“Jacquie?”
He nodded. “If you can. If you want to.”
Now she really looked at him, all of him . . . and all she could do was stare. His face was Jacqueline’s, and it truly took every bit of her breath away.
“She’s wonderful,” she said, trying to keep the quivers from her voice. “She’s smart and gregarious and delightful and independent and mature.” The tears had been in her voice, but now they rose to her eyes. “Did I say smart?” she asked, trying to lighten the burden of grief that suddenly hovered over them.
He scooted closer. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I want to talk about her.” She looked into his eyes, Jacqueline’s eyes. “I want you to know . . . her.”
Brian glanced down at the flyer. “I don’t know what it is,” his voice was low, “but I feel like part of me does . . . know her. That’s why I wanted to be here.” He paused. “I hope you understand this, but I feel . . . I know . . . she’s a part of me. She’s mine.”
She wanted to smile and she wanted to cry at his words. “Do you think we’re going to find her?”
“Definitely,” he assured her quickly, confidently, as if it was a fact.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For saying that. No one else is as sure as you are.”
“That’s the only way I know how to be.”
She nodded. “That’s what I need, because I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t come back.” The tears eased out now.
“You don’t have to worry about that; she’ll come home.” Brian paused and took her hand. “I’m here to support you and Hosea. I’m never going to give up on finding . . . our daughter. Believe that.”
His words, his touch, made her sob more. Then, with the arms of a lover, he gently pulled her toward him and rested her head on his shoulder.
All Jasmine could do was close her eyes and sob. Even though she felt others watching, she didn’t care. She needed to be held by Jacqueline’s father.
But she could feel the heat of the stares, and though she didn’t want to, she opened her eyes. And looked straight into Hosea’s.
His face was taut, stretched so tight that not a wrinkle creased his skin. Only a single muscle in his temple throbbed.
Quickly, Jasmine released Brian. Backed away, praying that Hosea would understand. But as she looked into her husband’s eyes, there was no anger there. “Hosea,” she said, and slowly she rose from her chair, “what’s wrong?”
She watched his Adam’s apple shift as he searched for his voice. “I have some news.”
Her hand jerked upward, covering her mouth. But that didn’t hold her cries inside.
He shook his head before she could even ask. “I don’t know . . . if it’s Jacquie. But they found a little girl.”
“Oh, no,” she moaned. Her knees bowed, but before she could fall, Brian eased her down into the chair.
Hosea knelt next to her, held her hand. “Baby, we don’t know anything yet. So don’t think . . . not like that. Not yet.” He hugged her before he stood, before he explained. “I got a call from Detective Cohen. A young girl, about five, was found. They don’t know if it’s Jacquie or not.” He paused and swallowed his own sob. “He asked me if Jacquie had any identifying marks. Any way to recognize her so that I wouldn’t have to go to the morgue.”
Jasmine groaned, and he leaned over to hold her again.
“We could wait for tests, for dental records, but I don’t want to.” He stopped. “I’m gonna take you home,” he said, reaching for her hand. “You can wait for me there.”
“No!” She shot up from her seat. “I’m going with you.”
This time, it was Hosea who shouted, “No! You don’t have to do this, Jasmine.”
“I don’t care . . . what you say.” Her sobs made her words sound like Morse code. “I’m . . . going.”
Brian said, “I’m going with you, too.”
The Bushes both turned, as if they’d forgotten that Brian was there.
“Yes,” Jasmine said in a voice that sounded like she wasn’t breathing. “Let’s go.”
But she turned away from Brian and held Hosea’s hand. With unsteady steps, Jasmine hobbled toward the door. The eyes that had been filled with curiosity now overflowed with sympathy. Hosea hadn’t said a word to anyone else, but they could see that whatever the news, it wasn’t good.
She said nothing to anyone. She had only a few words inside, and she had to save them all. She needed every single word for the prayer she had to send up to God.
Thirty-six
WAITING. THAT’S ALL SHE’D BEEN doing for a week, and now the coroner had her waiting some more.
“How long are they going to keep us out here?” Jasmine asked Hosea.
He shifted his hand so that he could glance at his watch and still hold on to her. “It hasn’t been that long, darlin’.” Hosea looked up at Brian pacing across the thin gray carpet. “The coroner will be out here soon.” He spoke to her, but his eyes were on Brian. Finally, Brian looked down at them, and Jasmine watched the men exchange a glance.
She frowned. What was that about?
Hosea turned back to her. “Jasmine, before the coroner comes out here—”
She didn’t even let him finish. She shook her head. “Don’t even think about it; I’m going in there with you.”
“But you don’t need to. You’re here. That’s enough.”
“No.”
“I don’t want you in there,” he said, more sternly this time. “Just let me do this. I can . . . check . . . and see.” His eyes pleaded with her before his words did. “Please, Jasmine. Let me take care of this.”
Her head was still shaking, but before she could tell him no again, Brian stopped in front of them. “Hosea’s right. Stay out here, and I’ll stay with you.” Then, to Hosea, he said, “You go in.”
As if it had been planned and choreographed, the two men moved and, in an instant, exchanged positions. Now Hosea stood above her, and Brian sat, holding her hand. Then, in the next moment, Hosea disappeared behind the thick concrete-gray doors.
Jasmine found her voice. “I should be in there.”
“You’re going to be fine out here.”
Her lips trembled. “Fine? If that’s Jacquie,” she breathed, “I’ll never be fine again.” She tore her hand away from his. Stood, then paced the same path that he had walked just moments before. She tried to still her heart that pounded so hard her chest ached. But there was nothing she could do to stop her heart from hammering or stop the images that were already in her head. She could see her—a little girl, lying stiffly still, inside an oblong-shaped, refrigerated box.
Jasmine shivered.
She imagined a man with white gloves slowly pulling the sheet back, showing Hosea the face.
Jasmine groaned.
Brian leapt from the chair and held Jasmine by her waist, steadying her. “You should sit down.”
But she grabbed the lapels on his coat and cried, “What am I going to do?”
“We don’t know anything yet.”
“If that’s Jacquie,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him, “I’m going to die right here.”
He pulled her close, held her tight, tried to give her comfort.
“God, please,” she cried into Brian. “God, please. God, please . . .” She squeezed her arms around him, feeling the muscles that she’d once loved and hated at the same time.
Then the doors behind them swung open.
Jasmine’s eyes widened. Hosea walked out. His steps were slow.
She had been holding Brian, but now she pushed him aside. For another moment, she stared into her husband’s glassy eyes. That was all she had to do. It was their years of marriage, their connection; he didn’t have to utter a word.
She knew.
She cried, “Thank God,” as she fell into Hosea’s arms.
Hosea held his wife as he said to Brian, “It wasn’t Jacquie.”
Even
though her face was pressed into Hosea’s chest, Jasmine could hear Brian’s relief.
“Okay,” Brian said, sounding as if he was taking his first breath after emerging from underwater. “So let’s get back to work.”
Hosea said, “I’ll drop you off back there, but I want to take Jasmine home.”
This time, she didn’t protest.
Brian said, “No, no. I can catch a cab.”
“Thanks, man,” Hosea said, still holding Jasmine. He helped her walk past Brian. Then together, they stumbled out of the New York City morgue.
Thirty-seven
IT WASN’T YET NOON, BUT today Hosea understood Jasmine’s wanting to do nothing more than crawl into their bed.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” he asked as he drew the duvet up to her chin.
“No,” she said, her eyes already closed. “I’m just going to rest for a little while. Will you check on Zaya?”
He nodded. “I’m going to call Detective Cohen, and then I’ll give Zaya his lunch.”
Hosea was sure that she was already asleep when he kissed her forehead. In unconsciousness, she wouldn’t have to think about what they’d just been through. Slumber—the great escape.
He treaded softly from their bedroom, and once inside the study, Hosea sank into the oversize chair. The December sun warmed the room to a summerlike heat, but still he shivered. Exhaustion made him want to lean back and close his eyes, but there was no way that he could. Because behind his lids was the image . . . of that little girl.
The little girl with brown curls . . . just like Jacqueline. Wearing a pink jogging suit . . . just like Jacqueline.
It had taken only seconds for Hosea to tell the coroner that the girl lying on that gurney, covered by that white sheet, in the center of that windowless room, was not his daughter. He hadn’t given the unknown girl more than two seconds before he left the coroner alone with all of that death.
But outside in the hallway, he had leaned against the wall, and minutes had passed before he had been able to take a single step. All he could do was stand there and cry.
He wasn’t sure if his tears were ones of joy or pain. Joy, that there was still hope for Jacqueline. Or pain, because that little girl was someone else’s daughter.
A soft groan passed through his lips. What he needed was to be with his son. To hold Zaya, and kiss him, and love him. Hosea pushed himself up, but then he remembered why he’d come into the study.
Just as he reached for the telephone on the desk, his cell rang. Glancing at the screen, he took a deep breath and put a smile in his voice.
“Nama,” he said to Mae Frances.
“Hosea, I just found out . . . about the little girl . . . in the morgue.”
He frowned. “How did you know about that?”
“Some people I know . . . but it’s not Jacquie, right? They told me it wasn’t my granddaughter.”
“No,” he rushed to say. “It was another . . . little girl.” But he wondered, how did Mae Frances know? Besides himself and the police, only Jasmine and Brian had known.
Mae Frances asked, “How’s Jasmine?”
“She’s resting.”
“That was too much for her to go through.”
“It was.” Then before she could ask, he said, “It wouldn’t be good for you to come over. Especially after what happened the other day.”
“I know,” she said, sounding like she wanted to cry. “But maybe you can tell Jasmine that I love her.”
“I’ll do that,” he lied. His wife wasn’t ready to have a calm discussion about Mae Frances. He wasn’t sure if she would ever be ready. “I’ll call you if we hear anything.”
“Yes, please. And, I’m still working from my end,” she said before hanging up.
Those were her words, every time they spoke—though he was never able to figure out what she was talking about.
He picked up the phone again and made the call he intended.
“Detective Cohen,” he began, the moment he was put through. “I guess you’ve heard by now.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t your daughter. So we’ll keep working on it.”
The detective sounded just a bit too casual. “Will you?” Hosea asked.
“Of course. This is my job.”
Even though the man couldn’t see him, Hosea nodded. He wasn’t a fool, though; he knew that with each day the number of officers assigned to this case decreased.
Hosea said, “Detective, let me ask you something. You don’t believe that my wife or I had anything to do with this, do you?” He knew that Dale would have a fit if he found out about this conversation. But Hosea didn’t care about protocol; he wanted to make sure that the detective’s focus was where it should be—and not on him or Jasmine.
The detective said, “No, Mr. Bush. From everything we’ve seen, it doesn’t look like you, or your wife, were involved.”
“Doesn’t look?”
“You can’t fault me for asking the extra questions . . . about your wife.”
“Just because of that ridiculous e-mail,” Hosea mumbled.
“And the polygraph exam. We have to take every lead, every bit of information, seriously.”
Hosea didn’t have an explanation for the lie detector test, but the e-mail—he was still pissed about that. “I don’t know how you can give any credibility to some anonymous note that comes across the Internet. That could have been written by anyone.”
“We have to consider every lead.”
Hosea said, “You call that a lead? An e-mail that’s untraceable?”
“Mr. Bush, that e-mail is past us now.”
It may be past you.
The detective said, “It doesn’t matter, because as I said, we’ve ruled out you . . . and your wife. We’re working this case as if it is a stranger abduction.”
He and Jasmine were cleared, but the detective’s words provided no real relief.
“We’re concentrating now on sex offenders in the area . . .”
Sex offenders? He couldn’t listen to any more. After a quick good-bye, Hosea hung up, not giving Detective Cohen time to pull his hope down any lower.
Hosea pressed his hands against his temple and tried to massage the fear and the anger away. He closed his eyes for just a moment of rest, but this time, it wasn’t the little girl from the morgue who waited behind his lids. It was that faceless man. With hands. With his daughter.
Sex offenders.
It was instant. It was automatic.
He felt his fury rise.
This had happened so often that he knew what to do: slowly, he uncurled his fingers, which had clenched into fists. Opened his mouth wide and inhaled oxygen. Let two seconds pass. Exhaled carbon dioxide. Again and again. Then he counted from ten to one.
But still, his heart raced.
So he started at twenty and counted backward again. Slower, this time.
Finally, he was back to normal.
There had never been a time in his life when he’d felt such rage. It had been close to this when his father was shot. But then, at least he’d had his father with him—he could see him, touch him, protect him, and pray over him.
But he couldn’t do any of that for Jacqueline. And that’s what filled him with a fury that bubbled over, more each time.
And now he had to listen to Detective Cohen talk about child molesters . . . the scream was building up inside of him, but he couldn’t release it. It felt as if he were on the brink of crazy.
He grabbed the telephone and felt a bit of the peace that he was seeking when he heard, “Son!” But then he heard his father’s anxiety.
Reverend Bush said, “I was getting ready to call you. I just spoke with Mae Frances.” His father kept on, not taking a breath, not giving Hosea a chance to say a word. “Why didn’t you reach out to me? I would’ve gone down there with you. That’s not something you should have done alone.”
Then, when there was a pause, Hosea said, “Jasmine went with me, and it was somethin
g we had to do, because we can’t keep making this about everyone else.”
His father exhaled a long stream of air into the telephone. “We’re a family; we’re in this together. But okay, at least we know that Jacquie’s still out there.”
How do we know that? Hosea wondered. Right now, his little girl could be . . . he had to squeeze his eyes tight as the image of his daughter and that man was back.
“Son?”
His father’s voice sounded like an echo through the pounding in his head. Finally, Hosea answered, “Yeah?”
“What’s wrong?” his father asked.
“I . . . I . . .” He panted and counted: Ten, nine, eight . . .
Reverend Bush said, “I know you’re not getting weary.”
His breathing was back. “It’s not that, Pops, it’s . . .” He pressed his lips together, not sure that he wanted his thoughts to turn into words. “It’s my head. All the things that I see. Everything that I imagine happening to my baby girl. I can’t stand it.”
“I know,” his father said softly. “We can’t get weary.”
“But how can I not when I can see her hurting? Hear her crying. She’s so afraid, Pops.”
“Hosea—”
“I can’t take it. And sometimes I wish . . . I almost hope . . .” Even though his eyes were shut tight, tears still squeezed through. “Pops, a part of me wishes that girl in the morgue . . . I almost wished it were Jacquie, because the thought of her being abused and tortured . . . Pops,” he sobbed, “sometimes I pray that she’s dead—”
A gasp. Then a scream. And Hosea’s eyes popped open.
In front of him, Jasmine stood, horror all over her face.
“Pops, I gotta go,” he said.
“What was—”
He hung up on his father’s words; his eyes were glued to his wife. “Jasmine,” he said as he wiped away his tears.
Her eyes were huge. She stared at him as if she didn’t know him. “You want Jacquie to be dead?” she whispered.
“No.” He stood slowly. “That’s not what I meant. I wish to God that she was here.”
Jasmine shook her head. “That’s not what you said,” she cried. “I heard you. You said you wish she was dead.”
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