Child With No Name

by Franklin Horton

  “I don’t want to know,” Raylene interrupted. “Spare me.”

  The nurse scribbled the number down and then led Raylene into a restroom. She handed her a cup and Raylene knew what to do with it. It was part of the protocol for the medication. She got drug-tested at each visit to make sure she wasn’t taking anything illegal along with her suboxone. After she handed over her sample and washed her hands, the nurse took her to an exam room.

  Here Raylene handed over her pill bottle and watched patiently as the nurse counted her meds, logging the pill count into her chart. When the nurse was done, she handed the bottle over to Raylene.

  “All good,” the nurse said.

  Raylene shrugged. She knew they’d all be there. She hadn’t been selling them or abusing them. She was following the program exactly because she wanted to be well.

  “You can have a seat. The doctor will be with you in a moment.”

  Raylene chose a side chair over sitting on the crinkly paper of the exam table. She pulled out her phone and distracted herself for a few minutes before the door opened. The good thing about a program like this was that the doctor never made you wait long. They made money by doing volume. They wanted you in and out so they could bring in the next patient.

  “How are we, Ms. Kidd?” the doctor asked.

  His name was Doctor Jacoby and he was a young foreign guy, but she was a poor judge of ethnicity. She couldn’t have guessed where he was from, just that he wasn’t from there, judging by his accent. A lot of doctors came to her region because they could get their loans forgiven for working in Appalachia. It had been a doctor just like that—an outsider running a “pill mill”—who got her addicted in the first place.

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m doing okay," she replied.

  “Is the medication reducing the craving?”

  “I guess so. Sometimes it hits me but most of the time I’m fine. The knee hurts like a bitch though.”

  “You should try a cane,” the doctor suggested, placing a stethoscope over her heart and taking a listen. He moved it around to her back and had her take a few breaths.

  “Yeah, that’s what I hear. Canes are for old ladies though.”

  He didn't comment on that remark but asked her a few questions, pounding out his notes on a laptop the entire time. She knew what he was trying to do. He wanted to complete all the required documentation during the contact so that his paperwork was done when they whisked her out the door. That was the key to high-volume treatment.

  “Okay,” he said, looking up from his laptop. “Any questions?”

  She shook her head.

  “Before you go, you’ll need to meet with the counselor. If you’ll hang out here in the room for just a moment, she’ll be in to see you and then you’re free to go.”

  Raylene looked uncertain. “I hadn’t really planned on anything like that.”

  Doctor Jacoby raised an eyebrow at her, his look an accusation reminding her that she didn't have anywhere to be.

  She conceded. “I guess I can stay a little while.”

  “It won’t take all that long. A few minutes at the most. She’s trying to get around to meet all the patients but it’s taking a while. We’ve been swamped.”

  She shrugged. “That’s fine.”

  The doctor collected his laptop and skated out of the room. Seconds later, through the thin walls, she heard him with a new patient, replaying all the same questions he'd just asked her. Less than a minute after he was gone, there was a quick tap at the door and a woman stepped inside.

  She had frizzy hair and large, brightly-colored glasses. She was wearing some kind of polyester suit with a ruffled satiny shirt beneath it. It was all way too tight, as if she’d had the suit for twenty years and refused to give up on it. “My name is Karen and I’m the aftercare counselor here at the clinic. I promise I won’t take up much of your time. I’m just trying to meet all the patients and make them aware of my services. Is everything going okay with your treatment?”

  Raylene shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. Considering the circumstances.”

  Karen adopted an exaggerated expression of sympathy and concern, obviously something she’d practiced. She leaned back against the counter and folded her arms over her chest. “We just want you to succeed. That’s what we’re about. I noticed in your file that you had children. Are your children doing okay?”

  Raylene thought this odd. Not since the initial intake had anyone asked anything about her children. “They’re going to school and doing what they’re supposed to do. We're getting by.”

  Karen nodded. “It’s a lot of pressure having children, especially in a single-parent home. I’m sure it’s hard to keep them happy while you’re trying to get better. Recovery is hard enough without the responsibility of caring for children. That ever become a problem for you?”

  “Sometimes, but I guess it comes with the territory. Money is tight. Things are stressful. That's all part of being a mother, you know.”

  Karen nodded and looked Raylene directly in the eye. “If the pressure ever gets to be too much, just let us know. All you have to do is ask for me. That’s something we can help with.”

  The hair on the back of Raylene’s neck stood up. She was uncertain if it was Karen’s gaze or the woman’s words that raised her hackles. “I’m not sure what you mean, Karen. How is this something you can help with?”

  “Well, we offer services for mothers who find themselves unable to handle the pressures of recovery with children.”

  “Like counseling?”

  Karen shook her head while staring directly at Raylene. “No, it’s significantly more than that. I’m talking about assistance with private adoption.”

  “Adoption?” Raylene repeated. She knew a lot of women who went to recovery to keep their children. She couldn’t imagine anyone using it as an excuse to get rid of them.

  “Some women aren’t cut out for motherhood. You know it and I know,” Karen said, as if admitting an ugly truth that they were all aware of. “They just can’t handle the pressure. For them, children are an unfortunate, unplanned accident.”

  “How does that even work?” Raylene said. "What's a private adoption?" She was thinking out loud, responding to her own shock at what she was hearing.

  Karen, however, took Raylene’s continued engagement as a sign of interest, as an opening that she might exploit. “We have loving families who want children but are unable to have them. The public system of foster care and adoption is cumbersome. It’s time-consuming and intrusive. Some people have the financial resources to bypass that and they’re more than willing to reimburse the mother for her cooperation and expenses.”

  “Reimburse?”

  Karen leaned forward as if she was conveying a secret. “A cash payment. A substantial cash payment.”

  Raylene processed the information. She didn't even know what to say.

  “So, is this something you might be interested in?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Raylene said. “Not at the moment anyway. I was just curious.”

  Karen appeared disappointed, as if she’d wasted her efforts. “Oh well. Let me give you a card anyway. If you change your mind or have any questions, just let me know.”

  “Is this something I have to do every week?” Raylene asked. “Speak with you?”

  Karen shook her head as she handed over a thick business card. “Not unless you have questions. I just wanted to make contact and introduce myself. I’m always here if you need me, though. I work out of this office every day.”

  Raylene nodded blankly, accepting the card. She held it in her hand as she was shown back into the lobby. She scheduled her next appointment with the receptionist, then stepped out into the fresh air. She held onto the railing as she carefully descended the ramp. She felt unsteady, but not so much because of her gait but due to what had transpired inside.

  Something about what the counselor had said felt very wrong. It didn’t feel helpful as much as it felt creepy.
She was fairly certain that this woman had just tried to buy her children.

  5

  Glade Spring, Virginia

  Raylene thought about her doctor visit for most of the day. When she went to pick her children up from school, she studied the other parents in the pickup line. Were there other parents who were addicted like her? The odds were certainly in favor of it. She wondered if they were getting help or if they were swirling around the drain, ready to go under, as she'd once been.

  When the children began streaming out of the building, pouring toward cars and buses, she thought about their lives and what they experienced when they got home. Were they fed and loved? Were they beaten and cursed? Were they abused? Did anyone acknowledge them or did they go ignored all evening, tucking themselves into bed for the night whenever they’d had enough of their miserable life?

  When she’d been a deputy she’d spent a lot of time at the school. One of the statistics that shocked her the most was that around half of the children in the area lived in a non-conventional household. That didn’t mean they had two dads or two moms. It meant they were being raised by grandparents, aunts, or siblings. Most of the time that wasn’t due to illness or some other unexpected circumstance. It was due to drug abuse.

  The other thing she’d seen that made her ache deep in her heart was how many children she suspected had been abused because of their parents’ drug problems. It wasn’t anything new for a woman to sell herself for drugs, but Raylene had been blind to the fact that parents often used their children to pay for drugs. Not just teenagers but younger children. Even infants.

  The first time she’d seen a case like that she’d totally lost it, running from the house and vomiting into the yard as she sobbed uncontrollably. By the end of her career she’d seen a lot more of it. Though she no longer threw up, it never failed to leave her with that same nauseous sensation. She remembered that sick feeling with a disturbing clarity. In fact, she’d felt it ever since she’d spoken with the counselor at the clinic. Something about that conversation just didn’t seem right. It was like interrogating a suspect and knowing with all certainty that they were lying to your face.

  Raylene was pulled from her thoughts by the car door opening. Her children piled in, full of stories about their day. Despite their pleas for fast food, she insisted on taking them home and feeding them a good dinner. She wasn’t always the best parent, but she tried. She tried really hard.

  When they got home, she watched her children eat, nearly overwhelmed by the love she felt for them. She contrasted that sensation against the awareness that the clinic would not be offering to broker “under the table” adoptions unless there was a market for it. Some people had to be taking Karen up on those offers. Some parents were selling their children.

  When dinner was over, she got the children started on their homework and slipped off to her bedroom. In the top drawer of her dresser were the trappings of her old law enforcement career. Her Ruger handgun was still attached to her old service belt, but a trigger lock kept it safe from being fired. There were various other items in the stack that she’d paid for herself as part of having the job.

  She no longer had the badge, but she’d retained a worn leather business card case. It flipped open like a wallet, one side holding her business cards, the other holding business cards she frequently referenced. There were bail bondsmen, wrecker services, drug treatment facilities, and shelters for battered women or the homeless. There were also cards for officers from other agencies she’d worked with at one time or another—immigration, DHS, local PDs, regional FBI, or state police.

  She extracted one and stared at it. It belonged to a State Police investigator she’d worked with a couple of times over the years, a Lieutenant Whitt. She flipped the card over and found the lieutenant’s cell number, penned there several years ago at the scene of an investigation. She wondered if the number was still active.

  Raylene took out her phone and punched in the number. She sat down on the unmade bed, took a deep breath, and hit the Send key. It started ringing and before she had even formulated what she wanted to say, a voice on the other end answered.

  “Lieutenant Whitt,” came the brusque, clipped voice.

  “Yes, hello, Lieutenant Whitt. You may not remember me but my name is Raylene Kidd. We worked together on a stolen heavy equipment case a few years ago.”

  “Yes, I remember the case,” Lieutenant Whitt said. “They were hauling it to West Virginia and selling it to coal mines.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “So what can I do for you?”

  Raylene paused. She hadn’t gotten this far in her thinking, but she was motivated by the weird feeling the encounter at the clinic had given her. Was that enough? Was she being ridiculous?

  She didn’t think so. She’d only been a cop for eight years but she still remembered that instinct, that sense that sometimes your inner voice steered you in the right direction. Now that inner voice was telling her that she needed to listen to it. She needed to tug this thread and see what unraveled.

  “It’s kind of a lot to explain over the phone. Is there some time that I might be able to meet up with you for a couple of minutes?”

  “Sure. I could meet you tomorrow. I’ve got some time around 11 AM if that would work.”

  “That would be perfect,” Raylene said. “Could we meet in the parking lot of that closed furniture factory in Marion?” It was a place she’d often met people when she was working as a deputy.

  “I’ll be there,” Whitt confirmed. “See you at 11 tomorrow.”

  Raylene replaced the business card in her dresser, knowing she was going to have some explaining to do. Lieutenant Whitt would be expecting her to show up in her patrol car and uniform. She was going to have to swallow her pride and be honest. She had no choice if she wanted to rid herself of this gnawing sensation.

  6

  El Cierdo Ciego

  “They tell me the name means ‘The Blind Pig,’” Badger said, pulling into the parking lot of the squat, dingy bar. He parked a distance from the building, orienting his truck in such a way that he could pull out in a hurry if he needed to.

  Ty threw open the truck door and felt the searing blast of the midday Arizona sun. Yeah, it was beautiful country but it could sear you like a steak on a cast-iron skillet. He slid out the door and slammed it shut behind him.

  “You pick the spot?” Ty asked.

  “Nah, they usually pick. They always want places they’re familiar with. Come around to my side for a second.”

  When Ty got over there, Badger tossed him a beer. Not expecting it, Ty scrambled to snatch it out of the air.

  “It’s hot. What the hell is this for?”

  Badger opened one of his own and leaned forward, pouring some of the beer onto the back of his neck. The beer soaked the collar of his shirt and ran down his back.

  “What the hell?” Ty asked.

  Badger straightened out, tipped the can into a cupped palm, and splashed some beer onto the sides of his neck like it was after-shave. He grinned at Ty. “Gives you the right appearance and scent. It’s the drunk and sweaty look common in these places. Makes you fit in.”

  “You better hope we don’t get pulled over when we leave.”

  “I don’t care what I smell like. I can pass any field sobriety test they throw at me.”

  Ty leaned forward and poured a trickle of beer onto his own neck.

  “Give me that fucking can,” Badger swore, snatching it from Ty’s hand. He dumped a generous amount onto Ty’s neck, then splashed some into his hair for good effect. "That's the way you do it."

  “You sure this isn’t some kind of bullshit you’re making up to make me look like an idiot?”

  Badger laughed. “You think I’d have to do this to make you look like an idiot?”

  Ty had to grin. He knew he was part of a team now. That’s the way team members talked to each other. No tiptoeing around feelings. No tact. No delicacy.

  The
y were dressed like a couple of golfers, both of them feeling like idiots since neither played golf. They wore colorful pants and polo shirts. Badger wore a cap and Ty wore a goofy visor, something he’d never stuck on his head before in his entire life.

  When Badger felt like Ty was properly anointed he tossed the cans into the back of his truck and the two headed for the entrance. The bar had the ambiance of a desert shithole. Cinderblock construction, mismatched paint, and bars welded over the window. This time of day the parking lot wasn’t crowded. It was after lunch but before dinner. It was the hour of the professional drunks and the lunchtime drinkers who had a few too many and decided fuck it, they weren’t going back to work.

  “You think they get many golfers here?” Ty asked.

  Badger laughed. “No way.”

  The steel entrance door had the hours written on it in spray paint. The two pushed their way through the heavy door and stopped just inside, letting their eyes adjust to the light. When Ty hung his sunglasses from the neck of his shirt he found all of the dozen occupants of the bar staring at them. In a place used to regulars, any new face raised suspicion. Especially a couple of guys dressed like they were straight off the golf course.

  Unperturbed by the attention, Badger scanned the room, spotting a table with a single occupant in the darkest corner. A man sat there drinking a beer and watching them. Two tables away from him, a pair of men sat drinking beer and watching them with the same intensity. One wore a stained white tank top, the other a sleeveless denim jacket with no shirt.

  “He brought backup,” Ty whispered, assuming the man at the table by himself must be their contact.

  “Saw that. Let’s go.”

  Badger nodded to the man but he didn’t return it. Seeing now that the newcomers had business with someone in the bar, the rest of the patrons went back to whatever they’d been doing before. They knew how to mind their own business.

  Ty felt the two men at the nearby table, the men they assumed to be backup, checking him and Badger out. He had to force himself not to stare them down. He wasn’t easily intimidated, but this wasn’t a situation that required aggression. He was supposed to be nervous and uncomfortable. He had to pretend he was timid, which didn't come easy.