Promises to Keep

by Susan Crandall

  After a frenzied three-hour search with a Realtor, Molly signed a lease on a small house a few blocks from downtown on Grant Street. The landlord was a little skittish about leasing to someone without a job, but the fact that Molly was a physician seemed to override that worry. In a town this size, doctors had a certain amount of clout, warranted or not.

  Molly discovered that McDougall’s Furniture had moved from downtown to a larger showroom on the outskirts of town, near the 4-H grounds. They accepted major credit cards, so by six o’clock that evening, Molly had a house, a bed, one nightstand and a lamp, a kitchen table and chairs, and a crib.

  Over dinner at Lily’s kitchen table, she informed Lily and her family that she was moving and it was a done deal. Through Lily’s protest, Molly could see the yearning realization in her sister’s eyes that a full night’s sleep was just around the corner.

  Riley, who had vacillated between sixteen-year-old curiosity and teenage oblivion when it came to Nicholas, said, “Are you sure the house is baby-proofed?”

  Taken aback at his concern over such a matter, Molly said, “It’ll be a few months before Nicholas starts moving around. I’m sure I can have things safe by then.” The words were out before she realized their full implication—she was planning a future with Nicholas.

  Riley gave a stiff, manly nod. “Good. I can help put locks on the cabinets and stuff. Mason Henry’s little brother had to go to the emergency room last year and have his stomach pumped.”

  “I’d appreciate the help.” Molly noticed the look of pride in Clay’s eyes as he looked at Riley. She thought it was particularly sweet, considering Clay was Riley’s stepfather. Of course with her own recent experience, she could easily understand bonding with a child that wasn’t biologically your own. It was just that Clay and Lily had gotten together at a particularly rocky time in Riley’s adolescence. Often that proved to be a recipe for disaster.

  “Oh, Molly, I nearly forgot. You got a telephone call this afternoon.” Lily got up and went to the counter and picked up a slip of paper.

  “Nobody knows I’m here,” Molly said, suspicion creeping up her spine.

  “They called Dad’s first.”

  Instantly, suspicion mixed with regret. She hadn’t heard from her dad since she left his apartment four days ago. Lily had encouraged her to contact him, but Molly had avoided it. If Dad was going to be forgiving and supportive, he’d be calling her; she had enough anxiety and strain at the moment without adding fresh conflict to the mix.

  Lily handed the note to Molly. It was no more than a phone number with a Boston area code. She didn’t recognize it. Molly’s tongue felt thick as she asked, “Did they give a name or say what it was about?”

  “No. Just asked for you to call that number. It sounded official, like the hospital or something.”

  She had left her dad’s phone number with the hospital; it had to be someone from there. No one else knew where she was. If Dr. Hannigan was going to give her trouble over her emergency leave. . . .

  “Excuse me,” Molly pushed back from the table. “I’m going to try this number. Don’t start the dishes without me.” She went to the living room to use the phone.

  After she punched in the number and it started ringing, she had the irrational urge to hang up.

  As soon as the woman answered, “Detective McMurray here,” she wished she had.

  Chapter 4

  The telephone rang, startling Dean out of a disorienting doze. His response was that of a man used to living in a war zone: he immediately dove over the side of the hospital bed and covered his head. When he hit the cold tile floor, his wits returned and he realized just how affected he had been by his recent experience.

  Thank God they’d removed the IV this morning. He hated needles. The thought of one ripped out of his vein by his duck-and-cover gave him a nasty shiver.

  He pushed himself to his knees and reached for the phone.

  “Yeah?” he croaked out in a voice raspy from lack of use. The swelling in his neck compounded his difficulty speaking.

  “You all right?”

  At the sound of Vincent Smith’s voice, Dean stiffened, ready for the confrontation he knew was coming.

  Dean’s boss went on, “This is the first day they’d connect my call to your room. I was beginning to get suspicious that you weren’t there at all. I was gonna book a flight and come there myself if they didn’t let me talk to you today.”

  Dean got to his feet. “Not supposed to talk—” He couldn’t force more than a rough whisper. He swallowed painfully, “—before today.” He now understood why; it hurt like hell. He sounded like he was a hundred years old, with a voice that reminded him of the whispering rattle of dry cornhusks. Maybe he’d give up talking altogether. He was a writer after all; who needed to talk?

  “Well, you sound like hell.” Smitty’s tone held more reproach than sympathy. “How soon can you travel?”

  Dean didn’t have to be told the man meant travel home.

  He decided to meet this head on, like the stubborn bullheaded man he knew himself to be. He’d never left a story unfinished—and wasn’t about to start now just because of some extremist’s lucky shot in the dark. The fact that Nigel Clifford wouldn’t see his children to adulthood seemed to make following this through to the end all that much more important. If the assignment wasn’t worth some risk, the man’s death was utterly pointless.

  He said, “Doctor’ll release me tomorrow or the next day. I figured I’d go back next week.”

  “You’re not going back.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. All you’re doing is making yourself a target for a political statement. Next time they might have a better shot—or kidnap you and try to use you for leverage. Our magazine won’t have it.”

  Since Daniel Pearl had been kidnapped and executed in Afghanistan, the executives in journalism had become skittish about reporters working in hostile territory.

  “I have to go back. My laptop and my notes are still in that hotel. The information on it could be damaging to—”

  “Nice try. I know you too well. You’re too smart to leave your sources’ names on anything so dangerously permanent. You’re done. If you want to do a final piece when you get back here, fine. But you’re coming home.” Before Dean could get his voice up and working again, Smitty went on. “You’ve got three cartons of mail waiting here. We haven’t been able to forward anything for two months. Probably something important in there.”

  Dean took a sip of water, hoping to ease his throat. It burned like he’d swallowed turpentine. He sat on the bed and broke out in a sweat. When he had his breath again he said, “Send it to Riyadh. I’ll work from there for a while.”

  “No.”

  “Cairo, then.”

  “No.”

  “Jesus.” He drew a deep breath and backed himself another step further from the hot zone. “Italy.”

  “Home. You’re coming home. You’ve been out too long. You need a dose of home cooking, civil liberties, and the bright lights of Broadway. We have plenty of work for you stateside. It’ll just be for a few weeks—until you’re completely recovered.”

  Home cooking, my ass. What Smitty thought Dean needed was a dose of up-close-and-personal “Who’s Boss.” After he’d blatantly refused the order to evacuate—then gone and gotten himself shot on top of it—he’d be lucky if Smitty would let him cover anything more foreign than the St. Patrick’s Day parade.

  Dean made one more attempt at delaying his removal from this side of the globe. “How about we think it over and talk again after I’m released?”

  “I’ve already made arrangements for your return flight on Saturday—so it’s good you’re going to be discharged.” Smitty’s voice told Dean he’d been outmaneuvered; he’d already admitted he was as good as out of the hospital. Smitty went on in a self-satisfied tone, “Stephen Bristol, our correspondent in Munich, will drive you to the airport. In fact, I’ll have him come by when you�
�re dismissed to take you to a hotel. He’ll hold your passport for safekeeping until you get to the airport.”

  A babysitter. “You certainly have little faith.” Even as Dean said it, he inwardly admitted the man had reason to be concerned; Dean’s past record having given just cause. Plus, given the slightest opportunity, he would head straight back to the same city he’d just been med-evaced out of.

  Smitty only gave a dry bark of disbelieving laughter.

  Dean sighed. It burned so much, he could swear the air whistled through the hole in his neck. “Guess I have no choice.”

  “None. We’ll find something interesting for you when you get back.”

  “Yeah.” Dean hung up the phone with little hope of such a thing. After living the way he’d been living—constantly on edge, life-and-death scenarios all around him—nothing was going to be interesting. Besides, given Smitty’s past dealings with wayward reporters, himself included, Dean was certain he’d be forced to give a pound of flesh for his transgressions against authority.

  Unless he could think of something quick, he’d be back in New York by Monday finding out in excruciatingly boring detail what awaited him. If The Report wasn’t the absolute top of the heap as far as magazines went, he’d just quit. He would find a way back into that country and finish the job he’d started.

  Leaning back on his pillows, he closed his eyes and nearly chuckled at himself. Who was he kidding? He’d never leave the magazine. Smitty might be a bastard, but Dean knew he’d never find another editor who listened to Dean’s journalistic instincts like Smitty did.

  As he lay there in bed, contemplating his future, a tightness formed in his chest. He yearned for family, the invisible shoring up of being surrounded by those who’d loved him since birth. The weight of being alone seemed too much to bear.

  He straightened up and rubbed his hands over his stubbly face. Ridiculous. He was alone by choice. He’d never needed someone else to stabilize his self-confidence. His own parents, both professors of psychology, had structured his entire upbringing to breed independence. Since the age of twelve, he’d essentially made his own choices and lived with the consequences, be what they may. He didn’t require a loving hand to assure him in his decisions, to remain steady on his back to keep him from falling down.

  But suddenly, that was exactly how he felt. Falling without anyone who cared enough to catch him.

  It was a feeling totally alien to him. For the first time in his memory, he couldn’t hammer his emotions to bend to his will.

  It had to be the drugs. Once I’m out of here, I’ll be back to my old self.

  Molly’s stomach dropped to her toes.

  The detective repeated, “Hello? McMurray here.”

  It took the stretch of several heartbeats for Molly to find her voice. When she did, it quivered as if she were shivering with cold. “Detective McMurray,” she paused and cleared her throat, “this is Dr. Boudreau returning your call.”

  “Ah, Dr. Boudreau. Thanks for the prompt callback.” Molly could hear the shuffle of papers over the line. “We understand you worked at the free clinic on Franklin.”

  Molly closed her eyes and took a breath. “Yes. I did, before it closed last week.” There, that sounded pretty calm—normal.

  “We’re trying to find some information on a homicide victim. Boston General’s emergency room said you transferred a young woman from your clinic last Monday shortly after she gave birth. In our questioning, the staff there ID’d the woman as our victim.”

  “Oh, dear. How awful.” Molly closed her eyes and saw the photo that was flashed on the television Thursday morning. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a moth against glass. She tried to sound sympathetic yet unemotional when she said, “I’m so sorry to hear that, but I don’t know what I can tell you that would be of help.”

  Her knees felt like rubber. Lying didn’t come naturally to her; she was going to have to watch herself. Keep to the true facts as much as possible. Don’t elaborate. “We did have an emergency birth. EMS transported mother and infant to Boston General immediately after delivery.”

  “Did you see this woman after that?”

  “I tried to see her at the hospital, but she was already gone.” That answer kept the lie minimal. She mentally batted away the image of Sarah, small and so obviously frightened, casting one last look at her son before slipping out Molly’s apartment door.

  “What name was she using at your clinic?” McMurray asked.

  “Um. Sarah . . . Morgan, that’s it, Morgan. I really don’t know much else about her. Sorry I can’t be of more help.” How quickly can I get off this call without looking suspicious?

  “Hmm.” McMurray sounded disappointed, yet not surprised. “We think this is an assumed name. Do you have any idea what her real name might be? Where she’s from? If she has family?”

  “No. We saw a lot of people at that clinic. I was lucky to remember the name she gave us.” Stop elaborating! Yes. No. Just answer the damn questions.

  “Of course. When do you think you’ll be returning to Boston? In case we have more questions.”

  “I really don’t know.” Her heart sped up again. “I’ve taken emergency leave—my father has cardiac problems.”

  “Will we be able to reach you at this number?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know what more I can add.”

  McMurray chuckled under her breath. “You’d be surprised what comes to mind when you least expect it. You have our number if anything surfaces in your memory.” Before Molly could once again deny that there was anything else, McMurray said, “Thank you, Doctor.” Then the line went dead.

  As she hung up the receiver, Molly realized McMurray hadn’t mentioned anything about the baby. Weren’t they trying to find Nicholas?

  That thought bred another, more disturbing, question. Why hadn’t she asked the detective about the baby? It would have been the logical thing to do. Would that set off alarm bells in McMurray’s mind? Well, it was too late now. She’d just have to wait and see—and make sure she was more careful in the future.

  Molly sat on the hardwood floor of the empty, echoing house, waiting for the furniture delivery. The sun of early morning had been eclipsed by low-slung gray clouds that tumbled and swirled as they were pushed along on a brisk wind. She watched through the living room window as the big maple tree showered its orange leaves onto the small front lawn. The air had turned chilly and damp; she’d turned on the furnace when she arrived and it was finally beginning to edge out the cold. She held Nicholas—tiny, helpless Nicholas—in her arms keeping him close for warmth.

  Looking into his face, she tried to find some resemblance to his mother. But he was neither fine-boned nor fair-haired. Unable to help herself, she wondered where he’d gotten his dark hair, his deep blue eyes and his dimpled chin. Questions that would never be answered—neither to satisfy her own curiosity, nor Nicholas’s own queries as he grew.

  The magnitude of what she’d done finally sank in. The irony of the situation seemed almost too much to believe. The protection of children had always been the focus of her passion, the reason she’d become a doctor. And now a child had become the thread that threatened to unravel her entire medical career. As she sat motionless for the first time in days, it became blazingly clear; she’d crossed the line and there would be no going back. The reality was, she had as much as kidnapped this child. If anyone ever discovered that, it would be the end of her career—and maybe even her freedom.

  Over the past days, she’d been too frantic, too preoccupied with fear that a red-haired stranger was going to step out of the shadows, tear this baby from her and perhaps end her life as well, to think on the particulars. When she’d fled with Nicholas, it had seemed the only reasonable action. In fact, it still did. Yet the law would certainly see otherwise.

  She could go back, return to Boston and explain to the authorities why she’d felt she had no other choice. And then she’d have to hand Nicholas over to an uncertain future. His
fate would lie either with a murdering father, or the social services system she’d seen fail so many times before.

  Once the report that Sarah had recently given birth hit the papers—as it surely would as the police searched for her true identity and the details of her life and death—the father would certainly start looking for the baby. Even if he didn’t, who knew how long it would be before the legalities would allow the adoption of a child in Nicholas’s position. Crucial developmental months of his life would slip by. Maybe he’d get lucky and have loving foster care. And maybe he wouldn’t. The risk was just too big to take.

  Besides, if the father did claim him, the man had already proven himself cruel and manipulative and without morals; charges would most certainly be brought against Molly for abduction. It was one hell of a mess.

  A knock on the front door made Molly nearly jump out of her skin. Her gaze shot to the door, which had a glass-paned upper half. Relief prickled her skin when she saw it wasn’t the police, or the red-haired killer. It was a thin, blond girl of about fifteen.

  After taking a breath to slow her racing heart, Molly got up and answered the door.

  The girl said, “Hi, I’m Mickey Fulton.” She tilted her head to the side. “I live next door.” Holding out a paper plate of chocolate chip cookies, she said, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  Molly adjusted the baby in her arms and took the plate. “Thank you. I’m Molly.” She motioned the plate toward the living room. “Do you want to come in? Sorry, I don’t have any furniture yet.”

  Mickey shifted her weight and stuck her hands in her jacket pockets. She had warm brown eyes and a wide smile. She looked . . . wholesome. Such a contrast to the new teen norm of forcing maturity before its time. Molly immediately liked her—it would be hard for anyone not to.

  “No, thanks,” Mickey said. “I have to get back home. I saw the baby when you came in . . .” She paused in a shy way. “I’m a good babysitter if you ever need one.”