But soon, their talking stopped, and they walked quietly together, sending up their own silent prayers. They walked and walked, prayed and prayed, until exhaustion and frostbite took over.
Pressing the Bluetooth button on his dashboard, Hosea dialed his home number; the phone rang once, then twice, then a third time. He knew that the police were just preparing—this could be the call.
“Hello,” Mrs. Whittingham answered, sounding afraid.
“How’s Jasmine?” he asked quickly, wanting to put her and the listening police at ease.
Mrs. Whittingham blew out a long breath before she said, “She’s still resting. I’ve been checking on her, trying to get her to eat, but she won’t move. Her sister called from Florida, but she wouldn’t take the call. And now she won’t even let Mrs. Sloss put Zaya in his bed.”
“That’s okay. Let him stay with her. She needs him tonight.” I need him tonight. The emotions that he’d been pressing down all day began to rise. “I’ll be there in a little while,” he said, rushing off the phone, not wanting Mrs. Whittingham to hear his tears. He needed to be the strong one.
But how was he supposed to be when his mind was boggled with fear and rage? Someone had taken his daughter!
In his mind, he could see the culprit’s neck. His hands gripped the steering wheel, and even when he began to shake, he couldn’t let go—the image of the faceless man wouldn’t leave him. It took a mighty effort to edge the car back to the curb.
Long moments, deep breaths, and then his hands relaxed. Slowly, he opened his fingers and released the wheel. With his palms, he wiped away the tears that he’d been trying to hold captive, but the emotional water had escaped from his eyes anyway.
How could this have happened to his daughter? To his family? On his watch? He was the man, the head of his household, the provider, the protector. Yet he hadn’t protected the most vulnerable among them.
He jerked the car back into traffic, causing the driver behind him to brake hard and blast his horn. Hosea could imagine the curses being thrown his way, but he didn’t look in his rearview mirror—he just kept his eyes on the road.
There was no way he would be able to survive if his daughter didn’t spend this night in her own bed.
Jacqueline had to be found now.
Nine
HOSEA PARKED, THEN DASHED ACROSS the street and up the same steps where he had stood with Jasmine and his father just hours before.
Inside, the station was bustling with police—male and female—moving about, taking calls, tapping on computers. The high energy was a contrast against the dark night—inside, it felt like the middle of the day.
At first, Hosea was just a figure, one among them until a female officer glanced across the desk.
“Mr. Bush,” she called him.
Then every eye turned to him.
He hadn’t come with a plan, and now he really didn’t know what to say.
“Mr. Bush.” This time, a man called out to him, from his right.
“Detective . . . Cohen.”
The officer motioned for Hosea to follow, and in the room where they’d talked before, the detective leaned against the table as Hosea sat.
“It’s kind of late,” the officer said.
Hosea nodded.
“Is there something you wanted to tell me?” the detective asked, as if he thought Hosea was about to make a confession.
“Nah, I just came by to check out what was going on.”
The man closed his eyes, pinched the skin above his nose. “Right now, there are about sixty officers working this case—and that’s just in this station. We’re doing everything we can, but we don’t have much—really nothing.”
“I can’t believe . . . nothing? What about the cameras at the mall? There has to be something by now.”
The detective inhaled, then exhaled. “Seems like . . . well, you know the mall just opened, and it seems like the cameras weren’t working . . . yet.”
“What?” Hosea exclaimed.
The officer nodded, the ends of his lips turned down as if he was sorry. “They were scheduled to be checked out tomorrow.” Hosea groaned, but Detective Cohen continued, “We don’t have the cameras, but there’ve been lots of calls. Lots of leads.”
That made Hosea sit up. “Anything?”
The policeman shook his head. “Like I said, nothing . . . yet. But we’re following up on everything. Detective Foxx is still at your house, right?”
Hosea nodded. “My father and I were just searching the streets.”
“That’s not a good idea, Mr. Bush.” The detective shook his head. “We’re getting out photos, speaking to folks. We’re doing our jobs.”
“I know, and believe me, I appreciate all that you’re doing. But this is a job for you. For me . . . this is my life.” He had to pause to keep the trembling from his voice. Then, “What am I supposed to do? How can I—” He stopped again. Calming down, he finished, “How can I go home to my wife?”
The officer nodded in understanding.
“I had to do something,” Hosea felt the need to explain even more. “That’s why I came by. But . . .”
“The best thing you can do right now is go home and get some rest. I’m going to want to talk to you and Mrs. Bush again tomorrow.”
At first, Hosea nodded, and then he frowned. “Why? We’ve told you everything.”
“Yeah, but sometimes after time has passed, people remember things.” He put his hand on Hosea’s shoulder. “Go home, Mr. Bush. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Hosea took steps toward the door, then stopped. Turned back to face Detective Cohen. Swallowed before he said, “Tell me the truth.”
The officer frowned.
“What are the chances . . . that Jacquie will come home?”
In the second that it took for the detective to respond, Hosea had his answer. And the force of that fact knocked him against the wall.
The officer said, “If you want it, I’ll give it to you straight.” He paused, giving Hosea a chance to change his mind. Hosea nodded and Cohen continued, “There’s a direct correlation between the number of hours missing and the chances of a child returning home. The more hours that pass, the less chance of the child being found.” Inside his head, Hosea counted. In just a little while, Jacqueline would be missing for twelve hours. Detective Cohen continued, “And if it’s a nonfamily abduction, well . . .” He stopped for a moment when Hosea held up his hand. After a second, the man continued, “But that doesn’t mean that good things haven’t happened. I’ll give you a name . . . Elizabeth Smart.”
Hosea inhaled as he remembered the young girl who had been abducted from her own home in 2002 but was found alive and well nine months later.
Detective Cohen said, “Elizabeth Smart went home.”
Hosea nodded, grateful to the detective for that hope. This time, when he turned to the door, it was Cohen who stopped him.
“Mr. Bush, I have a question for you.” The detective paused. “I asked you and your wife this earlier, but maybe now that she’s not here—” He stopped again, as if he wanted to give Hosea time to think. “Do you know of anyone who would want to do this to your family?”
“No! Why do you keep asking me that?”
“Because like I said”—he looked straight into Hosea’s eyes—“with time, people remember things . . . or decide to tell everything.” His stare was still intense. “There’re lots of reasons for child abductions; we need to explore them all.”
Hosea said, “No one I know would do this.”
The detective nodded, then shocked Hosea with, “What about you and your wife. Are things good?”
“Yeah.” Hosea frowned.
“There’s no affair that I need to know about, no disgruntled lover who may be trying to get back at you?”
“No!” Hosea shouted.
But Detective Cohen was unfazed. “What about your wife?” He kept the questions coming. “Is she happy, or are the kids too much for her?”
Quick steps took Hosea right up to the officer’s face. “Get this, and get it right—no one that my wife or I know would do anything like this.”
“Okay,” Detective Cohen replied casually, totally unmoved.
“And neither would my wife or I. We love our children.”
“Okay,” Cohen said again, as if his questions and Hosea’s responses were no big deal. The detective held up his hands, letting Hosea know that this was over, for now. “Like I said, I’m just doing my job.”
Hosea stared the detective down. Still, he wanted to heave a table and toss it across the room. But the man leading Jacqueline’s case was not the enemy. Even though Hosea was insulted by the insinuations, like the detective had said, this was his job.
Hosea marched out the door, out of the precinct. He was still furious when he clicked the remote to his SUV, but by the time he slammed the car door shut, his fury began to fade.
There’re lots of reasons for child abductions.
As he twisted the steering wheel and moved away from the sidewalk, Hosea played the detective’s words in his head again. And in the next instant, Natasia Redding jumped into his mind.
Natasia, his ex-fiancée who had come back in 2006 and wreaked all kinds of havoc in their lives—including the day she had disappeared with his daughter. At the time, Natasia had said that she’d just taken Jacqueline to the car to get some toys, but from that day forward, he’d never trusted her. And eventually, he’d had her removed as an executive producer from his show.
Then there was Brian Lewis, Jacqueline’s biological father—although Hosea couldn’t imagine Brian’s being involved. He had given up all rights to Jacqueline—had told him and Jasmine that he wanted Hosea to raise his little girl. No, Brian would never do this.
Like he had told Detective Cohen, there was not a person in his life who would be involved in a kidnapping.
Still, Hosea swerved his car to the left, crossed over into the northbound lane, and headed back to the station. Maybe he and the detective needed to talk just a little bit more.
Ten
DETECTIVE COHEN HAD TOLD HIM he would handle the calls when Hosea gave him Natasia’s and Brian’s names. But there was no reason to wait.
He pulled his car to the front of the garage, but he didn’t go inside. Not yet. He needed to check out some things before he went upstairs to Jasmine.
He made the first call; the phone hardly rang before it was answered.
“Mae Frances,” he said.
“Have you heard anything?” Her voice quivered, as if she’d been crying. Hosea had no doubt that she had been.
“No news, yet. But I wanted to ask you, do you have Brian Lewis’s telephone number?”
“No.” He could hear her frown in her tone. “Why?”
“I want to give it to the police—they want to contact everyone.”
“I don’t have it, but Jasmine . . .” The mention of her name changed the subject. “How is she?” she whispered.
Hosea sighed. “Mrs. Whittingham says she’s resting. I’m on my way home now.”
“I cannot believe she won’t let me stay with her,” Mae Frances wailed, her voice louder now. “I love her as if I’d birthed her myself. And my granddaughter,” Mae Frances sobbed, “I can’t believe this has happened. You know I love all of you, don’t you know that, Hosea?”
Hosea. He could count the number of times she’d called him by his name instead of by the nickname he wasn’t too fond of—Preacher Man. But right now, he yearned to hear her say “Preacher Man.” Because that would mean life was once again normal.
“I know you love us, Mae Frances. I know you love all of us. And I don’t think this is your fault.”
“But the baby was with me. And I looked down at the phone,” she testified again, as if saying it over and over would make their lives better. “Jacquie was right there. And then she was gone,” she cried.
“Mae Frances. Calm down.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“This is not your fault,” he assured her. “Evil was going to find us no matter what.”
“But why now?” she wailed. “And why the baby?”
Hosea closed his eyes as he asked, “Do you want me to come over there?”
“No, no, go home,” Mae Frances sniffed, “Jasmine needs you. But please, call me . . .”
“Tomorrow, first thing. I’ll let you know what’s going on.”
Then, with a sniff, Mae Frances added, “I’m going to find her, Hosea.”
He frowned. “What are you going to do?”
“I know some people. And we’ll find her.”
He gave her the advice that he’d just been given. “Don’t do anything, Mae Frances. Let the police do their job. If we interfere or get in the way . . . it could be bad.”
She told him, “Okay,” but he wasn’t sure he really believed her. Not that she could really do anything. What was her plan—to roam the streets in her old mink, in near-zero-degree temperatures? No, there wasn’t a thing that Mae Frances could do.
After another promise to call her in the morning, he hung up, scrolled through his PDA, and made the second call. He wasn’t even sure if this number was good anymore, but he had to try. Glancing at the clock, he was glad that Chicago was one hour behind. Not that it mattered; he would have made this call at two in the morning if it would lead to Jacqueline.
As the phone rang, he pressed his cell closer to his ear, knowing that he would know the truth within seconds; he’d be able to hear it, if she answered.
And she did.
“Hello.”
“Natasia, this is Hosea.”
There was a pause, but then, “I’m surprised to be hearing from you. What’s going on?”
The police were going to follow up on this lead, but he almost wanted to call Detective Cohen and tell him to save that time. Natasia Redding was a jilted lover, a disgruntled employee, a pissed-off friend. But she didn’t have his daughter. He’d had Natasia’s heart once—he knew her and would be able to hear any sign of guilt.
He said, “I . . . ah . . . just wanted to know how you were doing?”
She chuckled. “You mean you wanted to know if I picked myself up after you had me fired?”
Now he just wanted to get off the phone. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called.”
“You’re right, you shouldn’t have.” And she hung up, saving him from having to do the same to her.
So Natasia wasn’t responsible. And he still doubted Brian Lewis’s involvement. So who had taken his daughter?
The image of the faceless man spun around in his mind again. And with that picture came his rage.
He peered through the car windows. Though taxis and other vehicles rolled down the streets, the sidewalks were deserted as the clock ticked toward eleven and the temperature plunged toward zero. With another glance to his left, then to his right, he bent over and fumbled beneath the seat until he felt the box.
As it rested in his lap, he fondled the gray leather exterior before he unhitched the flap. The nine millimeter gleamed under the overhead streetlight.
Hosea lifted the eight inches of steel from the pocket. He fingered the custom diamond-wood grip—the reason that he’d purchased this gun. The grip and the name.
It’s called the Target, he remembered the dealer telling him.
That was what had moved him to spend over a thousand dollars on this weapon. He’d purchased and registered the gun right after his father had been released from the hospital almost three years ago. His father had spent months in a coma after being shot—caught between rival gangs . . . at least that’s what the police still told them. There had never been an arrest, which was one of the reasons why Hosea had bought the revolver.
With a little girl (and now a son) he hated having a gun in his possession. But if the police couldn’t protect his family, then he would do it.
But he had failed. He had the gun, and even more than that, he had his nam
e, his father’s name, and one of the biggest churches in New York—and still his daughter had been abducted.
Feeling as useless as the gun had been, Hosea tucked the box back under his seat and worked to press his fury down. It did no good to think about what he’d failed to do. All he needed to focus on was doing everything right now.
That was all that mattered.
Eleven
JASMINE HEARD THE CRIES.
“Mama!”
They were faint, at first. Then louder. And louder.
“Mama!”
Jasmine’s eyes fluttered open.
“Jacquie,” she whispered as she shot up straight in the bed. “Jacquie!” She jumped up and stumbled through the dark.
“Jasmine?” Hosea called. “What’s wrong?”
“Jacquie! She’s home.”
Rushing across the living room, Jasmine didn’t notice the two policemen who slept—one on the sofa, the other on the love seat. She dashed past them, hurrying to her daughter’s room.
Thank God! was all she could think.
Thank God this had all been a dream. A bad dream. But now her daughter was home. Safe.
Jasmine swung open the door to Jacqueline’s bedroom and inhaled the scent of the fresh baby powder that lingered. She ran to the bed. Tossed back the covers. And stared at the pink sheets.
“Jacquie?” she called softly. “Jacquie?” she said a little louder now. She threw the cover on the floor, got on her knees, searched under the bed. “Jacquie?” Frantically, she stood and ran to the closet. “Jacquie?”
Behind her, she heard rushed footsteps. She twisted, looked into her husband’s eyes, and she realized it hadn’t been a dream.
The reality made her wail, “Jacquie!”
Her knees buckled, but Hosea caught her before she hit the floor. Slowly, he eased her down and held her as she screamed her daughter’s name. Jasmine never saw Detective Foxx and the other detective as they ran into the room. She never saw Hosea wave them away.
Sins of the Mother Page 4