Pick Your Poison yrm-1

by Leann Sweeney

  “Please let me apologize again for upsetting you,” Hamilton said, “but I must refuse your check. We only take cash. Believe me, you don’t want to leave a paper trail.”

  Yes! The same song and dance she’d offered Terry and me.

  “If all the contracts are legal, why should it matter?” said Kate. “I mean, do the birth mothers really come back that often to claim their babies?”

  “Sadly, yes. That’s why we’ve been so successful at Parental Advocates. We prevent problems like that from happening beforehand. Please bring your husband and we’ll discuss the details.”

  “Thanks for seeing me without an appointment. I know you must want to go home,” said Kate. Her chair scraped the floor.

  Another chair moved, and Hamilton’s heels clicked a few times on the hardwood. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I guess I’m still woozy. I’ll just take this cup of water with me,” said Kate.

  “Would you like a refill before you go?” asked Hamilton.

  “No, thanks. I appreciate your time.”

  I relaxed at the sound of them walking away. I couldn’t tell if Kate said anything else, but I heard the now-familiar chime as the door opened and closed, then the renewed rat-a-tatting of Hamilton’s feet.

  Coming toward the closet.

  Then her feet obliterated portions of light shining under the door.

  Damn! I was trapped like a lizard under a cat’s paw!

  I covered my mouth with my hand, as if that would somehow make me invisible. Then I heard the blessed bleat of the phone and her feet clackety-clacked away. I frantically felt around in the darkness, my heart thumping. I touched a large cardboard box... hanging clothes... stacks of folders... several umbrellas leaning in the narrow space between the door and the wall. I climbed on the box, moving what felt like a wool coat in front of me.

  Insulated by the fabric, I couldn’t hear her telephone conversation or even if she was headed back my way.

  But sure enough, within seconds the door opened. I held my breath again. Peeking through the coat’s folds, I captured her lower body with my left eye. The crimson enamel on her nails flashed as she picked up an umbrella. The storm. Of course. Then she closed the door and darkness enfolded me again.

  Lucky for me, all I’d lost was a little confidence. I moved the coat aside in time to hear the metallic turn of—oh, no! That sounded an awful lot like a dead bolt. Deadbolt, Abby. As in, How the heck will you escape once you’re finished searching?

  I’d have to deal with that problem later.

  I cracked the door and peered out. Storm clouds completely filled the Gulf of Mexico, and with the front drapes pulled, light barely eked into the office through the leaded-glass window. I had already spotted the motion sensor on my first or second time here and knew I could reach the computer by staying close to the wall. I sidled over, feeling simultaneously silly and scared. Creeping around someone’s office uninvited wasn’t something I had ever imagined myself doing.

  The telephone intrigued me, but shutting down the security system was the first order of business. I might not have detectivelike observational skills, but the distinctive ribbon cord leading from the computer to the wall told me Hamilton’s system was hooked up to an extra power supply for several modules behind the computer. This special cord handled electric current along with communication and control signals. Computer-controlled security like this avoided the very expensive rewiring usually required in these older houses for computerized security. I knew all this because CompuCan had an agreement with Intelli-Home, the company that sold this system, and my familiarity with the program would help me turn off the alarms.

  I typed a few commands already prepared with an override for the Intelli-Home password, since I’d looked it up ahead of time. I walked through the necessary steps without a glitch, and a message soon flashed, informing me the security system was disengaged. I then started hunting through the files stored on the computer, but found only contract templates, word-processing files, and lists of adoption agencies in every state of the union. No information about clients appeared to be stored here, or they were well hidden.

  I found plenty of disks and CDs in a box next to the computer, labeled only with dates, none older than a few months ago. I had no time to load and search all of them, and besides, what I really wanted was information from years back, or anything connecting Feldman to Parental Advocates. I turned my attention to the telephone, a state-of-the-art piece of equipment. Maybe I could find out about Hamilton and Feldman through whatever numbers were stored in the telephone.

  I hunted in the desk for the instruction manual and found it within seconds. I perused the index for a last-number-redial feature, then read the directions. The phone displayed the date and time above the number buttons, and next to that, an orange tab labeled FEATURE protruded. To the right and above the numbers were more buttons. To autoredial, I pushed feature three. Not only did the phone dial the number, it displayed the digits where the date and time previously appeared. I quickly wrote the number down and hung up. So what else could Magic Phone do? Back to the manual.

  I learned the phone could be programmed to speed-dial up to twelve numbers by using those unlabeled buttons. I pushed each one and jotted down five additional phone numbers on a Post-it note when they appeared in the display window. I stuck the paper in the pocket of my shorts and opened each desk drawer but didn’t find an address book with Feldman’s name agreeably printed under the Fs, nor an appointment schedule conveniently lying around.

  I switched my focus to the hall door leading to the rest of the house. What went on back there? Were there filing cabinets chock-full of records?

  Time to find out. I opened the door and discovered several lights glowing in the short corridor. But did I stop and consider why these lights were on? Of course not. I charged right in.

  Another light, this one tiny and red, flashed up high near the end of the hallway. Miss Smarty-pants Rose had missed something else in her perfect plan.

  Smile, Abby. You’re on Candid Camera.

  This video equipment, obviously not hooked up to the computer, needed the hall’s brightness to adequately film unwanted visitors. Unfortunately I hadn’t foreseen this possibility.

  Now what? I went down the hall, stood underneath the camera, and squinted up. Could I turn the thing off? And where would the tape be? How could I get it out? The camera was too high for me to reach, so I decided to leave that little problem for now.

  I retraced my steps and entered the first room off the corridor. A copier stood against one wall, with a fax machine and document shredder alongside. The filing cabinets tempted me, but they were all locked, with no key to be found.

  I reentered the hall and took several steps toward the kitchen end of the house, once again facing the blinking camera.

  Then I heard the muffled sound of the chime, the one that had nearly been my downfall earlier.

  I stopped dead, my stomach tight with fear, then soundlessly took a giant step to the opposite wall and flattened against the wall. I edged toward the office, positioning myself behind by the door so that if someone came through, I’d be hidden—or so I hoped.

  A female voice spoke. Definitely Hamilton.

  Then a man responded—he was not as close as she seemed to be—but I couldn’t understand either one of them. Could she have brought Feldman with her? Was the man I’d been hunting for in the next room?

  Quick steps echoed beyond the door. Then I heard a familiar computer-generated ding. One of them was at the desk on the other side of this door.

  And my right shoulder was no more than a foot from the hinges. I could feel my pulse hammering at my neck.

  And then I heard her clearly. Sounding exasperated, Hamilton said, “The stupid security system is off. Second time that’s happened. I’ll switch to manual on the way out.”

  Her companion said something indecipherable. He must have been standing way on the other side of the room,
close to the front door.

  Hamilton then said, “I left the copy of the check in the machine. Wait here while I get it.”

  A copy of the check? Kate’s check? God, I hoped not.

  I made myself as pancakelike as possible, anticipating Hamilton coming on through.

  And she did, the open door stopping within an inch of my cheek. Sweat dribbled down the hollow of my back, and I pressed against the wall, holding my breath.

  She clacked into the room across from me, came back out quickly, and exited, shutting the hall door.

  I slowly exhaled.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “I’ve got to find out about this Katherine Rose. She was no more sick than I am.”

  Damn. Kate did write a check, and Hamilton had copied it.

  Once again I heard a barely audible reply. After the lock turned, I counted to sixty before stepping out, wanting to be sure they were gone. I cracked the door to the foyer.

  Without thinking again.

  Hamilton had clearly said she’d activated the security system manually, and as soon as that door opened, an almost imperceptible whine started up. A not-quite-silent alarm.

  I was knee-deep in manure now. I needed that videotape and then I needed out of here. The police or the hired security people would be arriving any minute.

  I sprinted back down the hall and dragged a chair from the nearby kitchen, climbed up, and ran my hands along the outside of the camera.

  Come on, come on! Where’s the tape?

  I paused, hands trembling, telling myself to calm down.

  After taking a few seconds to slow my shallow, rapid breaths, I was able to locate and remove the palm-size tape.

  I hurried into the kitchen and confronted a locked dead bolt. No surprise. But the alarm was already activated, so a broken window wouldn’t matter now. In fact, a broken window would be expected.

  I smashed through the nearest pane with a broom, but cut my trailing leg when I climbed out. I felt a sting, then a warm stickiness on my shin.

  Dark clouds rumbled angrily above me, but thank goodness the rain hadn’t resumed. I glanced around the small fenced yard, seeking the best escape route. Poor Kate was parked on the next block over, probably close to having a heart attack about now. And maybe I’d just join her.

  I pocketed the tape and raced across to the hurricane fence. I gripped the top and I hoisted myself up. But one side of my shorts caught on a protrusion when I came over to the other side.

  I was stuck. Hung like wash on the line.

  21

  Dangling there on that fence, I told myself to forget about the eight ball. I was behind the whole rack.

  I glanced toward the house, expecting someone to rush out that back door. Galveston Island is only twelve miles long, so someone should have already arrived in response to the alarm.

  I clung to the fence with one hand, and, craning around, I saw that one prong had twisted the fabric of my shorts into a knot when I swung my legs over.

  All I could do was let go, hoping the cotton would give. And so I did, and immediately heard the wonderful sound of ripping fabric. I landed on my rear with a thud.

  Jeez, that hurt!

  I stood, realizing my shorts had split down one side, all the way up to my waist. Great. I could run around the neighborhood, clothes torn, leg bleeding, gasping for breath, then maintain my innocence if stopped for questioning.

  I crouched behind a large ligustrum alongside the fence, trying to figure out how to deal with this new dilemma. Looking around, I saw a reclining lawn chair ten feet away. A magazine, a pair of sunglasses, and a glass of tea, the ice melted long ago, sat on the ground next to it. The chair and drink had probably been abandoned when the first rain fell earlier.

  Hmm... Could I pull this off?

  I looked down at my tattered shorts. They would be impossible to ignore if I were spotted leaving here. I might as well have fugitive printed across my forehead in lipstick. So I did the only thing I could do: I took my clothes off, tossing them under the chair, along with my sandals.

  But my underwear would never pass for a bathing suit. Too much lace. So off they came as well. Self-preservation takes priority over modesty any day.

  I donned the sunglasses, laid my shirt over the cut on my leg, and assumed the lounge position—something I’d definitely practiced before. I slowed my breathing so the frantic heaving of my chest wouldn’t give me away, then opened the magazine strategically across my torso. Unlike Steven, who was good-looking enough to have a legitimate shot at showing off his body in glossy splendor, this might be my only chance at a staple in my navel.

  I closed my eyes, and a second later, as expected, a voice hailed me from the other side of the fence.

  “Ma’am? Pardon me for disturbing you, but—”

  I opened my eyes, let my mouth fall open in appropriate shock, and allowed the magazine to slip an inch. “Where did you come from?” I said, feigning surprise. “And my goodness, what time is it?” I peered at my watch.

  “Uh, I’m really sorry,” he said. He came up to the fence and then, realizing I was naked, focused on the ground. “You didn’t happen to notice anyone running out of your neighbor’s yard within the last ten minutes?”

  “No. I must have fallen asleep. Is there a problem?”

  “Could be.” He had a five-o’clock shadow and a pot-belly, and he was peeking at me—one eye open, one squeezed shut. “Pretty cloudy for sunbathing. Uh, why don’t I turn around while you put your clothes on?”

  I sighed. “If it will make you more comfortable.” After he turned away, I watched him rock nervously back and forth from his toes to his heels, hat held behind his back.

  I put on my underwear, then said, “I’ve read you get a much better tan if you lie out when it’s overcast. Have you heard that, Officer?”

  “Seems I did once,” he answered, rubbing his bald head with the hand holding the hat.

  Before I lay back down, I spied a smear of blood on my shin, so I placed the magazine over my legs this time. “Okay,” I said. “All clear.”

  He turned and, seeing I was still not fully clothed, pivoted back. “Not exactly all clear,” he mumbled, his earlobes coloring.

  “Come on, Officer. Don’t make me put those sweaty clothes back on. Galveston’s a beach town. People walk around undressed all day.”

  He slowly faced me, obviously pleased with this rationalization. I noticed that his badge said, Guardian Angel Security.

  “Guess you’re right,” he said. “I didn’t think of it like that.”

  He ogled me shamelessly now, but I figured it was a small price to pay for sneaking into closets uninvited.

  “You planning to call the police?” I asked.

  “The Feldmans wouldn’t like that. No cops for them.” He relaxed, leaning against the fence and fanning himself with his hat. “Say, you busy tonight?”

  “Married.” I smiled apologetically. “You say the Feldmans didn’t want you to call the police?”

  “I answered an alarm over at their other house, the one down near the beach, a few months back, and—”

  “They have a beach house, too?” I said, hoping he’d help me out some more. “Funny they never mentioned it.”

  “Yeah, on the west side. Anyway, I answered a call from them about a break-in. ‘No cops,’ Mr. Feldman said. ‘Just get here sooner if there’s a next time and catch whoever is causing trouble.’ ”

  “Hank? What are you doing?” yelled another man from the back door.

  Hank rolled his eyes and sighed with disgust. “Questioning a witness,” he hollered back. “Listen, I better go.”

  I certainly won’t detain you, I thought.

  “If you ever have any security needs, I’m Hank.” He pointed proudly to his badge. “Guardian Angel Security. Give me a call.”

  I waited a good ten minutes before I risked leaving, then sneaked between houses to the next block, where Kate picked me up and told me at least twelve times how she never
should have agreed to this caper. We drove to the Victorian so I could clean up, and I exchanged my shorts and shirt for a skirt and blouse from the pile in my trunk. Both Kate and I seemed to always have half our wardrobes in the car, en route either to or from the laundry. We then sat on the floor in the parlor, Kate sipping on the jumbo iced tea we’d picked up on the way over.

  “Despite my bungled detecting job, today’s adventure wasn’t a total loss,” I said, unwrapping a Snickers. “The security guard confirmed the Feldman connection to Parental Advocates. And since I learned the general vicinity of Feldman’s home, perhaps one of the phone exchanges from Hamilton’s office belongs in the West Beach area.”

  “I don’t know how you convinced the security guard you were a neighbor, Abby. I would have blubbered and bawled like an idiot, then raised my hands and said, ‘Take me to jail. I’m guilty.’ ”

  “By the way, Hamilton made a copy of your check. You did give her a check, right?”

  “I had to,” Kate said. “That ice princess just sat there with her hand out after I wrote the thing, so I passed it over. She took it with her when she went for the water, then gave the check back and gave me the ‘cash-only’ spiel.”

  “Hey, I would have passed it to her, too. But I’m afraid that despite my getting away with the tape, she now knows where we live, and who knows what else.”

  Kate closed her eyes and shook her head. “Why did I ever let you talk me into this?”

  “Because we’re doing the right thing.” I picked up the phone book lying next to me and started flipping through the pages.

  “What are you doing?” Kate said. “We’re sixty miles from home, and my nerves are frazzled. We need to leave.”

  “Be patient a little longer, okay?”

  She stood and started pacing. “Okay. Sure. This is what I get for teaming up with you.”

  I soon discovered two of the numbers on my Post-it note were located in the West Beach area. I picked up the phone, dialed, and heard a man’s voice on an answering machine. Feldman, maybe? I hung up and dialed the other number.

  “Ellen Fulshear Home for Young Women,” said the female voice.