Baby, Oh Baby!

by Robin Wells

  Mrs. Holden settled herself into the swivel chair behind the modular desk. Jake lowered himself into one of the two wooden-armed chairs opposite her.

  "Now, what can I do for you, Mr....."

  "Chastaine. Jake Chastaine."

  The woman nodded pleasantly.

  Jake tossed the folded paper on her desk. "I've been receiving this letter every month for the past six months."

  Mrs. Holden quickly perused it, then looked up, her eyes questioning.

  "My wife ..." Dammit! His voice did that weird cracking thing again. He cleared his throat and started over. "My wife and I were fertility patients here a couple of years ago. We were getting ready to do an in vitro procedure when she...." Jake's short, blunt fingernails dug into his palm, giving the pain in his chest a physical outlet. "...My wife died in an accident."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry," Mrs. Holden murmured.

  The only thing worse than dealing with Rachel's death was dealing with sympathy over it. "Yeah. Well, under the circumstances, getting this notice is pretty disconcerting. Especially since I left a—a sample here to use in the in-vitro procedure"

  Mrs. Holden smiled. "You must mean the back-up specimen."

  "Yes." The doctor had explained to Jake and Rachel that while the clinic preferred to use fresh sperm, all in vitro patients were asked to provide a back-up specimen in advance. The back-up, the physician had said with a smile, would be frozen and used in case the pressure to perform the day of the procedure made it difficult for the husband to "ante up."

  Jake placed his left ankle over his right knee. "I've never been a donor, and I don't. like the idea that my name has somehow ended up on your donor list. And since I'm no longer a patient here, I want to make sure that my, uh, back-up was disposed of. I called and spoke to someone about it, and I was told I had to sign a written permission form."

  Mrs. Holden nodded. "We can take care of that easily enough. I've got a form right here." She opened a file drawer in the bottom of her desk, pulled out a pink slip of paper and handed it to Jake.

  Jake read it carefully. It was a standard release form— the same kind of thing he would have insisted upon if he'd been the clinic's attorney. Pulling a gold pen from his jacket pocket, he signed his name in, tight letters. "Well, that settles one issue," he said, shoving the paper across the desk.

  The woman's eyebrows rose over the rim of her glasses. "There's something else we can do for you?"

  "Yes. I want to know why your computer says I'm a donor instead of a patient."

  The woman waved her hand. "Oh, I'm sure someone just pulled up the wrong list when we did our monthly mailing."

  "The receptionist looked me up and said I'm listed as a donor."

  Mrs. Holden's eyebrows shot back up. "Really? Well, let me check." Referring to the letter he'd handed her, she typed in his information. A frown formed, twisting her brows as she gazed at the screen. She hit some other keys, then - studied the screen again. The twin furrows between her eyebrows deepened.

  Jake leaned forward. "Is something the matter?"

  "No, no, I'm sure everything's fine." She tapped more keys, then gnawed her lower lip. She didn't sound like everything was fine. She sure as hell didn't look it, either. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing." She clicked back to the screen saver, then abruptly rose from her chair. "Excuse me for a moment. I need to go check on something."

  All of Jake's instincts immediately went on red alert. In his old job as an assistant district attorney of Tulsa County, he'd read people's expressions on a daily basis. He knew when someone was scared or worried or hiding something, and Mrs. Holden appeared to be doing all three.

  Jake waited until she'd left the cubicle, then circled the desk, seated himself in front of the computer and typed in his name. He hit the ENTER button, then watched the screen flicker. There was his name, all right, wedged between "Chambers" and "Cousins" in a vertical list. The blue header at the top of the page read "Sperm Donors." He reached for the mouse, highlighted his name, and clicked. The screen changed. Suddenly he was reading about himself on a page .entitled "Sperm Donor Profile."

  Name: Jacob James Chastaine. Sperm Donor Number: 13013.

  How appropriate, he thought dryly. Just his luck to have a number with two thirteens in it. He read further: Age: 33. Race: Caucasian. Height: 6'2': Weight: 197. Hair: Dark brown. Eyes: Brown.

  A detailed family health history followed—his great-grandfather's heart attack, his grandmother's bout with cancer. He recognized the information as the facts he'd provided when he and Rachel had filled out forms the first time they'd visited the clinic. Everything seemed to be in order-everything, that was, except a line at the very bottom.

  Status: ` One insemination.

  Icy needles prickled up Jake's spine. Rachel had never been inseminated.

  Dear God. Had someone else?

  His joints moved like rusty machinery as he highlighted the "status" line and clicked the computer mouse. The screen flickered and changed, this time to the profile of someone named Annie Rose Hollister. Age: 31. Race: Caucasian. Height: 5'6". Weight.112. Eyes: Blue. Hair: Red. Address: 1118 Rural Route 3, Lucky, Oklahoma.

  He skimmed through a bunch of statistics about blood pressure and menstrual history. His gaze shot to the lower half of the screen.

  Insemination date: 6-2-98.

  His stomach clenched like a knot in a wet rope. Nearly two years ago-shortly after the accident. He rapidly read further.

  Sperm Donor Number: 13013.

  He scanned the last line on the screen, and the words he read there jumped out and socked him in the gut. Status: Pregnant.

  The air seemed to freeze in his lungs. His hand shook as he pointed the cursor at the "print" icon and clicked the mouse. The printer whirred to life and spat out a page. He'd just retrieved it and stuffed it into his jacket pocket when Mrs. Holden returned, flanked by a tall, thin man in a white jacket.

  They stopped in the cubicle entrance, obviously disconcerted to see him seated behind the computer. "Wh-what are you doing?" Mrs. Holden asked, her eyes wide, her skin pale.

  Never let them know how much you know. Jake had gotten the advice about interrogating suspects from a mentor at the D.A.'s office years ago, but he'd found it a good rule to follow in life in general. He instinctively hit the escape key on the computer, sending the screen back to an innocuous menu, then rose from the chair. "Just looking at my records."

  The white jacketed man rubbed his long jaw, his forehead creased with a frown. Mrs. Holden's eyes grew as round as blue moons behind her wire-rimmed glasses.

  Jake decided to press for answers while they were still off-guard. "Just what the hell is going on here?"

  The man pasted on a conciliatory smile as he stepped forward. "Hello, Mr. Chastain. I'm Dr. Hendrick Warner." All of the doctor's features were long and sharp and pointed, and his smile made his nose curve like the beak of a hawk. Well, Jake would be damned if he'd act like a timid little rabbit. He'd start practicing his new Mr. Nice Guy routine later.

  Folding his arms across his chest, Jake deliberately ignored the man's extended hand. "I asked a question, and I'd like an answer. What's going on?"

  The doctor withdrew his outstretched hand and awkwardly shoved it into the pocket of his white lab coat. "There, uh, seems to be a small problem with the records."

  Small problem? You call knocking up some broad with my sperm a small problem? Jake's jaw ached with the effort of biting back the retort.

  "It's simply a data input error," the doctor said soothingly. "We recently changed computer programs, and a few small glitches are bound to occur."

  Years in the D.A.'s office had taught Jake to smell something fishy. This guy's spiel reeked like week-old cat food.

  "I see. Well, if that's all there is to it, hand over my jar of jizz and I'll be on my way."

  Mrs. Holden gasped.

  "I'll handle this," the doctor told her. The woman turned and scurried from the cubicle like a rat fleeing
a sinking ship.

  The doctor folded his arms across his chest and smiled in an amused, between-you-and-me kind of way. Jake was sure it was the sort of smile that usually inspired confidence in nervous, patients, but right now it inspired nothing but further suspicion.

  "I'm afraid we have a no-return policy on deposits, Mr., Chastaine." The doctor chuckled. "I'm sure you can understand that. If you signed the form, however, you can be certain we'll dispose of your specimen."

  Yeah, except you've already disposed of it-in Ms. Annie Hollister of Lucky, Oklahoma. A nerve flexed in Jake's jaw. "I want to take it with me. Now."

  The doctor gave another tight smile. "I'm afraid we can't do that. There are all sorts of laws governing the disposal of medical waste."

  Jake's chin rose stubbornly. "Well, then, take me to the freezer where you keep the vials or test tubes or whatever, and show me mine."

  "I'm afraid that's impossible. It would violate our temperature-control procedures."

  Jake's fingers curled at his sides. "It would violate your ass-covering procedures, is what it would violate. It's not here, is it?"

  "Of—of course it's here." The doctor's Adam's apple jerked as he swallowed. His eyes were lying. "I'll tell you what. Since this is an unusual situation and you're so concerned, I'm willing to bend the rules just this one time." His lips twitched up in a nervous smile. "After all, we're planning to dispose of your specimen anyway. Just wait here, and I'll go and get your vial."

  Jake stepped sideways, blocking the door. "I'll come with you."

  The doctor's eyebrows rose. "I thought I'd explained. We have a strict temperature-control policy."

  "And I have a strict no-bullshit policy."

  Dr. Warner's chin inched up. "You're upset, Mr. Chastaine. Why don't you come back tomorrow after you've had a chance to calm down?"

  "You mean after you've had a chance to change labels

  and computer records and get your story straight, don't you?,,

  The tip of the doctor's long nose grew red. A flash of anxiety shadowed his eyes, just before he drew himself up to his full stature and assumed an air of dismissive authority. "I don't have time to stand here and argue with you, Mr. Chastaine. I have patients waiting. If you care to come back tomorrow, I'll be happy to answer all your questions."

  "I don't want your answers. I want the truth." Jake pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. "Maybe the D.A.'s office will have better luck at getting it out of you than I'm having."

  The doctor froze. The redness on his nose spread across his face, ruddying the hollows under his cheekbones. "Who—who are you calling?"

  Jake jabbed at the phone buttons. "A friend at the D.A.'s office. He'll probably send a squad car to take you in for questioning while he gets a search warrant. That way you won't have a chance to tamper with any evidence." Jake put the phone to his ear.

  The doctor stared at him, the veins in his neck standing out like blue cords. He finally hissed out a long, defeated sigh. "Wait. Let's—let's go in my office and talk."

  Jake stared at him stubbornly. "Whatever you've got to say can be said right here."

  Dr. Warner reluctantly nodded. The threat of a ride in a police car had punctured his arrogant attitude like a nail in a balloon. "All right."

  Jake folded the phone, but kept it in his hand. The doctor lowered himself into one of the two chairs in front of Mrs. Holden's desk. Jake warily sat down beside him and watched him run a hand from his receding hairline to his long chin. "Well?" Jake demanded.

  Dr. Warner heaved -a sigh. "I assume you're aware that Dr. Borden is no longer here."

  "The receptionist said he retired."

  Dr. Warner nodded. "It wasn't a voluntary retirement. We discovered that he'd made some, er, serious errors { in judgment."

  "What kind of errors?"

  Dr. Warner folded, then unfolded his bony fingers in his lap. "He, um, 'borrowed' sperm from a fertility treatment

  patient when the sperm bank donor pool was low. From what we could ascertain, he evidently couldn't find a match that met the requirements of an insemination patient. The husband of one of his infertility patients met the requirements exactly, so he used the man's semen."

  "Without telling either patient?"

  Dr. Warner nodded. "When it, came to light last year, Dr. Borden surrendered his medical license and retired to Florida. The insemination patient failed to become pregnant, so we thought there was no harm done." The

  F doctor looked at Jake, his eyes worried. "We thought it was best to keep the whole thing quiet. If it got out, it could ruin the entire clinic. Until now, we thought it had only happened in the one case."

  "So you're telling me...." Jake stared at the doctor. The man's story had the ugly ring of truth. "You're saying Dr. Borden inseminated a woman I've :never met with my sperm?"

  Dr. Warner's thin lips pressed together so tightly they seemed to disappear. His long fingers formed a prayerful steeple in his lap. "That's what the records seem to indicate."

  That's what they indicated, all right, but it still hit like a Mack truck, hearing it confirmed aloud. His upper lip_ beaded with sweat. "The records also indicate that the woman became pregnant."

  Dr. Warner reluctantly nodded.

  "So I have a child out there somewhere?"

  "Well, now, we don't know that a live birth resulted." Dr. Warner squirmed uneasily. "There are no follow-up records."

  But I might have a child," Jake persisted.

  Dr. Warner fiddled with the bottom of his blue-and gray tie, deliberately avoiding Jake's gaze. "Look—I suggest that you just go home and forget about this. If you pursue this matter, you 11 disrupt a lot of people's lives."

  Jake stared at the man incredulously. You want me to just go home and forget that I have a child?"

  "Well, now, it's not really yours." The doctor tapped his fingertips together. "I mean, it's not your responsibility. It was a mistake—a mistake made by one bad apple of a doctor, a doctor who's no longer practicing medicine." His eyes were pleading. "Look—you're borrowing trouble. For yourself, for the insemination patient, for her family. And then there's the clinic to think .. about. This place helps hundreds of infertile couples every year. If word of this gets out, it'll ruin the place."

  “To hell with the clinic. You just told me I might have a child!"

  "Please, Mr. Chastain—could you keep your voice down?" The doctor leaned forward, his knuckles pale against the wooden arms of the chair. His throat jerked as he swallowed. "Look—dozens of things could have gone wrong during the pregnancy. Why, twenty percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage in the first six weeks alone." Dr. Warner folded, then unfolded his hands. His voice took on a beseeching tone. "You know, Mr. Chastaine, sometimes a person's better off without all the facts. There's a good chance a live birth never occurred. Why don't you just leave it at that? Everyone will be better off if you just leave well enough alone."

  "You sorry son of a bitch," Jake muttered. He rose to his feet, and without another word, strode out of the cubicle, through the file room, across the waiting room, and out the smoked glass entrance.

  A wave of dry heat snaked up from the asphalt parking lot as he stalked toward his white Volvo. An even hotter blast of air assaulted him as he yanked open the door, climbed in, and punched the metal button on the glove box. Sweat rolled down his brow as he snatched out a state map of Oklahoma and unfolded it on the passenger seat beside him.

  The car felt like a black leather sauna, but it wasn't nearly as hot as the questions that burned inside him. Jake leaned over the map, determined to answer the one question that would lead to all the other answers.

  Where the hell was Lucky, Oklahoma?

  Chapter Two

  Annie Hollister carefully worked the wide-toothed metal comb through the dense white fur on the alpaca's flank. The animal turned and nudged the front pocket of Annie's jeans, pressing her against the split-rail fence of the corral.

  Anni
e grinned and scratched the animal's velvety ears. "I'm almost done, Snowball. Hold still for one more moment, then you'll get that sugar cube you're after."

  A warm blast of moist air tickled the back of Annie's neck. Startled, she turned to find another alpaca, this one larger and smoke-colored, straining his long neck over the fence to nibble the end of her shoulder-length auburn hair. Laughing, Annie gently extracted the strand from the beast's mouth.

  "Whoa, there, Smoky Joe. My hair is not on the menu!" As if in response, the animal nudged the comb in her hand. Annie shot him a reproachful look. "I know you like getting groomed, but you've got to wait your turn. Hold your horses and I'll comb you next."

  "Don't know as I've got enough hair left to comb," sounded a deep, familiar drawl from the other side of the fence.

  Annie looked up to see the burly form of her ranch foreman, Ben Akins, come around the barn, rubbing his sparse gray hair. Her mouth curved in a smile. "I was talking to Smoky Joe, not you."

  "Ohhh." Ben's mischievous grin belied his innocent tone. "Well, as much as those critters seem to like gettin' groomed, maybe I oughta give it a try.,'

  "Maybe you should. But it's not just grooming, you know. It's fur harvesting."

  Ben's smile widened to reveal a gap between his two front teeth. He shifted his worn brown Stetson to his other hand and ran weathered fingers over his balding pate. "In that case, I reckon I'm a couple of decades too late."

  Annie laughed. Ben had been the foreman of her grandparents' ranch for as long as she could remember, and she'd always loved his good-natured teasing. The big-bellied cowboy and his petite wife, Helen, were two of her favorite people in the whole world. When they'd agreed to stay on and help run the Smiling H after Annie inherited it two years ago, they'd made it possible for Annie to follow her fondest dream.