It might be found.
He remembers Grant’s tree, his old hiding place in the greenbelt. He goes there, stuffs it into the cleft at the roots, and decides he’ll come back later. His face, his jaw, are seriously aching now.
He needs a story. An explanation. Because the truth is not an option. He’s going to have bruises; his nose and lip are bleeding. The back of his head aches; he feels a bit of blood in his hair.
He decides on a plan. He scrabbles up the creekside, slips, falls, crawls back up. Mud and blood on his hands, his face. He makes his way toward home, piecing it together, hoping the story will work. The flash drive is still in his sock, maybe ruined from the creek water, maybe not.
Everything has gone horribly wrong.
Before he goes into his house, he peers in the space between his house and the neighbors’, and he sees the Sheriff’s Office cars pulling into Danielle’s driveway to secure the house. They have no idea that they’re too late.
And as Kyle reaches his own back door, bloodied and bruised, ready to embark on the latest series of lies, afraid for his children, he wonders: Who was in Danielle’s house with a gun, and why?
8
Grant
In his room, Grant debates where to hide the money. He can’t believe his luck in Dad leaving him alone for a few minutes. He wonders how Mike and his son, Peter, are taking the news of Danielle’s death. He’s close to Mike, who is like a genial uncle who lets you get away with mischief. He probably shouldn’t call him right now, but maybe Mom will let him call Mike later.
Grant has left the thousand dollars in the manila envelope. He knows his mother has looked under his mattress for weed and pills (he’s heard parents talking about prescription drug abuse, and they had a school assembly about it); he doesn’t do that stuff, but she might look there again anyway. He doesn’t really hide stuff in his room. The bottom drawer in his bureau is full of swimsuits, and it’s winter, so he decides Mom is not likely to paw through there anytime soon. He stuffs the envelope of cash under the stack of swimsuits and arranges them so that none of the paper shows. He closes the drawer.
How would he explain this money to anyone? He doesn’t have a job. He couldn’t save up that much. Will people assume he stole it? He’s trying not to think of how he might spend it. New Nike shoes, video games galore, asking that pretty girl in his English class to the movies and not have it be an outing full of a half-dozen friends.
But he can’t spend this money. It feels wrong. But if he doesn’t spend it, Mom will eventually find it, and then what?
He goes back to the computer.
He opens the email that contained the message. He can’t email his friend’s spoofed email back. Drew will get it, not his mysterious benefactor.
He looks back at the picture of the young woman dancing in the rain in front of the Eiffel Tower. Then he sees it. In the corner, a Gmail address, integrated into the picture, but written very small. A random-looking series of numbers and letters, not something a person would ever accidentally type or use as a regular address.
Left there to see if he would notice?
Grant goes to Google’s image search page and enters in woman in rain Eiffel Tower. They learned to use this feature in his history class.
There is a large number of matches—apparently photos of women and couples with umbrellas near the Eiffel Tower are romantic. He finds the image six rows down and clicks on it. It’s a stock photo, from a company based in France. He knows that stock photos are the kind of photos companies buy to use in ads or brochures or websites. There are several similar pictures, with the same young woman standing near the tower, with a variety of colored raincoats and umbrellas. In a few of the photos a handsome man accompanies her; they laugh, they hold hands, they walk. A variety of licenses are available for the photos, in different sizes and resolutions.
Why send him this, a meaningless photo designed to be used in an ad?
Lies come down like rain, the message said.
Well, it was a picture of people in the rain. Lies like rain.
Grant writes a new message to the Gmail address: I found the money and the picture of the Eiffel Tower. Who are you? What do you want with me?
And then he presses send.
9
From Iris Pollitt’s “From Russia with Love” Adoption Journal
2002
So the consultant/lawyer I talked with about foreign adoption, Danielle Roberts, suggested that I keep a journal to chronicle our process in adopting a baby from overseas. It can be a long, hard road (look! My first cliché!), and journaling, she said, could help me through the ups and downs. “A writer like you probably already keeps a journal, don’t you? To write down images and phrases, right?” she said, and I nodded. And she said, rightly, that our new child might really like to read this one day, to understand what Kyle and I went through to get her or him, and that Julia would value it as well—she may not remember any of this when she’s older. And that we would want to remember every detail.
I got into doing a journal when Julia was so sick, and hopefully this will be a help along the same lines. Sometimes it’s calming just to get the thoughts down on paper.
So, pen in hand, I start. This will be harder than writing a song.
How did we decide on adoption? Four miscarriages, then Julia, and then the doctors told me no more pregnancies. Not meant to be. We love Julia, of course. But we wanted another child.
Kyle said we should adopt an American child. And for a week, we discussed that. We didn’t want to adopt a child older than Julia. With a newborn the birth parents have ninety days to change their minds and take the child back—and away, forever—from you. After having dealt with Julia’s illness, I couldn’t risk it: a mother with regrets changing her mind or a father asserting his rights. Although that seems so unlikely in these situations, you never know. I wanted distance between us and the birth parents. Distance to give safety, distance to give perspective. Thousands and thousands of miles.
Distance meant certainty.
W
hen we first moved to Lakehaven, I got to know some women who had adopted internationally. I listened to what they had to say, the pros and cons, and a mom (her name is Francie) who had three adopted kids from Russia, a girl and two boys, swayed me. They were really cute, happy, well-adjusted kids. Francie said it was a lot of paperwork and a lot of bribes(!), but otherwise the process would go smoothly and there was no chance of a birth-parent interference. And I’m Swedish on my mom’s side, and Kyle’s grandmother’s family are descended from Czech settlers who came to Texas, and we thought, right or wrong, a Russian child might look more like a blood relative. I know that shouldn’t matter, but it did, to me.
So, Francie, with the three adorable Russian kids, contacted the service she used to manage the process—they’re called Global Adoption Consultants—and that is how I met Danielle Roberts, your guardian angel (or she will be). I was lucky. They were based in Austin, the only agency here.
Danielle and I met for coffee for the first time to talk. She was striking, dark haired, in a business suit, elegant. Nice watch, nice rings. I notice stuff like that—I think it matters how a person presents themselves. (Warning: you will be a well-dressed baby.)
I bought us both vanilla lattes, and we caught up on my friend Francie and her three gorgeous children. Francie had sent Danielle an email about me, and of course Danielle asked me about writing songs for NSYNC and Britney Spears, and she did that thing people do where they sing the lyric at you, and I smile and nod and say “yeah, I wrote that,” and thankfully she didn’t ask if I was still writing songs and I was suddenly nervous the Russians would charge me more because a couple of songs I’d written had been hits. The musician gets richer than the writer—that’s the way of the world.
And then I said brightly, optimistically: “So, I have a thousand questions.”
“Don’t ever ask a question,” Danielle said. Her face was serious, almost grim. The friendly smile had vanished.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I can’t ask you questions?” Panic blossomed in my chest. This wasn’t going to work.
“You can ask ME anything. Always.” She leaned forward, like she was telling me a secret. “But when you set foot in Russia once we’ve been matched with your baby, you do not ask any questions. You do not challenge the Russians. You do not argue with them. You tell your husband not to explain things to them. You keep your mouths shut, you hand everyone you meet a little money or a gift, and you come home with your baby.”
I was silent. And then I nodded.
“Not every family is suited for this ordeal,” Danielle said.
“I keep calling it a process.”
“That’s sweet but inaccurate. It’s an ordeal. It will test you and Kyle”—I was impressed she remembered his name, since he wasn’t there; we’d decided I would screen the consultants first since he was traveling so much—“in ways you can’t imagine. I understand you’re already blessed with a daughter. That will be held against you, eventually. They’ll argue an infant should go to a family without children. Or they’ll realize you are”—WERE, I thought, WERE—“a successful songwriter and the bribes will rise. Someone will try to be an obstacle to you, and when that happens, you must do as I say. If you can’t follow my instructions, then I will be wasting your money. And you’ll get your heart broken. And I don’t want to do that. If you want this baby, truly want this baby, then you’ll do as I say. Do you really want this child?”
Well…did I? I hadn’t expected this question. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. I loved Julia more than I had ever thought possible. When your child is sick, really sick, it either focuses you or breaks you. With me, it gave focus. But at the same time, it expanded my capacity for love, just as Julia’s birth had. Growing up, it was just me and my mom. I was loved. I thought I knew what love was when I met and fell for Kyle. And then again, even more so, when Julia was born. I didn’t know I had so much love in me; it just had to be unlocked. Kyle and I had so much more to give. The answer was clear. I was almost shaking, and I steadied my voice.
“Never ask me,” I said, “how much I will love this baby.”
10
Iris
It’s been a long day. The second longest day of her life.
When she and Julia get home from the police, they find Kyle a complete mess: face bruised, blackened eye, cuts on his temple and ear, nose swollen, lip cut. He’s cleaned himself up, but he looks like he went two rounds in a boxing ring and lost.
“I fell down the slope. I did a faceplant all the way down into the creek,” he says. “I was running.”
“You went for a run?” Iris can’t keep her voice from rising in anger. “I asked you to stay here with Grant…”
“Grant was fine,” he says. “We all deal with this in different ways, all right, Iris? All right? I feel bad enough as it is.”
Julia stares at him. “Dad…” And he encloses her in a hug, being Dad, being there for her now.
“Where is Ned?” he asks.
“He’s at Mike’s house.”
Julia makes a face. “I know why he’s there. I just hope Peter’s not being a jerk to him.” Peter is Mike’s son, a moody, quiet senior who prefers the company of computers to people.
“I’m sure Peter’s being good to him,” Iris says.
The four of them seem lost today, sitting in the den, looking at each other. “Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?” Iris says, pointing at Kyle’s face.
“Please let’s not make a production of this,” Kyle says. “We have enough to deal with today.”
So they retreat from one another. Julia doesn’t want to talk about it—at least with them—and she cuddles up on the couch with her mom. Iris puts on Julia’s favorite comfort movie, The Wizard of Oz (the high school did it for their musical last year, and Julia was an Emerald City resident), and they watch it together. Grant goes up to his room; Iris thinks he’s preoccupied. Or he’s having trouble processing this shock. She feels like Julia, having suffered the more direct trauma, needs her more right now. Kyle tries to get Grant to join him in the media room, to watch ESPN, but the boy’s curled up on his bed and politely declines.
The phone rings. A lot. Friends and neighbors calling, eager for information, some wanting gossip, others wanting to give comfort. The day bleeds away. Kyle looks in the mirror often, and Iris watches him.
She’s not sure she believes his story. But why would anyone punch her husband in the face?
Kyle doesn’t meet her gaze. He naps while they finish the movie. Julia tries texting Ned as the credits roll and gets a half-hearted answer, but now Julia’s full attention is on the phone, on Ned’s few words. Iris goes to the front window and watches the police officers go in and out of Danielle’s house.
Kyle has offered to cook dinner, which Iris both appreciates and resents. She could have used the meditative quiet of making something simple, and she wants to be the one to comfort her hurting family. She watches Kyle putter with pots and pans and jars: he’s making spaghetti with a meat sauce, salad, and garlic toast. He glances at her and takes out a wineglass, pouring her some of the Chianti he’s opened. It feels wrong to enjoy wine with Danielle dead, but they both could use a drink.
“Thanks,” Iris says. She takes the wine and walks to the window. Mike and Ned are now at Danielle’s with the police. She’d offered Ned a place to stay, with them, but she feels she said it the wrong way. As though he heard in her tone that she didn’t want him to say yes. Ned thanked her but said he would stay at Mike’s house. So she texted another volunteer-minded mom in the neighborhood, who set up a meal schedule online and linked it to the Winding Creek Faceplace page. Already it’s full, people wanting to help. Ned and Mike are set for dinner tonight; the Harpers are bringing them chicken casserole. She hopes they will eat. She will take them dinner tomorrow night. She wonders if she can hover then for a moment, find out what the police have said and are saying to Mike and Ned, learn something.
Juli
a has folded in on herself. She’s up in her room, on her phone. Texting, but not Ned, not for the moment. Her daughter has achieved a weird kind of celebrity in the past few hours. Julia says that Ned’s friends have rallied around him, although they’re mostly boys who don’t seem to know what to do other than tell him how sorry they are and ask what they can do for him. But Ned told them Julia was with him, and now Julia tells her that kids she doesn’t even know well are texting her for details.
“Julia!” she calls up the stairs. Julia, after a few moments, appears.
“Will you bring me your phone?”
“Why?”
Because I asked. Because I’m your mother. But instead she says, “I want a log of everyone who is contacting you about this. It could be of interest to the police.” But she really just wants to know what’s on her daughter’s mind.
“Why would the police care?”
“Because they might. I saw that on a Law & Order episode.”
“That’s made-up stuff.”
Iris holds her hand out for the phone, end of discussion. “I’m not going to read your messages.”
“Yeah, right. I haven’t answered anyone except to say I can’t talk about it. I’m not an idiot, Mom.”
“I know you’re not.”
Julia comes down the stairs and, with a sigh, hands her mother the phone. It has been a horrifying day, but this moment of normal teen resentment feels like a reassurance that Julia, despite the trauma, is going to be all right. Won’t she? Won’t she get over what she saw?
Iris takes the phone, and Julia sees her mother’s hand trembling. “Mom.”
“I’m all right. I’m just worried about you.”
Julia hugs her. “I’m fine.”
“No, you saw a horrible thing you’ll never unsee, and I wish I could change that.”