Hope House

by Tracy L Carbone

  When he looked in her eyes, he saw fear and beauty. Wow, what a gorgeous face. He hadn’t expected that based on her body. Her eyes were dark green, her skin olive. Italian maybe? Maybe Greek? Bleached hair.

  “Mr. Malone, I’m Carla.”

  “Nice to meet you. “ Malone had politely stood and with a half-hearted flourish of the hand, indicated a seat. The only one other than his.

  Even in the act of sitting, she looked back and forth between the one small-paned window and the door. “I watched behind me,” she confessed. “Don’t think I was followed.”

  Kurt locked the door. “That oughta give you a little more security.”

  He dropped back into his seat and took out a notepad. “On the phone you said you wanted to disappear. Without a trace, right?”

  “Can you do that?”

  He sighed, cracked his knuckles, then spoke. “A long time ago my bread and butter was finding people who had disappeared—people who wanted to vanish. I really learned a lot about shaking people out of their hiding places. Learned their secrets. Got in their heads to figure out how they stayed lost as long as they did. It’s called skip tracing and back then I mostly worked with people who had jumped bail.”

  “But I thought—”

  He nodded. “Like I said, that life was a long time ago. Now, well, I’m kind of a reverse skip tracer.”

  “So can you help me?”

  “It’s not so easy to run away from everyone and everything you know, and it’s an enormous step. Usually involves desperation.”

  She remained adamant, her quivering jaw set. “I want to disappear, Mr. Malone and you do help people disappear, right?”

  “Well, more like helping people get lost. I should put that on my business card. ‘Kurt Malone, Guide to Nowhere’ ”

  She nodded, not amused. “Well, I need to disappear for a while but I hope someday to go back home. I’ll find out who tried to kill me and why, but I need time. And so long as they think I’m alive, I won’t be safe.”

  “What about the police?”

  “They failed to protect me before and I fear some of them are involved.”

  He winked and nodded knowingly. “No one is above corruption, Carla. If you remember that, you’ll survive with your new persona.”

  She relaxed a little. “I don’t have much money but someone told me that you might help me. Once I can prove what happened to me and can regain my identity, I can pay you everything I owe, whatever expenses come up.”

  Kurt had only recently started this business and didn’t have a lot of financial flexibility, but he could never refuse a damsel in distress. He didn’t want to be the one to rain on her parade, inform her that the likelihood of returning to her old life was nil. He had a talent for hiding people from their pasts. A grand successful coward who helped others to cower from their pursuers. Sometimes though, running from the bad guy proved one’s best choice.

  The option for him personally, if he decided to emerge from his own deep cover to face the music? A long jail sentence, which he’d most likely never serve because someone from the Family would kill him first.

  “I’ll help you. But you have to agree to my rules—and never question my loyalty to you.”

  She smiled at him, tears of gratitude in those gorgeous eyes. Even with all her extra weight, her radiance caught his breath in his throat.

  “Thank you, Mr. Malone. Thank you so much. I didn’t know where else to turn.”

  Those were the words that got to him every time. Profit or not, hopeless case or not, he could never say no to a pretty face or a real sob story, and Carla had both. The details of her story would rush in as they went. For now, all he said was, “Hey, it’s what I do.”

  As they talked more about her past and future, and he saw the hope he instilled in her, he realized resuming his unique reverse skip tracing vocation wasn’t a foolish choice but rather an obligation.

  4.

  Maison D’Espoir, Haiti, late afternoon

  Mick Puglisi, tall, skinny, wavy black hair, late thirties, gave a welcoming speech to twenty-two new Haitian girls who would be residing at the Maison D’Espoir. He guessed the oldest girl was twenty. Hard to say precisely how old any of the girls were because the parents of the Maison hopefuls were usually illiterate to the point of being unable to fill out a birth certificate. The ages were estimates and most likely lies. One of the girl’s records showed her at sixteen, the minimum age for residence, but Mick could see she was barely thirteen. Still, she’d be better off in here than out there beyond the safety of the gates. Maison posed as a non-profit entity, a free live-in nursing school for eligible young girls; but everyone knew its true purpose. And they didn’t care.

  All Mick had to do was wave fifty dollars under the nose of some lazy good-for-nothing father, and the girl would be out the door without so much as a hug goodbye. Yeah, I profit from the girls but I do ‘em a service as well.

  They were safe, clean, and well fed. No chores besides keeping their rooms clean. No beatings and absolutely no molestation. Their bodies were their incubators, a means to an end, and to be kept pristine.

  Mick smiled as the girls lined up inside Maison D’Espoir, the tall protective wooden gates shutting behind them, creating an impenetrable barrier to their old lives. Their eyes glowed, and they gasped in astonishment when they saw the mystery compound they’d only heard about. Fifteen brightly painted cottages complete with shutters and screens. Most likely these girls didn’t know what a screen was for, but they’d learn to appreciate them—awakening without mosquito welts or malaria. In the good sections of Port Au Prince, some of the people didn’t have it so bad, but he didn’t choose from that pool. He sought out the girls who would be so desperate for shelter and food that they’d willingly come here, happily sever ties with everyone back in their villages, and say, “Thank you very much, Mr. Puglisi,” in the bargain.

  Clutching their blue nylon duffel bags, the girls chatted excitedly amongst each other in Creole. Emblazoned on the sides of the bags in gold were the words “Maison D’Espoir,” with the logo of a house with the sun rising behind it. The bags overflowed with goodies: shampoo, toothbrushes, nail polish, powder, candy, hair beads, and nightshirts with the Maison logo.

  With today’s new stable of girls, the population hit seventy-five. All the existing residents were producing. Some who joined the first round six years ago had become burnt out or had unexpected medical issues. Out they went. Sent off, the girls called it. Big bad Mr. Puglisi sent them off. He cringed at the bogeyman image he represented here, but it was necessary for business. New Age Adoption Agency prided itself on providing beautiful smart healthy Caucasian babies. Mick’s stash of special eggs, donor sperm from selected men, plus good surrogates, produced quality goods. People paid too much for these kids for anything to go wrong.

  The only baby born with a deformity so far was his Luke, a club-footed infant out of Martine Jean-Baptiste. Puglisi had whisked little Luke away and adopted him but his crew believed otherwise, believed he had slaughtered the kid. He shuddered at the thought.

  At one time, he and Tad Boucher had been like brothers. Through unfortunate circumstances, they had been raised together in the same house. But now it was Dr. Tad and his girls aligned against the evil Mick Puglisi. Mick accepted it as the way of business, thinking of a list of prosperous men who had begun in business together and had a falling out. Unavoidable fallout but not a deal breaker.

  Boris, one of the armed guards, stood beside Mick. Boris also acted as his translator when he needed one, whenever Tad was too busy. Mick began his speech and tour for the girls when he saw Boris eyeing one of the incubators. Boris was never allowed inside the gates unless Mick or Tad requested his help, much too tempting. Seventy-five virgins, healthy, clean, and probably dying for a man’s touch. Who could predict what would happen if Boris were left unsupervised?

  “Who are you looking at?” Mick said, grimacing at Boris.

  “Lot bo. Over there.�
�� He pointed. “What is her name? She looks like someone I know.”

  “Never you mind. Whoever she was before is dead now, so it doesn’t matter. You just keep your pants zipped and help me settle these girls into their new home.”

  Boris, six foot, five inches tall, with muscles like a racehorse, glared back at Mick. A shiny angry black stallion and his large nostrils flared as wide. He clenched his jaw. Mick knew immediately that he crossed the crossed a line with the big lug.

  “Okay, big boy. Sorry about that. Didn’t mean it.” He fished in his wallet and handed him two twenties. Boris took them and nodded. I’ll let you live, the look said.

  Backing off, Mick asked, “Which girl did you have a question about?”

  Boris pointed. “Her. In the flowered top. I have seen her a few times over the years but never up close. I think she is from my old village in La Saline.”

  “She’s been here since the beginning. Martine Jean-Baptiste.” Mick saw a flicker of something in Boris’ eyes but couldn’t be sure what. Joy? Anger?

  Boris only nodded again and gritted his teeth. Mick stepped back a few feet. This guy scared the hell out of him but he’d hired him for talent in intimidating. He’d been protecting the compound for years. No one could get by Boris Jean-Bap—Oh shit, was this guy Martine’s brother? Mick saw his life flash before his eyes.

  “Is it the girl you knew?” Mick prayed otherwise.

  “Just start the tour.” Boris said.

  Mick followed him, nervous as hell. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have. Maybe he doesn’t know Martine. Jean-Baptiste is a common name. Mick took a few deep breaths and began to speak.

  “Bon Jou.” That was the extent of his Creole and most of these women couldn’t speak French, much less English. He rattled off a few more things and Boris translated for him. He seemed to relax a little so Mick did too. If Boris wanted any special treatment for Martine, he could have it. It was worth it to lose a good breeder if he got to keep this wolverine of a guard. For now he’d say nothing and count the minutes until he could get on the plane back to Miami, to little Luke, and the safety of his home.

  5.

  Boston General Hospital, Boston, afternoon

  Gloria checked her watch. Four o’clock. Her stomach growled, but in just two hours she’d meet Donna and didn’t want to spoil her dinner. Needed to leave room for Tiramisu. If the doctor didn’t emerge from behind the swinging doors with her results soon, she’d have to leave and call him later. It’s not like they’d take her marrow today anyway, even if she were a match. She tapped her foot, knowing that she couldn’t stay here past five-fifteen. If she did, she’d never get to Logan Airport by six with the rush hour traffic.

  She chewed her lip. So bored. She’d already leafed through every magazine in the waiting room in the last three hours: Women’s cooking journals, men’s sports and fishing guides, as well as all the brochures explaining ADHD, depression, asthma, and allergies. There were a couple brochures entitled Genital Warts and Herpes, but she chose to leave those right where they rested on the rack. Instead, she picked up a magazine that promised forty Valentine cookie recipes.

  Ick. There was something sticky on page seventy-two. She tossed the magazine down on the end table. Not a bright idea touching all the waiting room literature, since most of the people in the hospital were sick and had leafed through them as well. She frowned and got up to wash her hands.

  “Ms. Hanes,” a man’s voice called to her.

  “Doctor Norris.” He appeared to be in his early forties and was so average and non-descript that Gloria knew she’d finally found a personification for the phrase average white male.

  “At first glance, everything looks good. Your blood profile shows you’re very healthy and you seem to be a match. So long as the DNA you have is the same one we show as having scraped from your cheek a few years ago, it’ll be a go.”

  “That’s very good news.”

  “Sure is. Could you come with me to one of the consultation rooms? I need you to fill out some paperwork and there’s something interesting in your DNA I’d like to discuss in private.”

  She nodded and followed him down the hall. “Interesting?” she asked as she walked. “Are you going to tell me I’m really a superhero or my mother was a jackal?”

  He laughed as he guided her into a small room. “Afraid not. Not Wonder Woman or the anti-Christ. Human through and though.” He shut the door and they both sat down. As he opened her chart he said, “I’m afraid there are some very personal questions I’ll need to ask. I hope you don’t take offense.”

  She felt herself blush. Her heartbeat quickened. How personal? Was he going to ask her how many men she had slept with? There hadn’t been a lot, but still—

  “The DNA we have on file, and granted we need to verify this, shows that you’re strongly related to the patient.”

  “How strongly?”

  “Well, this is what’s strange. I’m not a geneticist but the report I have states you’re either her grandmother or her aunt. Obviously you’re not her grandmother, given your age, but your questionnaire says you’re an only child.”

  “I am. It took years for my mother to get pregnant with me, and after that she never conceived again.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Her face reddened further. “Very. We’ve had long talks about it.”

  “I hate to even suggest this but what about your father. Any chance—”

  “Absolutely not. How dare you imply that he was unfaithful to my mother?”

  “I’m sorry, but it just doesn’t make sense.”

  “What’s the child’s name, the one I’m here about?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Please, just a first name.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I’m begging. Just a first name.”

  He frowned. “Promise you won’t try to figure out who she is.”

  She nodded.

  “Alison. Her name is Alison. Back to my questions now. So you have no siblings and your only pregnancy was—”

  Gloria felt the blood gushing through her ears, blocking out anything else he may have said. Her last pregnancy? When would she ever be able to put it behind her? She nodded and took a deep breath.

  “Is there any chance this Alison could be my daughter?”

  “No. Of course not. You lost your fetus to miscarriage six and half years ago. But did you have another pregnancy?”

  “Why? Is Alison genetically my daughter?” She hadn’t realized she was yelling until a nurse opened the door to check on them.

  “Everything’s fine. I’m just speaking with my patient.”

  The nurse left.

  “Your daughter died, Ms. Hanes. You had a miscarriage before she was born. This child’s DNA does not suggest she’s your child. You’re a twenty-five percent match, which indicates the relations I mentioned: Grandmother or aunt. You’re a step removed from motherhood.”

  She felt reality slip away, just like the last time in a hospital. “You’re wrong. When you retest the DNA, you’ll see. She is my daughter. I felt her kick before they stole her from me, from my womb. The doctor lied back then, don’t you see? Someone else is raising my daughter!”

  He grasped her folded hands and held them. Hard. She tried to move them but couldn’t. What is he, some kind of Dr. Black Belt?

  “Ms. Hanes. Alison is not your daughter. Yours died long before she was surgically removed from you. And this child will die as well if you don’t calm down and stop ranting. She needs your marrow. We can sort out how you’re related to her later. All I need to know is that if all the tests come back compatible, that you’re willing to save this little girl’s life.”

  Gloria blinked a few times and tears fell on her lap. He still rendered her hands immobile.

  “Of course. I’m sorry. Just give me the paperwork to sign. I just— sometimes I—when you told me she was related I just got upset. Hopeful. But I know it’s foolish. I’ll be all
right. I won’t have another outburst like that, I-I promise.”

  He let go of her hands and laid out the paperwork before her. She reached for the table and picked up a pen.

  *

  A few minutes later Gloria got in her car and began the drive to Logan airport in bumper-to-bumper traffic. She checked her cell phone and sighed. Moving her eyes from the road to the phone, she hit the numbers to a direct line she never thought she’d dial again.

  “Tommy Carpenter’s office. How may I help you?” Chirpy secretary.

  “Can I speak with him please?”

  “He’s in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?” Damn cheery bimbo.

  “It’s his ex-wife. Please get him on the phone right now. It’s an emergency.”

  The meeting couldn’t have been too important because in less than ten seconds he picked up.

  “Gloria, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Our daughter’s not dead.”

  “What?”

  “I just came from the hospital. There’s a little girl whose DNA matches mine, Tommy. They say it’s not her, but it is. I know it. I told you—”

  “Stop it. Stop it right now, Gloria.” Over the phone, she could picture his lips tightening into that seething angry face he used to make. “It’s time to move on.”

  “Did you even hear me? I know you’ve moved on. You started planning your new life the minute the doctor gave us the news. Up and married and had more kids and never looked back; but I’m telling you Tommy, something’s up. I want you to come down to Boston and get a DNA cross match on this little girl. Her name is Alison. Then we can prove—”