Call the Devil by His Oldest Name

by Sallie Bissell

  “Where are you now?

  “South of Nashville. I’m leaving right this minute. I’ll meet you there in about five hours.” Danika switched off her phone. Collecting her gym bag, she hurried to the dressing room, ignoring the taunting, curled-finger summons from Mott to reenter the game.

  “No more, you sorry-ass white boy,” she muttered. “Tonight I’m working for Mary Crow.”

  In the locker room she placed a call to Security at Hartsfield. She was routed to one Arthur Stewart, a man who shot his words out like he was cracking a whip. She explained the situation as she tore off her gym clothes; she could almost see him salivating with excitement.

  “Multiracial kidnappers?” Stewart’s voice quavered. “Flying to Fort Lauderdale?”

  “We think they’re on Delta.” Danika struggled to pull her trousers on. “But let me stress that they may not be the perpetrators of this crime. This couple could well be victims, too.”

  “What sort of racial mix are we talking here?”

  “Our information indicates that the woman is white. The man is of Middle Eastern descent.”

  “Jesus! An Arab using a white girl for cover! You think they might be carrying explosives?”

  Danika closed her eyes. Why, during the one chance she had to shine for the great Mary Crow, did she get stuck talking to a moron? “No, Mr. Stewart,” she said forcefully, trying to put on her blouse and hang on to the cell phone at the same time. “We do not suspect them of any kind of terrorist activity. At this moment, we don’t know if they’re guilty of anything. We just want to keep them from going to Florida until we can get everything straightened out.”

  “I’ve heard they strap bombs to their babies’ backs,” Stewart continued to rave. “Don’t even respect the lives of their own children as long as they can murder good Christians.”

  Danika envisioned foam frothing from Stewart’s mouth. This idiot sounded ready to shut down the airport and shoot Mary’s couple dead as they boarded their plane. “Mr. Stewart, could I speak to your superior?”

  “I’m the officer in charge right now,” Stewart replied, full of self-importance.

  “Then please remember, sir, that all Deckard County is asking is that you detain these people until we get there. They have a three-month-old infant with them. You absolutely must not use excessive force.”

  “I’ll be the judge of how much force to use, lady,” Stewart growled. “I’ve got the second busiest airport in the country to protect. Up against that, your little A-rab baby doesn’t mean squat.”

  “I’m leaving right now, Mr. Stewart.” Danika tucked her pumps under her arm and ran out of the dressing room barefoot. “I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

  “It should be all over but the shouting by then,” Stewart promised.

  Dear God, prayed Danika, sprinting for the door. Let that idiot shout all he wants, just don’t let him hurt that child.

  Forty-two

  MARY RACED BACK to the interstate high­ way that would lead them to Atlanta. If Danika could indeed stop this couple at Hartsfield, she would need several things from Ruth and she would need them fast—DNA tests, birth certifi­cates, an incredibly detailed statement for the police. First, though, they had to get there, to see if the child in question even was Lily. As she sped along the dimly lit roads, she found her attitude toward the Gonzalezes softening as they revealed more about their troubles in Tennessee. Not only had Logan coerced them into snatching Lily, but they also claimed they were being stalked by members of a gang they called the Scorpions.

  “That is why we agreed to go with Gordo in the first place,” explained Paz. “The Scorpions were going to pour acid in Ruperta’s eyes.”

  “Acid in her eyes?” Ruth shuddered. “Why?”

  “To punish me. They think I stole drug money from them.”

  “Did you?” Mary asked.

  “No, Señorita. They blame me for something Jorge Menendez did.” Paz crossed himself. “They are true devils, spawn of the evil one himself.”

  Mary looked at the pair squeezed against the door. The man sat trembling, pathetic with fear, while the woman’s eyes brimmed with tears. If they’re conning us, they’re doing a hell of a job, she decided with growing sympathy.

  They finally reached the Cool Springs mall. Mary turned into the same high tech gas station where they’d bought their map and screeched up to one of the pumps. She turned to Ruth.

  “Go in and get whatever you need to go to Atlanta. Food, Cokes, hot water for tea. I’ll fill the tank. Once we get on the highway, I don’t want to make any stops.”

  “What about them?” Ruth gestured at the pair crouched beside the door.

  “I’ll watch them,” said Mary. “Hurry, Ruth. We can’t waste any time.”

  Ruth ran into the gas station. Mary walked to the rear of the truck, zipped her credit card through the scanner, and started filling the tank. It had been an amazing night; her wild hunch had paid off big-time. If the couple who now huddled in the truck were telling the truth, they might be within hours of finding Lily.

  Shrugging to release the tension from her neck, Mary leaned against the truck and watched the orange numbers of the pump. Tonight everybody had a devil nipping at their heels. For this couple, it was a Mexican drug gang; for her, it was Stump Logan. It seemed that whatever they did, however far they might run, their respective demons were always just half a step behind, their breath icy on the back of their necks. She sighed. Even if they did manage to rescue Lily tonight, Logan would simply come at her again, through something else or somebody else she loved, farther down the line.

  She felt the truck wiggle. Logan’s accom­plices, no doubt, moving around inside the cab. She knew she should keep an eye on them, turn the pair over to Jane Frey. But for some reason, she felt a kind of kinship with the pair inside the truck. Though they were far from innocent, her instincts told her that their crime against Lily had been born of circumstance rather than malice. Everything they’d said about Logan rang with total veracity, and their story of the Scorpi­ons squared with all she knew about Hispanic gangs. Some very bad men probably did intend to dribble acid in the woman’s eyes. The image sent a shiver down her spine. Suddenly the truck gave another, bigger bounce and she heard foot­ steps pattering across the concrete. Though she knew exactly what was happening, she kept her eyes focused on the gas pump.

  “Since you came clean about Lily, you two get a free pass tonight,” she whispered softly. “Tomorrow, I will not be so kind.”

  The pump switched off. Mary grabbed her receipt and walked back to the driver’s seat. Unsurprisingly, the cab was empty. The Gonzalezes had taken their fate into their own hands. As she stared into the shadowy darkness surrounding the gas station, she realized it was time for her to do the same. Punching a number on her cell phone, she fished in her purse for the small notepad she carried and began jotting down numbers while she waited for her call to connect. A moment later Ruth appeared at her elbow, thermos in hand.

  “Are you ready? I’ve got some tea brewing, and I bought us some snacks.”

  “We’re good to go,” replied Mary, moving aside so Ruth could climb into the driver’s seat.

  Ruth stopped with one foot inside the cab. “Where are Paz and what’s-her-name?”

  “They’re gone,” said Mary. “I let them go.”

  “Let them go?” Ruth’s eyes widened in horror. “Are you crazy? They were the only leads we had to Lily!”

  “Forget them, Ruth. Anything they can tell us, Edwina Templeton can tell us better.” Mary clicked off her phone and handed Ruth the notepad she’d been scribbling on. “Listen carefully. I just called Danika Lyles, the ADA who’s trying to stop Lily at Hartsfield. She doesn’t answer her phone, so let’s assume she’s in the middle of something she can’t break away from. If she does find Lily, I don’t imagine her adoptive parents will give her up wi
thout a fight, so here are some numbers you’ll need. You can stay at my house—there’s a key under the big stone in the peony bed.”

  Ruth blinked, stunned. “Wait a minute. Aren’t we going together?”

  Mary shook her head. “I’m staying here.”

  “But why?”

  “Because Stump Logan isn’t going to quit just because we might have figured out where Lily is. He’ll just come after me again, through some other innocent person I love, somewhere further down the road.”

  “But why not come to Atlanta with me, and then come back here with the cops?” Ruth looked as if she might cry.

  “Logan’s too clever, Ruth. He’d just go underground again. I need to end this now, tonight. I don’t want to live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, wondering when he’s going to show up.”

  “But—”

  Mary reached out and wrapped her arms around Ruth, holding her tight. “You go. Hurry to Hartsfield. I’ve got a real strong feeling that you’re going to see Lily very soon.”

  “Are you sure?” Ruth’s voice was choked with tears.

  “Positive. Now get going! Just follow the signs, once you get to Atlanta. The road’s dearly marked.” Mary released her friend. Ruth climbed into the truck, started the engine, and with a small, sad wave, left Mary standing alone in the night.

  “Yank-ee Doodle went to town, riding on a po-ny; Da da dum dum da da dum dee da-da macaroni!”

  Bijan Khatar glanced around, hoping no adult was listening to him. Since he had spent the first decade of his life in Iran, his knowledge of American folk songs was sketchy, at best. He could sing most of the first lines, but the rest of the lyrics often eluded him, American enunciation being what it was. Though he’d finally figured out that the lyrics to “Jingle Bells” were not “dashing through the snow, with one whore, soap, and sleigh,” he’d thought he’d soon better ask Kimberly exactly who Yankee Doodle had been, and what Mr. Dandy had to do with pasta. “We’ll find out together, Jennifer Aziz.” He grinned down at the little girl in his arms. She’d slept through most of the three-hour layover they’d had in Atlanta. Slept while he and Kimberly had taken turns holding her, slept through their discussion over what school she should attend, slept through whether she would grow up to sing at the Metropolitan Opera or captain the U.S. women’s soccer team. Now the little diva jock had woken up and Kimberly had fallen asleep, no doubt exhausted by all the possibilities that existed for their new baby girl.

  “It’s just you and me, kiddo,” Bijan said as the child gave a mighty yawn. “You and your Baba.”

  Baba. The Persian word for Daddy. It sounded strange to his ears—an appellation meant for his father, rather than himself. He had never had any responsibilities for anyone other than Kimberly. Yet now, as of this afternoon, he did. The little girl who was waking up in his arms was his. For the next twenty years it would be his duty to keep her dry and well fed, safe and warm. Her Baba. Him.

  He flexed the muscles in his shoulders, feeling both pride and terror. My God, he thought, gazing into the luminous brown eyes that looked up at him as if there were no one else on earth. She is so tiny. He’d never realized human beings started out so small. As he watched, her mouth curled down and her feathery little brows began to furrow. Suddenly he realized she was about to cry.

  “No, no, no,” he cooed, jumping up and jiggling her in his arms. “Let’s not wake Mommy up. She’s so tired.”

  And yet he almost hoped Kimberly would wake up. He wasn’t quite sure of the protocol with babies. Did you change their diapers first? Then feed them? That seemed odd, but the reverse seemed disgusting—who would want to eat their supper wearing wet underwear? Besides, he didn’t think he could change a diaper here in the terminal. There wasn’t much space and he needed room to maneuver—to see what went where, and how it all fastened together.

  Nuts, he thought as Jennifer Aziz grew more fidgety in his arms. Just hours into this and you’re already goofing it up. Some Baba you are.

  He glanced around the waiting area, hoping they would announce their flight. Their plane from Nashville had arrived on time, but the connecting flight to Florida had been delayed. For hours, Delta agents had chatted away behind their desk, oblivious to the weary travelers waiting to fly south.

  Shifting the baby gingerly to his shoulder, he turned toward the food court. If he could keep Jennifer Aziz from squalling for the next few minutes, Kimberly could get in a few more winks of sleep before a diaper change became critical. With the little girl warm against his cheek, he strolled past a newsstand, a Sbarro pizzeria, and a man who would put a shine on your shoes for five dollars. People hurrying to other planes looked at him with hostile eyes, giving him the cold, distrustful stare he’d grown accustomed to since September 11. Suspicious looks, glares directed at him in restaurants, once a strip search in the Pittsburgh airport—he’d still had it easier than many of his Iraqi friends. In the heartland of America, anybody who looked even vaguely Semitic was a terrorist until proven otherwise. He smiled bitterly. He hoped Jennifer Aziz would have an easier time of it, but with a name like Khatar…

  Sighing, he wandered toward the bar. Three businessmen were nursing drinks, idly watching Peyton Manning pick apart the Washington Redskin defense. He started to go in and order a beer, but as he stepped into the dimly lit space, he stopped. Somehow it didn’t seem like the thing to do. He wanted his daughter’s first solo excursion with her Baba to be church or the beach or even Disney World—not some lousy airport bar where men anesthetized themselves against the rigors of travel with overpriced drinks and endless replays on ESPN. With a small kiss on her ear, he turned and headed back out into the terminal.

  They strolled over to their gate. He could see that Kimberly had woken up and was looking for him. He quickened his pace.

  “Hi,” he called.

  “Where have you been? I was about to get worried. They’re starting to board the plane.”

  “Really?” He looked at the counter, where the attendants were beginning to check the first­ class passengers through. “I didn’t hear them announce anything. Jennifer Aziz seemed restless so I took her for a walk.”

  “Is she hungry?” asked Kimberly. “Has she cried?”

  “No. I think she might need her diaper changed, though.”

  “Then let me have her. I’ll change her and then we can get on the plane.”

  He handed his new daughter to his wife and watched as she carried her into the ladies’ restroom. A few moments later they returned.

  ‘’There!’’ Kimberly said, smiling at him. “All fresh and clean. Now you can go back to your Baba!” Bijan grinned. As Jennifer nestled down in his arms, Mrs. Hatcher came trundling over from the souvenir shop.

  “How’s it going, Mommy and Daddy?” she called loudly.

  “Fine, Mrs. Hatcher,” said Kimberly. “I think they’re about to call us onboard. Have you got your pass?”

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Hatcher waved her card. “Right here.”

  “Good. Then let’s go.”

  Hoisting the pink elephant diaper bag over her shoulder, Kimberly took Bijan’s arm. “You and Jennifer just look so perfect together,” she murmured as they walked to the gate. “We are the luckiest people in the world.”

  Bijan held his daughter tighter as Kimberly handed the diaper bag over for the gate attendant to search. As he breathed in her sweet baby smell, a feeling of utter happiness came over him. He had a wife who loved him and a beau­tiful new daughter whose eyes reflected the stars. Kimberly was right. Tonight they were the luckiest people in the world.

  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 cha
nce 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.