by Brenda Novak
* * *
Bev didn’t want to work on Christmas night but, thanks to Peccavi, she didn’t have a choice. He’d accepted a baby—obviously a drug user’s underweight and colicky child, not fit for most of their clients. And he’d gotten into a haggling war over the only other child they had right now, so Billy, which was what she called him because they never used real names, hadn’t gone to his new family as planned. Instead of no kids, she had two.
A noise in the next room told her that Billy had just knocked down the tower of blocks he’d spent the past thirty minutes building. At least she agreed with Peccavi that the boy was worth more than the sixty grand they’d initially agreed to. He was better than any of the children they’d had so far. He had the brown hair and green eyes the rich couple in Boston had ordered, as well as a perfect bill of health. And he was bright. Bev had seen that for herself. At only three years old, he could say his ABCs.
What bothered her about this kid was the way he kept asking for his mama. He’d been in the transfer house nearly a month, but the little guy wouldn’t forget, wouldn’t give up, like most of them did. Bev didn’t mind taking care of the younger children. They adjusted quickly. After a few weeks, they quit crying and begging for their parents, and she enjoyed babysitting them. She treated them well, gave them what they needed and chose to believe they went to a safe place—a place where they’d be just as loved and cherished as they were in the homes they’d lost.
In some cases, she knew they were actually better off than they’d been. Like the crack baby who’d finally stopped crying and fallen asleep in the nursery. Although the adoptive parents’ various lawyers referred to Peccavi generally stipulated no prostitute or crack addict’s child, and no family history of mental disorders, diabetes, multiple sclerosis, epilepsy, alcoholism, etc.—no imperfections at all—Peccavi cheated where he could. Children ordered to specification, like the ones they tried to provide, weren’t easy to come by.
Four-year-old Mary Jane had come from a mother with an inheritable deafness trait. She could hear, but the syndrome could appear in her children—the adoptive parents’ grandchildren. Still, it was a rare enough trait that the parents hadn’t thought of having her tested for it, and last week she’d gone to a producer in Beverly Hills. He’d paid a hundred thousand to have a child who resembled his wife, an aspiring actress who didn’t want to risk her figure by giving birth to a child of her own.
“What a way to spend Christmas.” Bev sulked, flipping through channels on television.
Billy must’ve heard the word Christmas because he came out of the playroom where he also slept and pointed at the fireplace. “Santa!” he said. “Santa Quaz!”
Santa Claus was supposed to come last night, but Billy was still waiting. Bev would’ve bought him something, but she’d expected him to go to his new family today. Roger, someone Peccavi had brought in to help them when Jack decided he wanted out, was supposed to handle the transfer. But Peccavi had gotten a hot tip on a prospective buyer in Houston, who’d requested two children, and had Roger fly off to meet them. Peccavi would’ve had Phillip step in and take Billy to Boston. Phillip usually handled the less important deliveries and some of the pickups, as well, if they weren’t too far away. But with Jack’s body being discovered, Peccavi was too short-tempered and preoccupied to finish arranging the details.
Meanwhile, Bev had to take care of the kid on Christmas Day, knowing that the mother he asked for almost constantly was someone he’d never see again.
She wondered if he’d remember his mother later in life, and how those memories might surface. Would he be standing in the office of his law firm someday and suddenly remember a woman bending over his crib, a woman who looked nothing like the mother who’d raised him?
Bev felt melancholy imagining how unsettling that would be, so she tried to shrug it off. He was young enough that he’d forget, she told herself. She couldn’t recall anything before the age of five. He’d be fine. Just like beautiful little Mary Jane, who was happy so long as she had a comfortable lap to climb into and a warm smile to gaze up at.
The phone rang. Muting the television, Beverly reached over to pick up the handset and almost knocked over the rickety side table. “You’d think we could get some decent furniture after all the money he’s made,” she grumbled but managed to right the table and improve her tone before answering. “Hello?”
“The deal busted,” Peccavi said.
Beverly’s ulcer complained as her stomach tightened involuntarily. “Which deal?”
“Which deal do you think? That cheap bastard in Boston won’t pay what Billy’s worth.”
“What about his wife? Can’t you get to her?”
“I was hoping she’d soften him up, but they saw some show on black market babies and started asking too many questions. They didn’t think I’d be able to deliver paperwork that could withstand close scrutiny, which is bullshit. Anyway, I had to cut them loose.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have to find a new buyer,” he snapped.
“But Billy matched their order. He’s got the brown hair, the green eyes—”
“There’re a lot of couples out there who’d be interested in a boy of his caliber and, believe me, we’ll end up getting more for him than those tight bastards were willing to pay. Maybe we’ll get as much as we got for the girl last week.”
Bev watched Billy drive his metal car around the coffee table. “You think so?” Sometimes when they landed such a windfall there was a bonus in it for the workers. Bev could use a bonus. Phillip’s car was on its last leg. And Dustin’s doctor had recently informed her that his treatments were going up again.
“Why not? Roger called a few minutes ago. An infertile doctor and his wife have ordered a baby boy and a girl toddler. Roger’s going to try and talk them into switching genders and taking what we’ve got.”
“You don’t think the other couple will come back for Billy?”
“No. They don’t have the guts to go through with it. They’re too scared.”
“But this other deal could take a while.” Bev didn’t want to look after Billy anymore. He reminded her of what Dustin had been like at that age, which threatened a painful parting when the time came.
“That’s why we pay you the big bucks, Bev. You’ll take care of him until he’s placed.”
Big bucks…Peccavi was the only one making big bucks. He paid her as much as he had to—and no more—in order to keep her doing what she did. He took her for granted, but she’d worked for him so long she probably couldn’t get another job. She’d trained as a nurse, but that was years ago, when her kids were small. She’d have to retrain if she wanted to get back into the medical field, and even then the younger applicants would have a decided advantage. She’d wind up working in a nursing home somewhere, barely making enough to pay the mortgage. Wages like that wouldn’t cover the experimental treatments that were Dustin’s only hope.
“What about the Stratford woman?” she asked. “Have you found her?”
“Gruber’s taking care of that.”
Billy brought Beverly his toy car. He wanted her to play with him, so she rolled it absently around the table. “Why him?”
“Because he doesn’t have anyone expecting him for Christmas.”
“And if he screws up?”
“He won’t. Anyone who can snatch kids as easily as he can should be able to handle a woman.”
Peccavi hadn’t been able to handle her, but Beverly bit her tongue so she wouldn’t say that. She smiled every time she remembered the sight of him at her back door in the middle of last night, covered in mud and limping after trying to catch Jasmine at the hotel.
“So what do you want me to do?” she asked.
“Just stay with the kids. I’ve got to get home.”
Fortunately, his job gave him the perfect excuse for working late hours. And that uniform even provided a nice cover for any injuries he might sustain. “What about Dustin?”
“I don’t like leaving him alone on Christmas.”
“You’ve got to be able to work. What do you think I pay you for?”
She fumbled around in her purse, searching for her antacids. “I have more than this job to worry about. I have a sick boy who needs me!”
“This job is what takes care of that sick boy, who isn’t a boy at all. And don’t forget it. Besides, Phillip’s there, isn’t he?”
Phillip wouldn’t look after Dustin very well. He wasn’t himself these days. He’d been acting strange ever since he’d had to deliver that little redheaded girl—Bev had called her Christy—to her new family in Florida. He’d been gone for two weeks and refused to explain where he’d gone. Then there was the cellar when he’d been forced to shove the Stratford woman inside. That had upset him again….
“Yes.” She found her medication and took two tablets.
“They’ll survive. We do what we have to.”
He was going home to spend Christmas with his family, wasn’t he? “Can I take the kids home with me? Just this one time?”
“And let your nosy neighbor see you with them?”
“Billy’s from Connecticut. No one’s looking for him here. And we don’t have to worry about the baby. She won’t even be reported missing.”
“No. It’s a chance we can’t take. Our system works because we stick to the plan, and we never make exceptions. Got it?”
Beverly rubbed her burning stomach, wanting to tell Peccavi to go to hell. But she didn’t dare. She needed him too badly. “Got it,” she grumbled and hung up.
“Mama?” Billy tapped the phone with his pudgy hand. “Mama?”
“No, that wasn’t your mama.” Beverly went to the kitchen and came back with a cookie. “But you’ll meet your new mama soon,” she said and felt her heart melt a bit more as he smiled and clapped at the treat she held out to him.
* * *
It was every bit as awkward saying goodbye to Romain’s parents as it’d been saying hello. Maybe more so.
“I’m glad you came,” his mother said, hugging Jasmine at the door.
“Thank you. Dinner was fabulous.”
“I wish you hadn’t brought the bike.” Alicia frowned as she released Jasmine and pulled her son into her arms. “I have all these leftovers I could’ve sent home with you.”
“You have Susan’s family here. They’ll help you eat them,” he said.
“She’s a lovely girl,” Alicia told Romain in such a loud whisper that Jasmine heard every word. “Don’t let her get away.”
Romain didn’t respond, and Jasmine didn’t have a chance to check his expression before his father hugged her, too. “I hope we get to see a lot more of you.”
“I’d like that,” she said and was surprised to find it was true. Romain’s parents were great. She could tell how much they loved each other and their children and was jealous of Pam all over again. Pam had fit in here; she’d belonged with Romain.
Jasmine had never really belonged anywhere. Not since Kimberly disappeared.
“It’s getting colder,” Romain said as he straddled the bike. “We should go.”
Jasmine glanced back at the house, feeling bad that Romain and Susan had given each other only a tightlipped goodbye. Tom had been in the den on the phone with some other member of his family; Jasmine had simply told Susan to say goodbye for her. The boys, except for Travis, who’d paused his game to run over and hug his uncle, had waved from where they sat in front of their PlayStation 2.
“Zip up that jacket,” Romain warned.
She dutifully fastened the leather coat he’d lent her, and he started the engine. She expected him to drive off, but he put the kickstand down almost as soon as he’d put it up.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as he got off.
“I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the house, nudging past his parents, who were at the door to give them a final wave.
When he came back, his jaw was still set, but he seemed somehow relieved.
She lifted the mask on her helmet. “Where’d you go?”
“I had something to say to Tom.”
“Goodbye?” she teased.
“I told him he’d better not cheat on my sister again or he’d have me to answer to.”
Jasmine felt her eyebrows go up. “Did Susan hear you?”
“I don’t care if she did. I won’t allow him to continue treating her the way he has—or he’s going to suffer a little himself.”
Jasmine smiled. Romain’s family was worried about him. But he was healing. He was finding his way back.
* * *
Jasmine put the disc Susan had given her into Romain’s DVD player while he was out baiting and lowering crawfish traps. Evidently, the season started in winter. Because much of his food came from the swamp and not the small market where he purchased staples like flour and sugar, he had to take care of a few things before the day ended.
In any case, they’d already decided to wait until morning to head to New Orleans. There wasn’t any rush, at least for today. The lab was closed, so she couldn’t call and press them for information on the items she’d dropped off. Her appointment with the sketch artist wasn’t until the day after tomorrow. And, with Sergeant Kozlowski off for Christmas, she doubted she’d be able to get any information out of the police about the man she’d found in the Moreaus’ cellar. She had some research she wanted to do on Phillip, Dustin and Beverly Moreau and Pearson Black, but she couldn’t knock on the doors of their friends and family on Christmas night. She could search the Internet for public records, but that wouldn’t take long, and morning would be soon enough. Which meant they’d be staying at Romain’s place another night.
Jasmine wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she knew it would be safer than returning to the hotel—and a waste of money to get another room when they already had shelter.
A newscaster’s voice suddenly boomed out, and Jasmine jumped up to grab the remote and turn down the volume. Checking traps sounded like it might take a while, depending on how far away they were, but she wanted to be as quiet as possible, in case he was anywhere near the house. There was no point in letting Romain know she had this clip until she’d seen it and determined its value to her investigation.
The grainy picture had a superimposed red stripe at the bottom of the screen that read, Shocking Reversal In Moreau Trial. It showed people pouring out of a courthouse and trickling down several wide steps. Some were weeping, some were involved in heated conversations, others simply looked stunned; it was obvious that a tragedy had just occurred.
Jasmine could imagine what that moment must’ve felt like—the bitter disappointment of the prosecution, the elation and relief of the defense. The police had the culprit in custody. They’d recovered what appeared to be irrefutable proof. And yet it didn’t matter.
Then she saw Romain, coming out of the courthouse, and froze the playback. Thinner and wirier than he was now, he seemed haggard, almost gaunt. Jasmine could see the heartache in the hard lines of his face. The shadow of beard proved that he hadn’t thought about his appearance in several days. Susan was walking on his right, sporting a short, sassy haircut very different from her current long layers, looking just as upset as her brother. A trim man Jasmine took to be in his late forties walked on Romain’s left, wearing a dark blue jacket.
Huff? Had to be, Jasmine decided. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut in a short, military style, and he had the seasoned air of a man who’d seen everything—yet he was still rocked by the D.A.’s decision to drop the case.
Pushing the play button, Jasmine leaned closer to the TV, riveted as Huff took off his jacket. She caught a brief glimpse of the gun in his hip holster before the crowd closed in. Then the picture began to bounce as the cameraman jogged behind the reporter, trying to be the first to reach Romain.
“Mr. Fornier, what do you have to say about seeing the man who allegedly killed your daughter go free?�
� the young woman asked.
“Nothing. He has nothing to say,” Susan replied.
Everyone ignored her as another reporter, this one a man, tried to crowd between them. “Mr. Fornier! Mr. Fornier! Do you still believe Francis Moreau murdered Adele?”
“Of course he murdered Adele,” Susan shouted.
Again, Romain didn’t answer. He stared at the press as if he wasn’t even seeing them. Then his gaze cut to Moreau, smiling and talking in front of some other cameras a few feet away. Because of the pandemonium, Jasmine could only catch bits and pieces of what he was saying, but she got the gist. “Justice would…in the end.”
A shot suddenly rang out and Moreau dropped. Everything happened so fast, it was difficult to tell who had done what.
Backing up, Jasmine played the scene again, keeping her eyes on Romain’s hand. He came down the steps, the reporter approached, Huff grabbed him by the elbow and tried to pull him away. There was a brief sighting of a hand with a gun, the blast, and then Huff and several others swarmed Romain and pushed him to the ground.
Replaying it again, frame by frame, Jasmine watched the hand come up a fraction of an inch at a time until she stopped it where the gun was about to go off. Was it Romain’s hand? Or Huff’s?
She couldn’t tell. It was a tiny detail in a very large picture. She needed to take the clip to a video specialist, have it magnified to see if there were any distinguishing characteristics on that hand.
“Where’d you get this?”
Jasmine had been so absorbed in what she was doing she’d forgotten to worry about Romain. Still holding the remote, she turned to see him standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.
“Susan gave it to me.”
A muscle flexed in his cheek as he stared at the screen. “Don’t go digging around in my past,” he said. “What happened on those courthouse steps has nothing to do with your sister. Stick to what might help you find her.”
She wanted to find the real Romain as much as she wanted to find Kimberly. She couldn’t abandon this now. It mattered. She didn’t want to believe he could lose control to such a degree, regardless of circumstances. “Did you do it?” she asked.