OUR SECRET BABY

by Paula Cox

  He takes a long, slow breath. My eyes are fixed on his old, wrinkled face. Everything about this man is sad and pathetic.

  “Then last night, something strange happened,” he goes on. “We traced the location of the car but still held off from any interference. I thought if I gave her some space to collect herself it would help our relationship. She’d see in time that what I did was done entirely for her benefit and for the sake of her welfare. So we let her stay here. The car registered four hours: we’d determined that she’d stopped for the night and would be returning tomorrow morning. Then just after midnight, something alarming happened. My men awoke me with the news my daughter had just committed suicide by drowning herself in the Gulf of Maine. My grief was indescribable.”

  Theo bows his head over the weight of the terror of the memory. I feel some of it myself, thinking about how I felt when I saw those men moving Maya into the car. Those men. Her kidnappers.

  “Of course I had to go and see her body myself. It’s been years since I’ve driven a car—forty years, perhaps longer, and never on snow. Nevertheless, I managed, though I still do not know how. I saw the broken rail, the marks in the snow. I was near inconsolable, as you can imagine, and my inconsolable grief soon transformed into rage, which for no reason I can think of, I directed here. A motel with guests, and staff. How could they have allowed this calamity to pass? Surely they would have heard something. I was determined to know. But when I arrived, I found something entirely beyond my expectations. Which is, of course, you, Quinn.”

  He sets his back heavily against his chair, the majority of his speech concluded. He doesn’t bother to move his coat over the handle of his sidearm. My guess is that he intends for me to see it. For a few seconds, he sits like that, letting me take it all in. I do, and much more. Clearly, judging by the looks he’s giving me now, Theo thinks I’ve had a hand in murdering his daughter.

  “Theo.” The name comes out thick and heavy.

  “Can you speak? Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to speak.” He adjusts his seating position in order to show off the gun once more.

  “I do-do-do,” I trip over the word. It’s too heavy: I try another. “Maya,” and this one I have better luck with. “Maya.”

  “What has become of my daughter?” Theo’s voice is a harsh, sharp whisper. “Understand—your answer is the only thing that has kept you alive. If you’ve had a hand in her death, you’d best tell me quickly to keep from prolonging your own.”

  “Maya. Not d-d-de.” But that’s as far as I get.

  Theo frowns, looking at me like he’s looking through a magnifying glass. “Not dead? Is that what you’d like to say?”

  I nod. I can’t describe my relief in not having to spell the whole sentence out.

  “You’re speaking like a child. Perhaps I should do all the talking for now. Nod if you agree with me.”

  I agree.

  “Understand: if you’ve said this only because you’re hoping to buy yourself more time, the death that comes to you once I’ve discovered the truth you’ve been concealing will be exponentially more terrible than your death now, if you tell me the truth. I would scour the ocean for my daughter, and if you don’t believe I have the resources to do so, you clearly don’t know a thing about the man you’ve been working with.”

  I nod.

  “Were you alone in the car when you went into the water? My daughter was not there with you?”

  Yes.

  “That was no ill-conceived suicide attempt, I figure. You did not intentionally drive my car into the Gulf.”

  Yes.

  “Then our most obvious mystery is solved.” His voice lowers, almost a hush. “From what you know and from what you’ve seen, bearing in mind that nearly twelve hours have passed since I discovered my car in the water, do you believe she is still alive?”

  I hesitate—remembering how she looked when she was being taken out to the car—and then nod.

  Theo’s face relaxes visibly. Even his eyes seem to brighten, but with a kind of guarded interest.

  “You’ve let my daughter out of your sight. You’ve failed me utterly, and yet I trust you. I don’t know why myself. Maybe it is an old man’s foolishness, his hopes, and wished-for fancies. Whatever it is, I am sure that you are telling the truth. But our work is hardly finished now—we have achieved no ground in uncovering her whereabouts. Tell me, although I’m afraid for the question I am going to ask I know I have to ask it regardless—has my daughter been kidnapped?”

  Yes.

  “Do you know by whom?”

  No.

  “Was it because of her kidnappers that you were knocked off the road?”

  Yes.

  “Did you see what her kidnappers looked like? Hair color? The build of their bodies? How many there were in total? Any details at all?”

  “Four,” I say. My lips aren’t shaking anymore. The cold is still there, but I can feel it begin to empty out of me. “Big. One small. M-maybe more.”

  “And were they armed? Did you see?”

  “No—I didn’t. Armed, maybe.”

  Theo pauses and doesn’t ask any more questions. What’s he thinking? I try to read his face, but all I get is a page of wrinkles and frowns. He’s concentrating intently on something, but I can’t tell what it is: a question, or maybe he knows something more.

  “These men whom you saw leading her out—you don’t recall many of their details specifically to mind. But would you recognize them if you were to see them again? Do you believe you could distinguish them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps you will. Look here for me—” He pulls a large cell phone out of his pocket and begins to shift through different screens until he comes to the one he wants. He hands me the screen so I can look.

  “You’ll recognize one of these men I’m sure.”

  “Mattias Kroll,” I say, remembering the time I met the old Irishman in Theo’s study. Cuchullain’s. Business partners. Kit Holcomb. Old friends—Theo’s introduction comes back to me in pieces. I recognize the granny face and thin hair in the picture, but I don’t recognize the figure standing next to him. A younger type, and as thin as a twig.

  “You remember him. A very dear friend, very dear.” Theo is talking like he’s the only one in the room. Something’s agitating him.

  “Perhaps you recall the rendezvous we made several months ago in my offices. I believe Mattias made mention of his son to you.”

  “Oren.”

  Theo’s eyebrows go up slightly. “That’s quite a memory you have. Particularly for someone who’s just experienced such a traumatic accident.”

  “Why are you showing this to me?”

  A cloud passes over Theo. His face goes rigid like it was made of plastic. Though when I look closer, I see it moving, trembling with some hidden emotion powerful enough that if left alone it’ll explode from inside out.

  “We never spoke about Oren Kroll, Quinn. Frankly, we’d hoped the threat he’d once posed to our partnership had expired years before. And yet the events of last night have proven us wrong. Oren is a much more dangerous man than we’d ever feared or imagined. Spurred on by a hatred and insanity so fierce he’s murdered the very father who was doing all in his power to help.”

  “Mattias? Murdered by his son?”

  “Murdered, yes. About seven o’clock last night Mattias was seized by several of his own men—relatively new employments in his service—and driven far from town. I’ve had several of my own men at my late friend’s address who were given instructions to follow and keep their attention on any strange or unexpected proceedings. At eight o’clock they found themselves in a parking lot outside some abandoned buildings where they were instructed to wait and report on the situation. An hour passed before Mattias’s assailants, Oren among them, emerged from the building and drove away. My men entered the building a short time later. They found him. What—what remained of him. His body was burnt thoroughly. At the back of his head, the
y found the entrance wounds of two bullet holes.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Several hours after that, a video surfaced, confirming what we already knew. Whether it was a revenge killing or simply the results of a long-held and ignored insanity, we don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care. Oren Kroll killed his father in cold blood and then, if my instinct is right, drove here to kidnap my daughter.”

  “But why do you say those two things like they’re related?” I hand back the phone. “I don’t know if it’s the same person. They’re both thin. Other than that I don’t know anything.”

  “And yet I’d comb this whole city looking for her with less information than you’ve given me. As to what you first told me, that’s simple. They are related. Seven years ago, Oren and my daughter began a relationship I thought was only an expression of those foolish emotions young people mistake for infatuation, or maybe even love. My daughter recovered after some time, and their early relationship was brought to a close—much against Oren’s wishes. Then, earlier this week, Mattias proposed to my daughter. I won’t try to disguise the fact that I’d encouraged him. I have the highest love and regard for my daughter, but she is naïve and quite stupid in regards to the real nature of the world. It had been my hope Mattias might develop the maturity I’d failed her in. She didn’t accept, and we had our falling out shortly after.”

  “You make it sound like this was a surprise.”

  “It was a surprise and a very grievous one. Our families were to experience peace, cooperation, partnership. The things people in our profession can seldom dream of, let alone attain. And for her part, she was to be provided for by a man of good standing, of sound reason, charm, and firm judgment. You think I sound like a nineteenth-century matchmaker, but this isn’t the truth. Mattias would have loved my daughter and done much more for her than any young man. And she would have loved him if she’d only seen what he might have offered her.”

  “You never asked her what she felt.”

  “It was irrelevant what she felt. No more than temporary flashes of emotion, totally without consideration or substance. She would have said the most terrible things about him and would have flung herself on the ground and thrown a tantrum like a spoilt brat. She would have convinced herself she despised me even more than she already did, and then she would have worked her emotions into a weapon to jab into my side, and Mattias’s whenever she felt she needed to drive us away. She would have succeeded in alienating herself completely from what she ought to be embracing. This is what would have come from her emotions. Expression, but with no thought to the reason behind her decision.”

  “But you never asked her.”

  Theo runs a hand over his face, clearly exhausted and clearly not in the mood to explain himself again. That’s fine—I don’t want him too.

  “Maya’s always made it clear to me how she’s felt about you,” I say, thinking over my words carefully. Theo may look like a broken old guy, but he’s killed dozens. If he thought for a moment I wasn’t on his side, he’d have no problem adding me to his list of the permanently disappeared. “I’ve heard lots about you in the past few months. But she never told me she hated you.”

  “She’d never say it,” he interrupts.

  “She wouldn’t ever say it because she doesn’t think it. She despises you sometimes. You and your work. She feels caged in by you: she thinks you suffocate her. But the truth is, I don’t think your daughter is capable of hating anyone. Not even Oren.”

  What makes me say this I don’t know. I haven’t forgotten about her ultimatum, but the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that was only her anger speaking for her. If she’d have seen what Theo saw: a man executed by his own son in cold blood, there’s no way she could be serious about me killing Theo. I trust this. Even if I have no evidence for it, I trust it.

  “She talked about getting away from you as long as I’ve known her, but she’s never done it. Not because she’s a coward. I’ve ever met anyone braver in my life than your daughter. She didn’t know how to leave you, but that’s because secretly, she didn’t want to. Not completely. Your daughter isn’t ungrateful to you, Mr. Butler. She doesn’t think you’re a monster. It’s your job she hates. That’s what she’s tried to get away from. Not you. What you are.”

  I’ve never talked like this to anyone, about anyone, ever. I don’t know where any of it came from, or even if someone had said all of this to me before I said it, whether I’d believe it or not. But talking here in front of Theo, the ice melting out of my body, I start realizing things I’d never given any thought to before. Things like how much I pity Theo Butler and Mattias Kroll for having been who they’ve been, and how sorry I am for Maya and what she’s had to endure by the men in her life that she hasn’t been able to save. God—if only I could see her again. If only there was some way to track her down. Some clue left behind. Anything.

  “No one’s ever talked to me like you’ve talked to me now, Quinn. Do you know why?”

  “I don’t think it’s important.”

  “It’s not important. It’s because of fear. I’ve had to be feared. Fear is my armor, and I’ve worn my armor for so long it’s become attached to my very skin. But now you’ve proven something to me.”

  “What?”

  “My armor has broken. When daughters run from their homes, and sons execute their fathers, and men speak to me as you just have, I can no longer even pretend to be my former stature. And so long as I am not feared, I cannot continue my work. I’m finished. My retirement and my penance await.”

  He smooths out his pants and rises. But what the hell is this? Is he just going to walk out? Is he giving up just like that?

  “No—you can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  Can’t what? Give up the work like Maya’s always wanted? Admit he’s been wrong—let her have the freedom she’s wanted since day one when we drove out to Sunrise Apartments? Admit his guilt? Ask her forgiveness?

  “What do you propose? With no leads and no clues, and when my daughter’s kidnappers have a lead of so many hours before us?”

  “There has to be a way. People always leave clues. There has to be—” I stop. “You said your guards tailed Oren and his men after Mattias had been captured?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they remember the car they were tagging?”

  “Black BMW. I don’t know the plates. Why?”

  I’m out of breath suddenly, like someone’s just punched me in the gut. The hotel. The kinky sex shop. Sunrise Apartments on our first day together. My God.

  “There are thousands in this city alone—tens of thousands in the whole state. If you’re planning on what I think you’re planning—”

  “I’m not planning anything.” I plant my feet and wobble my way up to standing. My legs are jelly, but I’ll have strength back in them in no time. Nothing’s keeping me back now. “I already know. I know exactly where they are.”

  Chapter 29

  “But how can you be certain? It’s been months, from what you’ve said. You’re basing everything off of a supposition.”

  “Not at all. I know what I saw.”

  Theo sees me wobbling up and hobbling around the room like someone who’s been frozen a hundred years. He looks around for something he can use to help me and offers up his scotch.

  “Hate the stuff.”

  “I don’t give a damn. Look at yourself: You need something in your system. Drink up.”

  And I do, in one gulp. Fire. In my fingers, in my neck, in my knees, in the spaces between my toes, and even in my eyeballs that before had felt plastic and cold.

  “Better?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “But really, what proof do you have? From what you’ve said, Oren has been trailing behind you ever since you started driving Maya around.”

  “At least that long, maybe longer.”

  “Then they could be at any one of the places you’ve gone to! You have nothing: we�
�re no closer than we were before.”

  “That’s not true—not all of it. Oren’s killed his father, but if he wanted to kill your daughter he’d have done it already. There wouldn’t be any reason to take her any further away from this hotel. And with as much ice as there is on the streets they wouldn’t want to drive too far. They need some place to wait it out. A place they both know and that Maya would feel comfortable in. And there’s a way for us to check.”

  “How?” Theo frowns with what I assume is curiosity.

  I’ve got no phone to show him, so I tell him to look up the location of Sunrise Apartments on his cell phone. He looks up the website page, with the number of the guard.

  “Give me the phone.”

  It rings, twice, three times. An old voice cracks over the line. “Sunrise Apartments. Jerry speaking. Good mornin’.”