Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel

by Frank Freudberg

  Baby Please Don’t Go

  A Novel

  FRANK FREUDBERG

  Inside Job Media

  Wayne, PA 19087

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Frank Freudberg

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole

  or in part in any form.

  Published in the United States

  ISBN – 13: 978-0-9845945-4-2

  ISBN – 10: 0-9845945-4-X

  www.BabyPleaseDontGo.com

  To my father

  1

  Tucked into a lush countryside of winding roads, hills and trees, and sprawling estates with their orchards and horse farms, was Red Cedar Woods—a small village in the heart of Brandywine County, Pennsylvania, thirty miles southwest of Philadelphia.

  A late autumn day cast its growing darkness across the region, and a light rain began. Residents prepared for an evening at home, a night of quiet, the way folks from small towns everywhere did when winter was in the air.

  It was two in the morning, and along a deserted row of antique shops, taverns, and restaurants, leaves skittered down the rain-swept streets. Lock Gilkenney—early forties, wiry and tall, and wearing a leather jacket—burst out of the front door of the only bar still open. He had always liked Foster & Zandt’s on a cold night, and he thought about the last time he had eaten there, recalling the noise of the people and the sudden spill of yellow light when he opened the door. In his memory it was like a window into another world, a menagerie of people with happy lives they had worked hard for and deserved.

  Lock shrugged his leather jacket up around his ears against the chill. He wanted to run toward the corner, but his legs refused. Instead, he staggered. At the intersection, he leaned against the side of a building and drooped his head toward the pavement.

  A car rolled past, and a couple, arm in arm, strolled across the street. Lock watched them go for a moment and then pushed himself away from the wall. He turned left at the corner and picked up his pace as best he could.

  Midway down the block, Ivan rose up from where he had been crouched next to a mailbox, blanket-shrouded and shivering.

  “Hey, Lock, that you?”

  Lock was startled and lost his footing. Ivan shrugged off his blanket and hurried to help Lock back onto his feet. Lock grabbed at a stunted oak that the city had planted who knew how many years back. He steadied himself, and then patted the bark and said, “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, you’re welcome. What’s the matter, Lock? You haven’t been drinking, I’m pretty sure about that,” Ivan said.

  Lock nodded. He started to walk away.

  “You got anything I can use?” Ivan asked.

  Lock turned back. “You could use a few meetings,” he said with a smile.

  Ivan grinned and stayed put.

  Lock reached into his pocket, withdrew his wallet, and pulled out all the cash. He thrust the bills at Ivan.

  “Two hundred and twenty, forty, sixty, seventy, and one, two, three,” Ivan said. “You’re giving me two hundred and seventy-three bucks?”

  Lock nodded and hobbled off. From a dozen paces away, he paused and looked back. “Good luck with that,” he said.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  Lock kept going.

  A couple of minutes later, in the middle of a block of shops, Lock arrived at a storefront. He hesitated a moment, and with a twinge of regret, he smashed his elbow through a small plane of glass in the door and reached through the window to release the deadbolt.

  Lock entered the store and kicked the door closed behind him. A piece of loose glass fell to the sidewalk and shattered. He stood in a front room that had once housed a bar, now converted into what looked something like a modest coffee shop.

  The frosted glass of the window read: “Bill’s Cafe and Hang-About.” And under that, in smaller letters: “Liquor License Revoked by Order of the State of Inebriation.”

  Lock made his way through the shop and into a larger room in the rear. A couple dozen folding chairs faced an oak podium on a small stage. Next to the podium, there was a microphone on a stand. Lock stood alone in the room where he had attended countless AA meetings. He staggered up onto the stage, looked around, and switched on a lamp.

  His every motion caused him pain. Even standing was taxing, and his breathing was shallow and deliberate. He leaned into the microphone and addressed the room of empty chairs.

  “Is this thing on?”

  His voice was scratchy and rough, and it echoed in the dim room.

  “I guess not.”

  He found the little slide switch and turned it on. He tapped the head of the microphone and the sound reverberated, a giant fist knocking on the door of a dungeon.

  “That’s better.”

  He found an unopened bottle of water under the podium, cracked the cap, and gulped. He looked across the room. Along one side, a dry-erase board rested on an easel. Printed across the top, the name of that morning’s AA meeting: “Rise & Shine ... for a Change. Next meeting – Thursday, November 24 – 6:30 a.m. Guest speaker: Lock G.”

  The wall clock read 2:33.

  Lock leaned into the microphone and said, “Looks like I’m early.”

  He took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat. He removed the microphone from the stand. In his imagination, Warren—the AA group leader—was on stage with him. Lock reached out and pretended to hand the microphone to him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. It is my pleasure to introduce Lock G., this morning’s speaker.”

  Lock surveyed the room, imagining it full of familiar faces. He could see them all. He changed positions onstage and became himself again.

  “Thanks, Warren,” he said, and he leaned away from the microphone. He moved close to it again and said, “Most of you know Lock. Today, he has three hundred and sixty–five consecutive days clean and sober.”

  Lock said, “Consecutive?”

  He imagined the crowd laughing.

  Lock moved to the podium, hands and forearms resting on the top. Warren faded away.

  “I once asked Abby how long I had to keep saying ‘I’m a recovering alcoholic’ when I introduce myself,” said Lock. “He said until I was tired of being one.” He looked around the empty room.

  “Of course, Abby sometimes speaks cryptically,” he said. “Anyway, for those of you who don’t know, Abby is my AA sponsor and much more than that. He taught me that addiction was simply the illusion of having control, and learning that saved my life. One year ago today, he dragged me out of his office…”

  Lock turned to where Abner Schlamm usually sat. Lock imagined Abby—looking every week of his seventy-five or so years—with his plaid golf cap resting on his knee, watching intently. Lock pointed to an empty seat.

  “…and poured me into that chair right there.”

  At that moment, Lock felt a stabbing sensation in his gut and turned his face away from the non-existent audience to wince. He took a deep breath and turned back.

  “Abby, you surprised to see I’ve logged in a full year? No?”

  Lock imagined Abby’s grin.

  “Today is my first time being the speaker,” he said. “And I’m plenty nervous. You coached me yesterday. ‘Just keep it simple,’ you told me. ‘Just tell what it was like, what happened, what it’s like now.’“
Lock placed the microphone back into the stand and dropped his hands to his sides. “Okay, I’ll tell you.”

  Lock swallowed hard. He tugged at his lower lip and said, “Abby, you know I love you. You put on the humble bit, but I know you think you’re a great recovering alcoholic, that you know all the tricks. Well, you do. At least, most of them. And you’re a great boss, too. No one cares more than you about the kids we’re responsible for at work. And despite my messed-up past, you insisted I come to work with you. Your only requirement was that I try to stop drinking. Thank you so much for twisting my arm and getting me to come work at CPS. We do important things there. I remember on my first day, you told me, ‘It’s only about our kids here. We take care of them when no one else does. And when people hurt them, we track them down and put them in small rooms with steel bars.’ That’s why they call the staff ‘Abner’s Renegades’—because you encourage us to be overzealous, even overstep our authority, when it comes to protecting children.”

  Lock took a pull from the water bottle. He pressed his gut. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his brow.

  “Now, let’s talk about those kids, Abby,” Lock said. “The Mannheim kids in particular.”

  The imagined audience was silent, watching.

  “I have something to tell you, and this’ll probably keep you tossing and turning for a few nights. You have world-class instincts. You started out on the right trail. Right away, you said it wasn’t Wittley Mannheim who caused the crash.”

  Lock saw Abner blanch.

  “And you said it wasn’t Natalie Mannheim in it alone. There had to be someone else. Poor old Abby. You were so proud to see your boy Lochlan get clean and sober. “

  Lock paused and looked around the room.

  “Bad bet this time, Abby,” Lock said. “You bet on me. I’m the one to blame for the Mannheim child’s death. You didn’t get it because you loved me too much. You didn’t see what was right in front of your face.”

  Lock winced.

  “When it came to adding it all up, you couldn’t get it right like you usually do. I was in your blind spot.” He pictured Abner’s face draining, his cap falling to the floor. “Me. Lochlan Gilkenney. Killer.”

  Lock took another slug of water and grimaced.

  “Take it easy, Abby. I’m going to tell you everything. You’re not going to have to wonder about anything.”

  Lock focused on Abner’s anguished face.

  “Sometimes I wonder if maybe you figured out what happened,” Lock said, “but not why. Well, here’s why. I did it because I finally wanted to have a family and I thought I was so close. I was in love with a woman who I thought loved me back. Because I wanted someone to have children with. I never imagined anyone would get hurt. If nothing else, I want you to believe that about me. I did it because there were a couple of kids who needed a real, loving father. I wanted a pretty place to live instead of lonely rooms on the second floor of somebody’s carriage house. For the first time in forty-three years, I had a decent chance of having a family—you know that’s all I’ve ever wanted—and what happens? I get bitten by a viper.

  Lock gulped sloppily from the water bottle. His elbow slipped off the podium and he nearly fell.

  He heard a profanity-laced commotion from out front, and the beam of a flashlight clicked on and searched the darkness of the back room. Sergeant Jattle, her bulk exaggerated by her vest, stood in the door with her gun drawn.

  “Who’s in here?” she shouted. “Let’s see some hands.” The flashlight searched wildly.

  Lock knew that voice.

  “I’m getting ready to let my dog loose,” she said, “and you’re getting ready to get shot.”

  Lock, weak and slurring, spoke from the stage. “Hey Jattle,” he said, “Red Cedar Woods police have K–9 now? News to me.”

  The flashlight immediately found Lock’s face.

  “Lock! You—there’s broken glass everywhere. You do this?”

  “Couldn’t find my key, and I have to set up for the early meeting. I’m today’s coffee boy. Sorry about that. I tried to be quiet.”

  Sergeant Jattle found the switch and flipped it. Overhead lights illuminated the room. She looked around, glared at Lock, and holstered her gun.

  “You can smash a window quietly?” she asked.

  She turned her head and spoke into the radio clipped to her shoulder. Lock couldn’t hear much of what she said other than “Lock Gilkenney” and “AA clubhouse” and “moron.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Lock said. “There are spare panes of glass and caulk in the storeroom. A minute to sweep up, a minute to put the pane in place, and half a minute to squirt the caulk. I can fix it fast, and it’s better than dealing with twenty cranky caffeine freaks at six thirty in the morning.”

  “It’s two thirty, Lock,” Jattle said. “Four hours early to make instant coffee? Now I’m stuck writing up an attempted burglary report.”

  Jattle walked closer and peered at Lock. He was holding his gut and didn’t look well. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, pointing to his stomach.

  Lock moved his hand away.

  “It’s my side. I moved a heavy entertainment center. By myself. Pulled a muscle or something.”

  Jattle made a face. “If I didn’t know you belonged here, Lock, I’d take you into custody, but I’m not going to arrest someone for being a jerk. And clean up the broken glass on the sidewalk.”

  Lock stood up straight, gripping the podium with one hand. He waited a couple of minutes until she was gone and then looked back into the imaginary audience at Abner. “Enough of the opening act, Abby,” he said. “Here’s what happened. You’re not going to like it.”

  Lock imagined Abner clenching his teeth.

  “Remember a few weeks back—November first?” Lock asked. “I fielded the Mannheim call. First thing I did was drive out to their place, out past Deep Pond Road. Unannounced, like you taught me. Around one thirty. We had an anonymous report of neglected children. No further information. I took a shot that the mom would be there. She was.”

  2

  Three weeks earlier

  On Monday afternoon, Lock drove the blue county car out to Red Cedar Woods. He wore a tailored navy blue suit. The address was an enormous farmhouse surrounded by stands of mature trees, wildflowers, and grazing horses.

  The house had a vast front lawn, at least an acre. At the foot of the driveway stood a wrought-iron gate, high and ornate, flanked by two vigilant stone lions. A couple of decomposing newspapers lay on the grass. The gate was open. Lock drove through and pulled up close to the house. He got out, carrying a file folder attached to a clipboard. A kid’s bike and a few toys lay on the lawn by the side door.

  Lock rang the bell. He waited a full minute. No answer. He knocked loudly, and a young woman answered, wearing rubber gloves and holding a soapy dish scrubber. She shuffled her round body to music from her earbuds. Lock looked around at the spacious kitchen.

  He glanced at his clipboard.

  “I’m looking for Mrs. Natalie Mannheim.”

  The girl reached for the clipboard.

  “I’ll take it,” she said loudly.

  “Nothing to take. I want to speak with Mrs. Mannheim.”

  “Oh,” she said, squinting at him. “Okay. I guess you can come in.”

  Lock stepped past her into the kitchen and set the clipboard down on the countertop. He slid the envelope out from under its clamp. He leaned against the counter, waiting for the girl to get Mrs. Mannheim.

  The kitchen was immaculate but contained no evidence of use, no sign that a family spent mornings in it together. There was no fresh fruit, no hanging garlic, no plants. Sterile.

  “Actually, I can take that for you,” she said, nodding toward the clipboard.

  “Please tell Mrs. Mannheim an investigator with the Brandywine County Child
Protective Services is here and needs to speak with her.”

  Again, over the music in her head, the girl shouted. “Sorry, Mr. Mannheim’s not home yet.”

  He reached toward the girl with the intention of yanking out her earbuds, but then thought better of it.

  “I asked for Mrs. Mannheim.”

  The young woman scowled.

  “I’m here because I’m following up on some information we received,” Lock said.

  A voice came from beyond a partially open sliding glass door at the far side of the kitchen. From his viewpoint—mostly obstructed by the kitchen island and the spotless pots, pans, and cooking utensils suspended over it—Lock could see someone else entering the room. Another woman, most likely Natalie Mannheim. “There’s a car in the driveway, Candice. It’s not Carlo, is it? We talked about that.” She saw Lock and asked, “Who’s this?”

  “Don’t know. He just came to the kitchen door,” Candice said.

  Lock retrieved the clipboard from the countertop, knowing it demonstrated authority. A clipboard told the people he visited that there was already paperwork—that the county had been thinking about them for who knew how long. It put them on the defensive. People didn’t like the idea that the authorities had been watching them. In Lock’s experience, it didn’t make them any more likely to tell the truth, but their nervousness made it easier for him to spot the lies.

  The woman slid the door closed behind her and took a few steps toward Lock, holding out her hand. “I’m Natalie Mannheim,” she said.

  She was pretty. More than pretty. She was barefoot, maybe five years younger than him and wore her hair short. She had a white shawl draped over her shoulders, just sheer enough to make Lock think she didn’t have much on underneath it. Lock dropped his eyes for a moment and noticed her toes, each one bejeweled with colorful, exotic stones set in silver rings. He looked her in the eye and shook her hand.

  “I’m Lochlan Gilkenney, an investigator from Brandywine County Child Protective Services.”

  Candice looked at Mrs. Mannheim. “I thought it was some delivery or something for Witt.”