Dark Harvest (A Holt Foundation Story Book 2)

by Chris Patchell

  The sight of the antiabortion brochure seared him like a white-hot brand. Marissa snatched it off the desk, and an ultrasound photo slid out.

  Oh my fucking God.

  She was pregnant. She didn’t tell him. And she’d gone to the clinic for what? An abortion?

  He felt something dislodge inside him—like a molten core of pain and rage exploding. Logic failed him. He wanted to scream. Cry. Shake some sense into her.

  “Rico said that Maddox was pressuring Becky for an abortion. Maybe this is where she went,” Henry said, oblivious to the drama playing out on the other side of the room.

  “This is where you saw her?” Seth asked, his stony gaze boring into Marissa.

  Tears filled Marissa’s eyes. She nodded.

  “Wait, you were at Planned Parenthood?” Henry asked, the pieces falling into place.

  “Henry, can you give us a moment?”

  “Sure.” Henry wasted no time clearing out of the office.

  Seth couldn’t stand to look at Marissa for another second. All the anger, the hurt, the frustration built up within him until he couldn’t contain it a second longer. He sprang from his chair and marched to the far end of the room, putting as much distance between them as he could manage.

  “So when were you planning to tell me you were pregnant? Or were you planning to tell me at all?”

  “I found out last night.”

  “Before or after you broke up with me?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters,” he barked.

  “After.”

  Her answer was almost inaudible, and Seth bit back a bitter laugh.

  “So you find out that you’re pregnant last night and the first thing you do is race to an abortion clinic?”

  “It’s not just an abortion clinic. It provides health care to millions of women around the world. It’s—”

  He stopped her with a look. Marissa shrank back. In any other moment, he might have felt guilty for spooking her, but he was too wrapped up in his own pain to care.

  “I needed to consider my options,” she said as if her fucked-up logic made an iota of sense.

  “Consider what options? Aborting the baby without ever telling me?”

  Marissa took a half step toward him, but the hard look on his scarred face stopped her cold.

  “You think I don’t know that you’re still hung up on your late wife? You can’t commit to our relationship now. How will a baby make that better?”

  “How can you say that?”

  “You called me Holly last night.”

  “I made a mistake. It doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be with you.”

  “People do what they want to do, Seth, and you haven’t been around. What do you think that says?”

  “It says that I’m sensitive to the fact that Brooke is going through a major crisis and needs you right now, not that I’m afraid of committing.”

  “You still love your wife.”

  The verbal blow hit like a heavy weight’s punch, and he grasped for the right thing to say. He couldn’t deny the truth of what she’d said, but nothing was that simple.

  “Part of me will always love Holly. I can’t change that. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t care about you.”

  Tears streaked down Marissa’s wounded face.

  “You’re not ready for a family,” she said. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “You don’t get to make that decision.” Seth raked his hands though his hair and struggled to reign in the overwhelming sense of betrayal he felt. “How can I trust you when you keep something like this from me?”

  Marissa stood by his desk, arms crossed protectively across her chest. She looked small and scared.

  “I just found out.”

  Seth opened his mouth to fire back, but Evan knocked on the doorframe.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Seth pulled in a deep breath. “I think Marissa just found the clue we’ve been looking for.”

  “Really? That’s why I heard shouting?”

  Seth glanced at Marissa but she said nothing.

  “Do I need to remind you that we’re running a business here?” Evan asked Seth.

  “No.”

  “Good. I don’t want to have this conversation again.” He turned toward Marissa. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” Marissa gave a brittle nod.

  Evan lingered in the doorway a few seconds more. “Then let’s get back to work,” he said.

  He shot Seth a pointed look before heading back to his office.

  Seth tipped his head back and counted backward from ten. He got to three and started over.

  Marissa gathered the contents of her purse. Seth crossed the room, giving her a wide berth. He wanted to stay as far away as possible from her.

  “Why? Just tell me why.”

  “I don’t want to raise another baby alone.”

  Her words were a slap to the face.

  “Is that who you think I am?”

  “We broke up.”

  He wanted to shake some sense into her. Hurt her like she’d hurt him, but he held back. There was plenty of pain to go around already.

  “A baby is a huge commitment,” she said.

  Like he didn’t already know that. Like he needed to be told. Like her feelings were the only ones that mattered.

  She didn’t give a damn what he thought or how he felt. Everything was always about her.

  “Get out.” Seth’s gaze bore into her. Marissa stood there frozen in place, like she didn’t know what to do. What to say. “Go,” he bellowed.

  She needed to leave now before he said something he could never take back. Clutching her purse, Marissa fled from the office. Moments later, Henry peeked through the doorway.

  “Okay if I . . .” He gestured toward his desk, almost apologetic.

  “Yeah.” Seth rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. The enormity of what had just happened levelled him.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  He was not okay. Nowhere even close. An ocean of pain churned inside him like an angry sea.

  He had to get out of here. Do something.

  Seth grabbed his coat, his car keys, and headed for the door.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “The clinic.”

  “Need a wingman?”

  “I’ll fly solo on this one.”

  #

  Seth spotted the clinic up ahead on the right. Outside, there was a small but determined knot of people carrying picket signs. Most were older white men. One withered old woman wearing a pink knit cap shook her sign at him as he turned into the parking lot.

  The sign depicted the severed remains of an aborted baby. The graphic image sickened him. The protesters must have given Marissa the antiabortion flyer on the way in.

  Turning off the engine he tried to clear his mind and focus, but it was impossible to quiet his thoughts. The bombshell Marissa had dropped on him obliterated everything else, and he kept coming back to the same thing—what kind of relationship did they have if he couldn’t trust her?

  He didn’t know.

  Everything felt wrong. Wrong relationship. Wrong job. Nothing in his life made any sense.

  Rain pounded down from the slate gray sky in icy drops. Protesters called to him as he made his way across the parking lot to the entrance. He ignored them. Inside there were a half dozen women seated in the waiting room.

  “Good morning. Can I help you?” The receptionist was pleasant enough, but she looked at him like he was an intruder.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who are you with?”

  The question was unexpected. As a cop, he would have pulled his badge and clarified the situation easily. But without one, she would assume he was the boyfriend or the father of a patient.

  “I don’t know her name, but I do have a photo.”

  Her expression closed. “Sir, it’s against our policy to give
out any personal information regarding our patients.”

  He realized his mistake right away.

  “No. Sorry. I’m looking for a staff member.” He pulled out his cell phone and showed a picture of the woman from the video.

  “Again, it’s against our policy to give out personal information. That includes our staff.”

  Her expression carved in stone, she showed not a flicker or outward sign of recognition.

  “Have you seen her?” he persisted.

  “Sir, I have already stated our policy. Please don’t make this any more difficult.”

  Seth rooted around in his pocket for a business card, painfully aware that he was fucking this up. He was usually better at this sort of thing, but he was so consumed by his own problems, he wasn’t thinking straight. Irritated with himself, Seth removed a business card and handed it to her.

  He forced a smile. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

  The woman refused to take the card. “Did you see the protesters on your way in?”

  “Yes.” As if he could miss it.

  “One of those protesters followed one of our doctors home last week. He had to call the police. We take the safety of our staff very seriously.”

  “I’m not one of them.” He gestured toward the door.

  “Them? You mean a pro-lifer?”

  “Yeah. No.” God. It was complicated. Raised Catholic, he believed that a life was a life, but harassing women wasn’t right. “I would never do that.”

  She sighed and rubbed her forehead, like she was losing patience with him.

  “Look, I can’t help you. Perhaps it is time for you to leave.”

  “Is everything all right, Elaine?” a man wearing a white lab coat asked.

  “He’s looking for a woman he thinks works here. I told him—”

  He held up his hand and offered a disarming smile.

  “It’s okay, Elaine. I’ll take care of it.” The man turned toward Seth. “Perhaps I can help.”

  He led Seth to the far side of the waiting room, away from the other patients. He gestured to a chair. Seth took a seat.

  “I’m Dr. Wilcox. What can I do for you?”

  This time, Seth had his business card ready.

  “I’m Seth Crawford, an investigator for the Holt Foundation. I’m trying to find this woman.”

  He handed the doctor his phone, half expecting the same stiff-arm treatment the receptionist had given him. Unlike her, Dr. Wilcox examined the photo with a frown.

  “What is this about?”

  “We’re investigating the disappearance of a pregnant woman. I was hoping to speak to the woman in the photo to see if she knows anything. Do you recognize her?”

  Wilcox handed back the phone.

  “I’m sure Elaine already told you about our policy against divulging personal information?”

  Seth’s stomach sank. He was getting nowhere. He stuffed the phone in his pocket and rose. “She did.”

  “Good. Since this woman is no longer part of our . . .” He snapped his fingers like he was grasping for words.

  “Staff?” Seth offered, sitting back down in his seat.

  “Yes. She resigned a few weeks back.”

  “Is it possible you’re mistaken? I have a witness who says she saw her here earlier today.”

  “Witness?” Dr. Wilcox asked with a baffled smile. “That sounds official. Is there some legal proceeding at play?”

  “No. I misspoke. I’m just tracking down a lead.”

  “She was part of our nursing staff. She’s gone, though. Resigned. Said something about moving. California, I believe.”

  “Where in California?”

  The doctor gave a palms-up gesture. “I’m not sure. Not surprisingly, we get a lot of turn-over here.”

  He removed his glasses. Using the hem of his lab coat, he cleaned the lenses. Seth noticed the black electrical tape securing the hinge. The doctor picked up on his interest.

  “You’re wondering about the glasses. Yeah, well I’ve got a . . .” he paused, as if searching for the right word. “A baby . . . toddler at home who loves to get his hands on everything that’s not nailed down. He knocked my glasses flying, and well, let me tell you they didn’t pass the stress test he put them through.”

  “Is that where you got the scratches?”

  The doctor touched the scabbed-over slashes on his cheek and gave a sheepish nod. “You know what they say about a puppy’s teeth? Same thing goes for a baby’s fingernails.”

  “So about the nurse, do you remember her name?”

  “Victoria something. Jones. Johnson. I can’t say for sure. Her employment here predates mine.”

  “Do any of the other staff members know her?”

  “Dr. Wilcox,” the receptionist called. He acknowledged her with a nod and a raised index finger.

  “Undoubtedly, but to be honest, I’ve already said more than our policy allows.” He held out his hand to Seth. Seth shook it. “It’s probably best if you left now. After one of our doctors was stalked last week, everyone is on heightened alert. Elaine has the police on speed dial.”

  “Thanks for your time, Doc.”

  While he couldn’t verify Marissa’s claim that the woman from the video worked here, he wasn’t leaving empty handed. He had a name. Well part of a name. It was a start.

  Seth walked out into the dismal gray day and headed toward the car. Something whizzed past his head and bounced off his car door. A plastic baby leg.

  “Baby killer,” a man yelled. He hurled more dismembered doll parts at a young woman and her mother who were rushing toward the clinic. A severed arm, painted red, hit the young woman in the back of her coat. “Jesus will judge you.”

  She burst out crying. Her mother wrapped an arm around her, and the two hurried inside.

  A volcano of anger erupted in Seth’s chest. Locking on the protester, Seth went after him.

  “Leave her alone.”

  “We’ve got a right to be here. We’re not violating the perimeter rules.”

  He grabbed the guy’s coat and jerked him off his feet. Seth cocked back his fist ready to smash in the man’s face, when an old woman with a pink smacked him with her sign.

  “I’ll call the police if you don’t let him go,” she screamed.

  It wasn’t worth it.

  Seth released his grip. Turning his back on the protesters, he strode to the car. He had to get out of here, before he did something really stupid.

  Chapter 32

  Seth Crawford investigator.

  Xander keyed the words from the business card into a search engine. Dozens of search results returned. Photos of the man he had met today in a police uniform, younger, without the scars. Links to news articles about murder cases he had investigated.

  As he scanned the news stories, Xander formulated a profile—a policeman with a hero complex. Failing to save his wife from a fire left the wounded officer with scars, not just the visible ones on his face, but deeper psychological scars. A man like that didn’t emerge from that kind of situation unscathed. His need to save others was quite likely his weakness as well. He wondered if that was what led to his departure from the police force. Something he chose, or something that was chosen for him, Xander wondered.

  The most recent link led to the Holt Foundation website.

  Xander clicked on it. The foundation’s mission statement was figured prominently at the top of the page: to help the victims of violent crimes and their families overcome tragedy. Below the mission statement the homepage showed pictures of two missing pregnant women along with a number you could call if you had any information pertaining to the case.

  Rebecca Kincaid and Suzie Norwood. Xander pursed his lips like he’d swallowed a bitter pill.

  He skipped past the “volunteer” and “donation” links to the “about” link, where he found a list of the staff. Seth Crawford, former decorated cop, was now the lead investigator for the Holt Foundation. It was a perfect place for a h
ero to find a mission.

  Rescuing kidnapped girls.

  Only this time, much like the failed attempt to rescue his wife, Crawford was too late.

  There was another recent link. Xander clicked on it and saw a news story from last night. A newborn was abandoned at a local hospital. One of the photos featured a cop talking to the press about the discovery. In the background he saw Crawford. The guy didn’t have the kind of face you would miss.

  Xander stiffened as he scanned the article, anger like acid seeping into his veins.

  Tory.

  The two women were clucking like ducks as he approached the desk.

  “Another no show,” Tory said, placing the patient chart on a nearby stack.

  “Third one this morning,” the receptionist said, looking grim. Outside they could hear the protesters yelling at a woman who had just left the clinic.

  “Shouldn’t we call the cops?”

  “About the protesters? They’re not violating the buffer zone. What we need are male escorts manning the doors. I hear some clinics have them.”

  Tory snorted and tossed up her hands in a futile gesture. “Good luck getting volunteers in this neighborhood. Last week there were only a handful of picketers out there, but this week there are more of them, and what’s worse, they’re scaring the patients away.”

  “I know, but there is nothing we can do.”

  Tory picked up the next chart. Xander crossed through the hall behind her.

  “Could I speak with you?” he said quietly as he passed. The receptionist shot him a curious look.

  Gossip was deadly and they’d been discrete. Tory gave no reason to suspect that this was anything more than a professional consultation.

  “Of course, Doctor.”

  Tory followed him down the hall like an obedient pet.

  If she was nervous, he couldn’t tell. She waited for him to speak like she had all day. Maybe she thought he wouldn’t find out about the baby abandoned at the hospital or that he’d be dumb enough to think it was a coincidence.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “Are you worried about the baby?”

  Tory swallowed hard. It was the first crack in her placid demeanor, and he knew he’d struck a chord.