Fixing Perfect

by Therese M. Travis

  She really needed to get home and indulge in a good, long cry.

  “Look, I’m getting really tired. I’m going home, OK?” She swung toward her street, thankful that she had only a few blocks to go before she reached her haven.

  “I’ll walk you.”

  “No, that’s OK. You were on your way somewhere else. You go take care of business or whatever. I’ll see you later.” She bent her head and dug into shoving her crutches in front of her as fast as she could manage.

  

  Sam stared after Robin, his heart shattered. What was wrong? What had he done this time? Here he’d been set to finally ask her out, and she’d taken off like he’d shown her candy and asked her to climb into his car.

  Like he was the villain.

  Probably because he’d been so clueless about Grace. Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut about those things? Robin probably thought he agreed with Grace, that no guy would want her because she needed crutches and leg braces to get around.

  And what was with her calling herself a cripple? So she used those crutches. She didn’t need to demean herself like that. He knew for a fact plenty of other people treated her like an imbecile, as though any disability translated into a mental one, but he’d never seen her give in to it.

  He watched her until she turned a corner. Then he came to and looked at the tourists around him. Visitors had fallen off somewhat since the kidnappings, and he was glad to see so many people out today enjoying the sunshine and typical offshore southern California weather, even if most of them were not children. He had seen a few. It might be almost the end of October, but he’d seen some kids playing on the beach, dancing in and out of the waves.

  His cell chirped and he grabbed it, hoping it was Robin, calling to ask him to come by after all, that she was sorry for having run off on him, that she wanted to make up.

  It was his friend from the police department, Bricker.

  “Just thought you should know. It’s going to be all over pretty soon—another kid and her babysitter’s gone missing.”

  He closed his eyes, his heart crying out to God when he didn’t know how to pray. “Who are they?”

  “Cynthia Maxwell is the little one. She’s two. The babysitter is a college student, home for a few weeks. Her name is...” Sam heard him fumbling with paper. “Kaitlyn George. I’ve got a picture on my cell. I’ll forward it to you after we hang up.”

  Sam held the phone against his ear and stared at the oblivious tourists. The sun had turned bitter. The wind that played with fallen leaves became a harbinger of fear.

  “Are they putting together search parties?”

  “Why I’m calling you. Come help us until you have to report for your shift.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  

  Becca stared while the little girl cried and cried and didn’t stop. Becca tried to pat her head after Mr. Bird left, but the baby hit her arm and that made Becca want to cry, too. Except crying made Mr. Bird mad, and she never knew when he was going to come back and catch her. She sure didn’t like to make him mad.

  If this baby kept crying, and he came back…

  Becca sat on the edge of the mattress and cooed, just like her mommy did when she was scared. The baby stopped making noise for a minute, even though her face was still wet, and big fat tears still rolled down her red cheeks. After a minute, she crawled over to where Becca sat, and laid down next to her, with her head in Becca’s lap.

  That wasn’t so nice because her bottom smelled bad, but it was a lot better than all the noise she was making before. Becca laid down, too, and put her thumb in her mouth.

  For the first time, she didn’t scrape at the hole. Maybe this baby was God’s way of making her behave.

  But when she woke up later, the baby and her fat tears and stinky bottom were gone.

  Mr. Bird came back a long time later.

  “Where’s the baby?” Becca asked. “I bet she got to go home to her mommy.” She felt her lower lip push out, and Mr. Bird didn’t like her to pout. She covered her face.

  He sat next to her and handed her a sandwich. Peanut butter again. Never with jam. She had to hide another pout.

  “She was going to help me, just like you, but it didn’t work out. She didn’t smell very good, anyway.”

  The trash didn’t smell good, either. Maybe Mr. Bird didn’t care about trash smell, though.

  Becca opened the sandwich, just to check to see if there might be some jam hidden inside. There wasn’t. “She cried a lot, too. You don’t like crying.”

  He gave her the kind of look her kindergarten teacher used whenever she remembered the name of a letter. “That’s right. I don’t. You’re very smart.”

  That made her feel better. She took a bite of sandwich and, sucking hard so the peanut butter didn’t make her mumble her words, said, “When do I get to help you?”

  “Not for a while. I’m telling a story. Your part is way at the end.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “It’s about my little bird. My sweet, baby-blue-eyed bird.”

  “Tell me.”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Not right now. I need to work some of it out, still. Maybe later. When it’s your turn to help, I’ll tell you everything.”

  She finished her sandwich and went to the bathroom to run water into her hand, to drink. When she came out, Mr. Bird had gone again. She didn’t like how he did that, how he left when she wasn’t looking.

  She lay down, and right away one thumb went into her mouth and the other hand went to the hole.

  If God wanted her to be good, He’d send her another baby to take care of. He couldn’t expect her to be good all on her own.

  5

  Bricker stopped next to Sam, his hands on his hips, as Sam surveyed the old warehouse. Bricker had taken to wearing his uniform, weapon included, every time they searched. It gave the two of them added authority, although the armband the volunteers wore, proclaiming them official searchers, was enough for Sam.

  “It’s crossed off the list,” Bricker said.

  “I don’t know.” Sam stared at the row of windows so dirty they appeared gray.

  “We did. In fact, two teams went through, remember?”

  “Yeah, I do. But I’ve got a feeling.” He didn’t explain it.

  “So you want to go in again? Fine, you go. I’m not wasting my time.” Bricker turned away, skirting the building and kicking aside boxes and debris in the alley that ran between the warehouse and the service area of a hotel.

  Sam pried open the crooked door enough to slip inside. The windows allowed very little light, and he thumbed his flashlight on, sweeping the beam across the gritty floor.

  Both he and Bricker, as well as the other team, had been thorough in their searches. God, am I crazy? Am I wasting time?

  The killer had left Lehanie out in the open. He’d wanted people to find her. He’d wanted to show off his work. So why did Sam have such a strong urge to look again among the hidden, and the trash? Guide me, Father.

  A rat scuttled from a pile of boxes, and Sam directed the light toward the corner. Something had shifted them. Not the other team. They’d gone through before Sam. But something—something that interested a rat.

  A lot of rats. Three more fled before his light. He heard much scurrying, and several boxes fell as he watched.

  Oh, dear God, please.

  He crept forward, shoving empty cartons out of his way with his foot, making sure nothing he wanted to find could be hiding in them. After all, Cynthia was only two.

  The smell hit him with sudden intensity. Not a dead body, but feces. He stared down at the diaper ripped from the back, chewed by rats, and the chubby leg protruding, and jerked out his phone. “Bricker, get in here. I found the baby.”

  Setting the flashlight on the edge of a box, so the child could see him as well as he could her, he squatted next to her. “Hey, Cynthia.”

  “Mommy!” she wailed.

&
nbsp; “I know. We’re gonna take you to your mommy right now.”

  She held out her arms, and he reached for her. No matter how disgusting her condition, he could not deny her the comfort of loving arms, hands that wouldn’t hurt, hands that didn’t want to paint her or kill her.

  And he could only thank God that he found her before the rats finished with the diaper.

  

  He watched Sam carry the kid out. Fair enough. It’d be a wasted death if they hadn’t found her. For half a minute, he wished her back. He could do her hair and eyes just like he’d done Lehanie’s and put her in one of the sky blue outfits he loved and set her up with some stuffed mermaids.

  But he couldn’t have done that yet. It would give too much away. Better to let this one go and find another little girl for later. There were plenty of babies on the island.

  And there was always Becca.

  He nodded sharply, once, and headed for home. Becca was at home.

  He almost forgot the kid had been found, until he heard the celebrating. He ran toward the crowd, whooping and hollering with the rest of them. He felt someone staring at him, but the best way to avoid suspicion, he’d found, was to ignore it.

  He clapped Sam on the back, congratulated him, and let everyone there assume he was as surprised as they were.

  No problem. There were plenty of other kids wandering around.

  

  Clouds dimmed the day but not the players’ faces the next Saturday. Robin looked at each team member in turn as they gathered around Coach Danny for the opening prayer. Robin reached out for Kerry’s hand on one side, and Sam covered her fingers, clutched on her crutch, on the other. She bent her head, and a sharp, chill breeze tugged at the hair already clasped in a barrette at the back of her head.

  Sam’s grip tightened and relaxed, and she glanced at him. His lips tipped up at the corners, more reassurance than actual happiness. But then, she could tell he was worried.

  Danny’s voice rose and even the squirmiest of players stopped talking. “We ask Your will for our teammates today, that they have fun, that they’re good sportsmen, that You keep them safe. But Lord, more than this we ask Your blessings for Kaitlyn George and for little Becca. Follow them. Keep them safe. Bring them home today to their families. And as always, we ask that You keep all our children safe. We ask this in Your name, Amen.”

  Kerry whooped and headed for the dugout.

  Sam leaned close to Robin. “Danny should have been a preacher.”

  “I think he was, once. He’s said a few things that make me think he was, anyway. Or studied to be one.” Robin tightened her hold on her crutches and started for the outfield.

  “He sure knows how to pray.”

  Robin watched him in between navigating the hummocks of grass and dirt. “You’re doing your best.”

  He frowned. “What’s that got to do with how the coach can pray?”

  As if she couldn’t read his every expression. “Nothing. It’s what you’re worried about, though, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer, just slipped his mitt over his fist and glared at home base.

  Robin stopped beside him and snagged her mitt from his back pocket. She’d never caught anything with it, not yet, but it had already molded itself around her hand. “Look, Sam, you’re not responsible for the universe. You found that baby. How can you say you haven’t done enough? She would have died if you hadn’t found her.” She made him meet her gaze, glaring her affirmation into his soul until he looked down, and nodded. “You’re not the only one God can use, but then, neither is Danny. He’s using us all, anyone who lets Him.” She shrugged. “Maybe even the people who don’t want Him to. He can use anything, can’t He?”

  A smile twisted up one side of his mouth. “He sure can.”

  “So now you’re taking a break. Did you even sleep last night?”

  “Yeah.” His shoulders slumped. “I couldn’t help it. I sat down to eat a sandwich and woke up with mustard on my face.”

  “That must have been pleasant.”

  “But Becca and Kaitlyn are still out there at the mercy of some sicko. Becca’s only five.”

  “I know, Sam. We all know that. And everyone is doing what they can. Those of us who can’t search are praying.”

  “Yeah, we need prayers.” He closed his eyes, probably lost in a prayer of his own for a few minutes. Robin let him do that work in silence. He’d feel better for it.

  “Batter up!” Coach Danny’s voice echoed across the field.

  Robin turned to face the game. “If anyone hits a fly, I want to try to catch it, OK?”

  “You got it, babe.”

  Her lips pinched, but she didn’t let him catch her expression. Maybe he didn’t know how it sounded. Maybe he didn’t mean to ram the word so deep in her heart she’d probably never be able to remove it, never be able to forget it. Babe. Like she was his, belonged to him, was beloved by him.

  I am Your beloved, that should be enough, shouldn’t it?

  Sometimes it actually was.

  

  Several parents took their kids home as soon as the game ended. The pizza parlor wasn’t any less noisy, but Sam still felt the yawning void that their absence left. He settled Kerry next to Robin, bent to tuck her crutches under the table where they wouldn’t trip anyone up and rose to find Donovan seating himself across from them. Sam clenched his fists.

  Robin wasn’t interested in Donovan. She’d made that clear.

  But Sam couldn’t stop disliking the guy. He sure didn’t want to explore how deep the dislike ran, find out if it had progressed to hatred. Or why.

  Donovan set his camera next to the parmesan. “I got some good pictures out there today.”

  Sam took a deep breath and ordered himself to at least be polite. “You got all the permission slips signed?”

  “All but a couple. I made sure not to get those kids in the shots. Not too hard, really. And both of those have gone home. Parents thought they’d be safer there, I guess.”

  “Do you blame them?” Sam met the other guy’s gaze, and let the challenge shine clear in his own.

  “Oh, not at all. They want to protect their kids. It’s just—what harm can a few pictures do? Or a slice of pizza, you know? It’s not like anyone can get to a kid here.” He shook his head and mumbled something about parents being overprotective. “We’re all here. How’s he gonna get to the kid?”

  “You never know. It could happen in the bathroom, in five minutes. Destroy a kid’s life forever.” Sam felt glued to the spot, unwilling to leave Robin and Kerry to this guy, even for the short time it would take to fetch their drinks.

  “What, kidnapping? They’d have to get them out—”

  “I’m talking about molestation. Isn’t that why monsters kidnap kids and kill them after?”

  Donovan stared at him, his mouth hanging open before shaking his head. “Yeah. I was just talking about kidnapping.”

  “It’s all related.” Sam moved so the server could put the hot pan on the trivet in the center of the table.

  Danny, maybe sensing his tension, brought over a pitcher of soda and a stack of cups and plastic lids. He leaned close to Sam’s shoulder. “Tone it down, boy. I don’t want you starting something in front of the team.”

  “Right.” But the word had to fight past his clenched jaw. Sam pointed at the pizza in the middle of the table and motioned to Donovan. “After you.”

  “Thanks.” Donovan slid two pieces onto his paper plate.

  Sam gave both Kerry and Robin a slice.

  “Mmm, pepp’roni. My favorite.” Kerry took a huge bite, gasping as the hot cheese hit his tongue.

  Sam held his soda for him before he filled his own plate.

  “Not every kidnapper wants to have—” Donovan stopped, his eyes going to Kerry’s face. His own reddened. “They’re not all pedophiles. And this guy, he’s not even after kids, anyway.”

  “Are you kidding?” Sam gripped the edge of the table
. “You can’t be serious. He went after two little girls. No one can find Becca. Why else would—”

  “Hey, guys, not here, OK?” Robin put her hand on top of Sam’s. He turned his palm up and grasped her fingers.

  “Sorry. Inappropriate, I know.”

  “Very. And we’ve already been over this once.” Robin motioned for another slice and Sam served her. “Thanks. Tell me about the pictures you took at today’s game, Donovan. What are you going to do with them?”

  Sam turned to see what Donovan would answer.

  The other man’s jaw bunched over clenched teeth and his eyes narrowed. “Look, I hate pedophiles. Jerks that prey on kids for that—they’re sick, they deserve to be put to death. I think that should be the law.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They ought to be obliterated off the face of the earth. Just put all of them into one of those Nazi ovens and—”

  “Donovan. Cool it.” Coach Danny dropped his hand onto Donovan’s shoulder and shot Sam a look. “We understand your passion but this isn’t the place to air it.”

  “Yeah.” Donovan closed his eyes and bent his head. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

  Danny’s fingers tightened so Donovan’s t-shirt bunched in wrinkles underneath. “Tell me. You helping in the search for that girl? I know Sam’s been out with the search every day since Kaitlyn disappeared.”

  Donovan looked up. “The first day. I was there when Sam pulled the little kid out of that warehouse.”

  Sam didn’t remember him. But then, there’d been hundreds of people the first day.

  Danny let his hand fall. “They still need volunteers. People have lives; they need to get back to their jobs. Why don’t you go and see what you can do to help?”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Donovan slugged back the rest of his soda and stumbled to the door.

  Danny watched him go, his shoulders twitching. “He’s a good guy, but he needs to put a lock on his mouth.”