Call the Devil by His Oldest Name

by Sallie Bissell

  “I tried. But the baby’s mother was convinced Lily was going to be here at noon. We had less than half an hour to get here, and she was absolutely determined to come. Considering the amount of stress she’s been under, and the cops’ lack of enthusiasm for this case, my coming with her seemed to be the better choice.”

  As if to underscore Mary’s remarks, Ruth’s voice grew suddenly shrill. Mary and Jane Frey looked across the room to see her wildly gesticulating to the other detective. “I just want my baby!” she screamed, banging a table with both fists. “I just want my child!”

  With a telling glance at Jane Frey, Mary got up and went over to Ruth, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pressing her cheek against the top of her head. Though Ruth could well have blown their best chance of capturing both Logan and Lily, she found it hard to remain angry with her. She couldn’t even imagine what it had been like for Ruth, to rush up to KidShotz hoping to see Lily and finding a mocking photo strip instead. “Be strong, honey,” she whispered. “Just stay focused on the fact that Lily’s still alive.”

  “Okay, ladies.” Frey stood up and motioned for her partner. “You two stay here while we work out a few details. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  Leaving them in the care of mall security, the two detectives left the office, closing the door firmly behind them.

  Ruth looked up at Mary with red-rimmed eyes. “What are they going to do?”

  “If they work anything like the cops in Atlanta, they’ll talk to Dula, then run things by their captain. If he or she says it’s a go, they’ll join the case.”

  “And if the captain says no?”

  Mary patted Ruth’s shoulder. “Then we’ll go on, by ourselves.”

  The mall security secretary brought them Cokes and cheese pizza from the food court. Though the pizza tasted wonderful to Mary, Ruth just picked at hers. For some reason, she wanted to go back to the truck.

  “We can’t go anywhere until the detectives come back,” Mary told her, practically pulling her back down in her chair. “Why don’t you call about Jonathan? I’m going to call the hospital about Gabe.”

  Mollified by that suggestion, Ruth dug her cell phone from her purse and punched in the number she now knew by heart. Mary looked up the number for Vanderbilt Hospital in the security office phone book. Within moments she’d learned that Gabriel Benge had been admitted to the hospital from the emergency room, his condition listed as serious.

  “How serious?” Mary asked. “What was he diagnosed with?”

  “I don’t have that information, ma’am. You’ll have to speak to the physician in charge.”

  “Who is the doctor in charge?”

  “I don’t have that information, ma’am,” the clerk repeated without emotion.

  “Thank you.” Mary clicked off her phone, realizing that she was going to get only the most minimal information about Gabe over the phone. But that’s okay, she thought. At least he’s still alive.

  She sat with Ruth until the detectives reentered the room, Frey leading the way. They pulled up two chairs and sat in front of Ruth and Mary.

  “Okay, ladies,” said Frey. “We talked to Nikwase County. I know you think the sheriff there has blown you off, but he’s gone pretty much by the book. Mrs. Walkingstick, your daughter’s picture and vital information are now on the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children website, as well as in the FBI database.’’

  “Then why don’t I have my baby?” demanded Ruth.

  “Do you know how many children go missing each year, ma’am?” Frey’s blue eyes sparked cold fire. “I can assure you, we’re all trying as hard as we can. Ms. Crow, we’ve put out an APB for both the woman and the baby in the photo strip, although we really don’t have much to go on. I’m guessing from her jewelry, and her visible skin tone that she’s of Hispanic descent. We have a growing Mexican population in this county and up in Nashville, as well.”

  “And?” Mary asked.

  “We’ll check out a section of town affection­ately known as Margaritaville,” Frey replied. “If this woman is a local and has shown up with a baby without being pregnant, word’ll be out on the street.”

  “What if she’s not a local?” asked Ruth. Her voice shook.

  “How about we cross that bridge when we come to it?” answered Frey. “For now, we’ll follow up on these photos. You two have a copy of them, don’t you?”

  Mary nodded. “The secretary made us one.”

  “Okay. Then we’ll get going. I’ll keep in touch. Here’s my card. If you get any more crying baby calls, call me immediately.”

  “Thank you.” Mary shook the detectives hand. “We really appreciate it.”

  “Take it as easy as you can, Ms. Crow.” Frey handed back the Glock, and smiled. “And please don’t run through the mall with that gun again. It tends to make the shoppers nervous.”

  The detectives left. Mary stuffed the gun in her purse and sat beside the now silent Ruth, trying to decide what they should do. It was almost three o’clock, but the thought of going back to the truck made her uneasy. She’d known from the moment she and Ruth got here that they were walking into a trap. Though it hadn’t gone exactly as Logan had planned, he knew where they were. Before, he’d never known either their location or who was following him. Now he knew exactly that it was not the FBI, or the cops, or even Jonathan, but the oddball team of her and Ruth. Was he now lingering in the parking lot, just waiting for them to reemerge from the mall?

  She walked into the outer office, where a bank of security monitors maintained constant views of strategic points of the huge shopping complex. Most scanned entrances, the food court, and a number of dimly lit hallways. Several, though, kept watch over the parking lot.

  “Does someone monitor these twenty-four seven?” Mary asked the uniformed guard who sat there dipping French fries in a small cup of ketchup.

  “Yes, ma’am. I take second shift, somebody else does the graveyard.”

  “And do they watch the parking lot at night?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the guard said. “We pay close attention to the lot after the sun goes down. Haven’t had an outdoor incident in nearly six months.”

  “Thanks,” said Mary. She was beginning to formulate a strategy.

  She walked back to the conference room, where Ruth sat like a zombie, staring at the floor.

  “Come on, honey.” Mary pulled her up by her elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to the truck. If we’re lucky, Logan might be out there, waiting for us.”

  “Will he have Lily?”

  Mary shook her head. “I doubt it.”

  “But won’t we be walking back into his trap?”

  “Yes,” Mary said. “But we’ll have the advantage. We already know he’s out there waiting for us.” She opened her purse, showing Ruth her gun. “It’s risky, but we might be able to catch him at his own game.”

  Ruth blinked, as if processing what Mary had just said, then she grinned. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  They thanked the secretary for her hospitality, then they left the office and strode down a long hall. They heard the mall before they saw it, the upbeat music playing, the low hum of shoppers as they busied around the concourse.

  “Ready?” Mary asked Ruth, hesitating an in­stant before she pushed the door open. “Yes.” Ruth nodded.

  I just hope I am, too, Mary thought, reaching in her purse to touch the handle of Gabe’s gun as she pushed the door open and they walked together out into the bright bustle of people.

  Thirty-seven

  BIJAN HELD THE baby for over an hour. He sat captivated by the child as she laughed and cooed, reaching tiny, star-like hands up to touch his cheek. Kimberly had never seen two human beings respond so to each other; apparently neither had the two adopti
on counselors.

  “You know, I bet she sees his pretty dark eyes and thinks of her mother,” croaked Mrs. Hatcher.

  “Oh, Myrtle, she’s much too young for that,” snapped Mrs. Templeton, passing the sandwich tray to her colleague.

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Hatcher grabbed two cucumber-and-cream-cheese sandwiches from the silver tray. “Like seeks its own. Blood knows blood.”

  Kimberly scooted closer to Bijan and put her arm around his shoulders. She needed to be absolutely sure of him before she gave the last remaining shred of her heart to this baby. “You still think it’s a go?” she whispered in his ear.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, not taking his gaze from the little girl’s face. “This is our Jennifer Aziz.”

  Kimberly looked across the room, where Edwina Templeton sat riding her antique armchair like a gold brocade throne. “Well, Mrs. Templeton, what’s the next step?”

  “I’ll need to fill out some forms, and you’ll need to write a check.” Mrs. Templeton smiled, but made no move toward any paperwork. Apparently, the wheels of adoption did not start turning until cash lay on the barrelhead.

  “I’ll go get my briefcase from the car,” said Bijan, reluctantly handing the baby to Kimberly.

  The two older women exchanged a glance as he left the room. They waited until the front door closed behind him, then Mrs. Hatcher leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.

  “I’ve placed hundreds of children, dear, and I’ve never seen such a bond. And right off the bat! He’s going to make a wonderful father.”

  Kimberly looked down at the little girl, who was now smiling up at her. “I knew he would be.”

  “I’ll go get the papers.” Mrs. Templeton rose from her chair. “In just a little while, you two will be parents.”

  The rest resembled a house closing. Edwina Templeton passed around various legal-sized documents that required everyone’s signature contracts with both adoption counselors, releases that absolved both her and Mrs. Hatcher of any legal malfeasance, should any be discovered.

  “I’m not sure what this means,” Kimberly said, her pen poised above the paper.

  “It protects private adoption counselors from people who run baby scams,” explained Mrs. Templeton. “Someone brings a baby to us, says it’s theirs, we find a parent, collect a fee, then the real parents show up with a lawyer and sue everyone for damages.” She glanced at Mrs. Hatcher. “Latinos run that scam a lot in California.’’

  “Forgive me, but how do we know that’s not the case here?” Kimberly couldn’t believe such distrustful words were coming out of her mouth, but Bijan was sitting next to her, besotted with the child, barely able to look up. Someone had to be practical.

  “Well, you’re doubly protected, because I’m licensed by the state and you’ve got an original birth certificate and a release from signed and notarized by the child’s biological father.” Mrs. Templeton handed three sheets of paper to Kimberly. “Read these closely. Tomorrow morning I’ll file them with the Department of Human Services. The State of Tennessee will seal them, from there on out.”

  Kimberly studied the first sheet. Jennifer Aziz Khatar had been born Behbaha Jane McIntosh on July 24, in Sullivan County, Tennessee. Her father was John Winston McIntosh, her mother Mahvash Ankasa. The delivering physician was a signature she couldn’t decipher, and Earlene Toomey was the official registrar. As her fingertips brushed the ridges of the official embossed seal, her tight little knot of hesitation loosened slightly. Little Behbaha seemed to be exactly who she was supposed to be.

  The other papers made her sad. One was an account of Behbaha’s mother. She’d been Iranian, a nurse, and had died accidentally, from drowning, at the age of twenty-five. The other was a lengthy document, mostly written in the arcane language of the courts. John Winston McIntosh had scrawled his name in blue ink at the bottom, printing in the word “deceased” in the space designated for the child’s mother. The date indicated that McIntosh had signed away his daughter only three days ago.

  That was probably the saddest day of his life, Kimberly thought, picturing the young man walking away from his baby, his wife, his life. Silently she handed the papers back to Mrs. Templeton. And this is the happiest day of ours. Strange, how different two sides of the same coin could be.

  “That does it for my end.” Edwina Templeton collected the papers. “Now I need a check from you, made out to me, Edwina Scruggs Templeton.”

  “One hundred thousand dollars?” Kimberly looked at Mrs. Hatcher as she pulled their checkbook from Bijan’s briefcase.

  Mrs. Hatcher grinned smugly at Edwina Templeton. “That’s correct.”

  She turned to Bijan, who sat making faces at the baby. “Do you want to write this or shall I?”

  “You write it,” he answered. “And we’ll both sign it.”

  Her heart pounding, Kimberly filled out the check. It was the largest she’d ever written in her life. She carefully wrote the “1,” then an impressive line of five zeros behind it. With only the slightest tremble of her pen, she signed her name and then passed the check to Bijan. He barely shifted his position, just held the checkbook in his left hand while he scribbled his name with his right. Kimberly tore off the check and handed it to Mrs. Templeton, who took it with a smile.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “You’ve just become parents.”

  “Oh, I’m so happy!” Mrs. Hatcher warbled as she dabbed at her eyes with her napkin.

  “We are, too.” Bijan leaned over and gave Kimberly a kiss. “I love you,” he whispered.

  “Love you, too” she murmured, kissing him back.

  They sat there enjoying, for the first time in their lives, the feeling of being three rather than two. Suddenly, more than anything, Kimberly wanted to take their little girl back to Florida, so they could be a real family in their own home, instead of in Edwina Templeton’s antique-stuffed parlor.

  “Honey, why don’t I call and see if we can get a flight back tonight?” she asked.

  Bijan grinned, understanding her need with that uncanny knack of his which made her wonder sometimes, if they hadn’t been married before, in some other life. “That sounds terrific.”

  “Mrs. Hatcher, is going back tonight okay with you?” Kimberly dug in her purse for her cell phone.

  “Whatever suits you suits me, dear.”

  While Kimberly called the airline, Mrs. Hatcher followed Edwina Templeton to her office, ostensibly to divide up the fee. Bijan sat there, still mesmerized by the baby. A skinny Latino man dressed in white peeked shyly into the parlor as Kimberly asked the travel agent to change their reservations.

  “We got the last flight out,” she told Bijan as she switched off the phone minutes later. “Nashville to Fort Lauderdale, seven p.m., on Delta.” She looked down at the child in her hus­band’s arms wishing she’d brought her camera, wishing she could somehow freeze this moment so she could go back to it, over and over again. Her Bijan. With their new little girl. “Just a few more hours, Jennifer Aziz, and you’ll be home.”

  Thirty-eight

  MARY AND RUTH sat in the truck. They’d walked back through the shopping mall conspic­uously, stopping at several of the Tennessee Arti­sans’ displays, hoping Logan would make some kind of move. Mary scanned the crowds for him, seeing older men, bearded men, a number of overweight men, but none resembling the bat­tered, malevolent creature she’d seen in Atlanta. If Logan was still here at the mall, he was keep­ing himself hidden. When they reached the truck, Ruth handed Mary the keys, asking her to drive. Mary moved them to a different parking space, pulling up in a vacant slot well in range of a security camera. If Logan approached the truck here, he would at least get caught on videotape. There was no point worrying about a long­ range rifle attack. He could have killed them both a dozen times over since the moment they’d pulled up in the parking lot. Logan must have other plans for her—she only w
ished she knew what they were.

  Now Ruth moaned amid troubled dreams while Mary studied the copy of the photo strip, desperately trying to glean clues about Lily.

  She had to agree with Jane Frey: the skin tone and dress of the woman holding Lily in the photo did look Mexican, or perhaps Filipino. And the clerks at Kinko’s had put a Mexican man with Logan, back when he was sending .jpg files over the Internet. But why would Mexicans get involved with a lame old man and a squalling baby? Her years at Deckard County had taught her that money was the prime motivator of most people, followed closely by the desire for power. Contrary to what the poets believed, love came in pretty far down on the motive list.

  “So let’s say money or power,” Mary whis­pered. Either Logan held some kind of power over the Mexicans, or else he’d purchased their cooperation. Since he’d been on the lam for al­most a year, she doubted he’d made enough money to put accomplices on his payroll. That left power, and Logan was an expert at wielding that. As the former sheriff of a county with a burgeoning Hispanic population, he would have knowledge of immigration law and might even speak some Spanish. If he’d bumped into two newly arrived Mexicans, he easily could have bullied them into doing exactly what he wanted. She jumped as a nearby horn gave an angry blast, jolting Ruth awake from her nap. “What’s going on?” she muttered, half-asleep.

  “Just a little road rage.” Mary watched as a battered station wagon missed backing into an expensive SUV by inches. The wagon’s driver, a grizzle-haired black man, nodded and waved apologetically at the vehicle behind him, but the man driving the SUV lifted his middle finger and leaned on his horn, blaring his rage to the world.

  “Oh, cut him some slack,” Mary said, as the old man rolled away, humbly ceding his parking place to the boxy SUV. The young man contin­ued to honk, pulling into the space with an an­gry squeal of his tires.