Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3

by Swartwood, Robert

  The driver says, “Hear what?”

  “It sounded like something came from the alley.”

  “I didn’t hear anything. It bothers you, go check it out.”

  By the time the man in the blue polo steps into the alleyway, I’m no longer there. Neither is the duffel bag or the baby inside it.

  A dumpster sits halfway down the alley, an abandoned dumpster that’s rusting after years of disuse. I’m crouched behind it, cradling the duffel bag, my finger still in the baby’s mouth.

  If the man advances down the alley, he’ll surely see me. In that case, I’ll have to gently set the duffel bag aside, do what I can to protect the baby. The man probably has a gun, just like his partner, but that’s okay. I haven’t worked in a year, but I’m confident that my training will kick back in once it’s needed. Two men with pistols? Easy. Then again, right now that’s not my main concern. My main concern is the baby.

  But the man doesn’t advance much farther. He takes a couple steps forward—the dull clap of his boots echoing against the brick walls—and shines a flashlight down the alley, but that’s it.

  The driver calls, “Anything?”

  “No.”

  “Then get your ass back here and help me put her body in the trunk.”

  “What about the bag?”

  “She could’ve dropped it anywhere in the past couple blocks.”

  “We need that bag.”

  “What we need to do is clean up this mess. Now hurry over here and give me a hand.”

  The flashlight beam winks out. The man’s footsteps fade away as he leaves the alley and returns to the car.

  The baby’s suckling on my finger so much it’s starting to hurt. With my other hand, I dig around in the bag—feel a blanket, a bottle, a small container of formula, and then the pacifier.

  I risk pulling out my finger just for an instant so I can replace it with the pacifier.

  I wait another beat, listening to the men as they quietly work to clean up the body, and then I peek around the corner to make sure the alley is dark and empty.

  Cradling the duffel bag again, I start back toward the mouth of the alleyway, hurrying as quietly as possible, intent on getting this baby as far away from the men with guns as I can.

  Three

  I take the long way home.

  It’s only another three blocks to my apartment building, barely a five-minute walk, but instead I go a circuitous route, staying close to buildings, moving from one shadow to another. The night is quiet for the most part, just the sound of a few cars out on the highway and a dog barking in the distance.

  I cradle the duffel bag as I go, rocking it slightly, trying to keep the baby quiet despite the pacifier in its mouth. The way those men were talking, they’ll probably drive around once they clean up the body. The man in the cowboy hat mentioned the bag. Now that I know a baby is inside the duffel bag, I have to assume what the men really want is the baby.

  I don’t carry a cell phone, but even if I did, I’m not sure I would call 911. Not after seeing that piece of silver glinting on the driver’s belt. A badge. Not local police—I’d recognize him—but some kind of badge that signified the man is law.

  Twenty minutes later I climb the stairs to the second floor of my apartment building. The building only has two floors, and there are four apartments on the top floor. My apartment is the one on the left at the end of the hall.

  I eye the apartment door across from mine for a moment before turning my key in the lock and stepping inside.

  My apartment is bare and only contains the necessities. I don’t have a TV or computer or phone. A pile of books—hardcovers and paperbacks borrowed from the library—are stacked beside the couch.

  That’s where I head once I shut the door and flick on the lights.

  I gently set the duffel bag on the carpet and open it up—and at once a sour smell slaps me in the face. At some point in the past several minutes the baby has soiled itself. Which is okay, that’s what babies do, but it’s not like I have diapers lying around the place. Or, well, anything that I need to take care of a baby.

  First things first.

  I lift the baby out of the duffel bag and carry it into the bathroom. I turn both faucets to run water in the tub. I take off the diaper and discover that it’s a she. I hate to keep thinking of the baby as a thing, an it, but right now I don’t know what to call her.

  The sour smell makes me gag, and I drop the diaper in the trashcan, but it’s one of those small bathroom trashcans without a lid, so it doesn’t do anything to hide the stink.

  I hit the switch for the vent, as if that’s going to do anything, and then cradle the baby in one hand while I test the water’s temperature with my other hand to make sure it’s not too hot, not too cold.

  I start washing off the baby. I’ve never dealt with babies before, but I know you’re supposed to use a special kind of soap to make sure it doesn’t hurt their eyes. Still, I don’t want her to smell, so I use a fresh washcloth and spritz a dollop of body wash in it and lather up the baby all the way up to her neck. She still has the pacifier in her mouth, which I’m going to need to clean at some point. My worry is what she’ll do once I take it from her mouth. I figure she’ll start crying, and I need to make sure that doesn’t happen. My neighbors are good people, but they all know I don’t have children. If they hear a baby crying, that’ll create questions I don’t want to begin to try to answer.

  The baby has a birthmark on her back, what looks like a little starburst.

  I whisper, “Star. Maybe that’s what I’ll call you for now. Does that sound good?”

  Star doesn’t answer.

  Once I rinse her off, I take one of my towels and dry her and then wrap her in a new towel. I run the water in the sink and pluck the pacifier from her mouth, and at first I expect her to start crying, but she doesn’t. She stares up at me, like she’s fascinated by who I am and what I’m doing.

  Cleaning off the pacifier the best I can, I dry it and slip it back into Star’s mouth.

  Okay, now what?

  In my previous life I worked as a nanny, but I wasn’t actually a nanny. I was an undercover bodyguard for my boss’s kids. I took them places, helped them with their homework, but I never did any actual childrearing. And when I started working with them they had moved past the diapers phase. I had seen diapers changed before, but I had never changed a diaper myself. In situations like these, one usually turns to YouTube, but again, I don’t have a computer or phone.

  Well, that’s not true. I do have a phone—two phones, in fact. Both disposables I purchased a month after I settled into this apartment and decided to make Alden my home. I’d purchased minutes for the phones on the off chance I would ever need to use them, but to be honest, I’m not sure if those minutes have expired. And even if they haven’t, who am I going to call?

  Star needs actual diapers. Clothes. Food. Basically everything every other baby needs.

  I should call the police, but I keep seeing that glint of silver on the driver’s belt. For all I know, the badge is bullshit, something bought off eBay to make people think he’s a lawman, but I can’t take that chance.

  Before I head back to the couch to check out what else is in the duffel bag, I make a quick detour to my bedroom.

  A three-drawer dresser stands against the wall. Cradling Star in the nook of my left arm, I open the bottom drawer, the one loaded with sweatshirts and sweatpants, and dig down for one of the two guns I have hidden underneath.

  It’s a SIG Sauer P320 Nitron Compact. The mag holds fifteen nine-millimeter rounds and is already loaded. All I need to do is rack the slide to put one in the chamber.

  I haven’t touched the gun in months. Haven’t cleaned it. Haven’t even looked at it. The old me would have been much more careful with weapons. Would have made sure this gun—and the Mossberg shotgun hidden in the hallway closet—was better maintained. But after a year of solitary living, of integrating myself into this town with my new iden
tity, I’ve never once felt the need to use either weapon. My old life is far behind me.

  I make sure the safety’s on before I slip the gun into the waistband of my jeans.

  Next I check the bedroom closet and pull out the thick wool blanket. I give it a quick sniff—musty—but it’ll do.

  I return to the living room and spread out the wool blanket on the floor. I fold it once, to make sure there’s enough padding, and then I gently set Star down on the blanket so that she lies on her back.

  My hands now free, I turn and crouch down beside the duffel bag. It still smells sour, but not as bad as before. The baby blanket is going to need to be cleaned.

  I want to search the bag, but the bottle and container of formula catch my eye. I have no idea when Star was last fed, but something tells me a baby this young needs to be fed a lot.

  I grab the container, scan the directions on the back. Doesn’t seem too complicated.

  I whisper to Star, “Stay here.”

  I hurry into the kitchen with the bottle and container of formula. I wash and dry the bottle, set it aside, and then follow the directions to make the formula. Return to the living room to find Star is thankfully still on the blanket. I sit on the floor, cradle her in my arm, pluck the pacifier from her mouth, and replace it with the nipple.

  At first I worry she won’t latch on, won’t start to feed, but then she starts sucking at the nipple.

  I coo to her, “Good girl, good Star,” as she drinks the formula, and then I set the bottle aside, pick her up, and softly pat her on the back until she burps.

  “All good for now, Star?”

  She doesn’t answer, and I’m not sure if I should keep going. I take a chance and put the pacifier back in her mouth, set her on the blanket.

  My hands once again free, I turn to check what else is in the duffel bag.

  Two other items are buried at the bottom.

  A bright yellow Velcro wallet, the kind a little girl would carry, and a pinkie finger.

  Before I can reach inside to pull out either item, there’s a sudden knock at the door—two quick quiet raps—and a hushed voice says, “Police, open up.”

  Four

  I glance at Star and hesitate, not sure I want to leave her on the floor. She lies there on her back and stares up at me as she keeps sucking on the pacifier.

  Another quiet rap at the door, and I stand and move toward the door, feeling the press of the SIG against the small of my back.

  I don’t reach for the gun. Instead, I silently engage the security chain before opening the door the couple inches the chain allows.

  Erik smiles back at me, holding up two bottles of Heineken.

  “Wanna hang out?”

  Hang out is code for fuck. It’s something Erik and I have been doing for the past several months. Erik works as a Colton County sheriff’s deputy. He lives in the apartment across the hall, was there when I first moved in, and for a couple months we would occasionally see each other, exchange smiles, but that was it. One time Erik struck up a conversation, asked me out for coffee, but I declined. Not that I wasn’t interested—Erik may be a couple years younger than me, but he’s hot, a tall muscular black man with a cute smile—but dating wasn’t something I wanted at the time. Plus, as practically the only Asian American in town, I figured going out on a date with one of the few black guys in the area didn’t seem like the best idea, not if I wanted to stay under the radar. Fact is, dating isn’t something I’m interested in even now, but one thing led to another, as things often do, and we started having causal sex. No commitments. No dating. No getting to know each other. Just pure fucking.

  I look him right in the eye as I shake my head.

  “Can’t.”

  The smile fades, and for the first time he seems to notice the security chain.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  He pauses a beat, takes a whiff, and I can tell by his expression that some of the sourness has seeped out into the hallway.

  I quietly clear my throat.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m not feeling well. Think it’s something I ate.”

  Erik forces another smile, and there’s no judgment in his dark eyes, which is another reason why I like the guy.

  “Do you have any Imodium?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I might have some in my apartment.”

  Before I can respond, he turns and disappears through his door, comes back thirty seconds later without the beers. He shakes his head.

  “Sorry, don’t have anything.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “If you want, I can go pick something up.”

  Alden’s the kind of town where nothing is open twenty-four-seven, not even the gas station. Which means Erik would need to drive fifteen miles to the truck stop off the highway, or another seventy miles to the nearest Walmart. Which he would do if I asked him to—there’s no doubt about it in my mind—but I shake my head.

  “You’re sweet, but I’ll be okay. It’s just been a long night, so I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

  Erik nods, says, “Hope you feel better. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Will do.”

  I close the door and wait until I hear his door close across the hallway before returning to Star and the duffel bag.

  I smile down at Star.

  “That was Erik. He’s a good guy. We agreed at the start that neither of us would fall in love with the other, but I think he broke that rule a long time ago. What can I say—must be my charm.”

  Star stares up at me, clearly not impressed.

  I turn back to the duffel bag. Ignore the bright yellow Velcro wallet for now and focus on the pinkie finger. When the girl first approached me down the street—which was only now, what, an hour ago—I was too distracted by the blood covering her that I hadn’t noticed much else. Like whether or not she had all her digits.

  “Don’t go anywhere, Star.”

  I hurry into the kitchen and check the cleaning supplies under the sink. There’s a small bag of latex gloves, and I grab two of the gloves and slip them on as I return to the duffel bag.

  I say to Star, “Good, you’re still here.”

  She doesn’t appear to get the joke.

  I extract the pinkie finger from the duffel bag to get a closer look. The cut doesn’t look clean, looks instead like it had been torn off the hand instead of sliced. Which means it was probably done by a pair of pliers. Which means the girl was probably tortured.

  If the two men I saw earlier tonight had somehow caught the girl previously, used a pair of pliers to take off her pinkie finger, what was the end game? If they were looking for the duffel bag—and presumably Star—that means neither the duffel bag nor Star were with the girl at the time. So they had been elsewhere, and then … what, the girl somehow managed to escape? Okay, that’s maybe plausible. She managed to escape, ran away from the men, grabbed the duffel bag with the baby inside (or maybe Star was elsewhere beforehand and the girl put the baby inside later) and then ran through the dark streets. That part of town is usually deserted. Those buildings empty, a perfect place for bad men to do bad things to a helpless girl.

  On the blanket, Star starts to fuss.

  I set the pinkie finger aside, start to reach for Star, but remember the latex gloves. The small bag under the sink doesn’t contain many gloves, so I don’t want to waste any more than I need to.

  I whisper to her.

  “I know, Star, I know. I got somebody in mind to help us out, but we’re going to have to wait a few more hours. First I need to clean this stuff up, okay?”

  Star just watches me. Not looking happy at all.

  I check the pinkie finger again, and frown. Assuming it did belong to the girl, and assuming those men in the car had torn it from her hand, and assuming she’d managed to escape, why would she have grabbed the pinkie finger to take it with her? Assuming, of course, any of my speculation is remotel
y close to what happened. Maybe it isn’t even the girl’s pinkie finger. Maybe it belongs to somebody else.

  Once I’m done here, I’ll put the finger in a sandwich baggie, the kind with a resealable zipper, though I’m not sure what I’ll eventually do with it. A sensible person would have called the police long ago and had them deal with this mess, and while I’d like to think of myself as a sensible person, I just can’t do that. Not after seeing the girl covered in blood. Not after the girl put the duffel bag—and the baby inside—in my arms. Like she was entrusting me to keep the baby safe. Then of course there’s the fact that the driver who may or may not be law enforcement killed the girl.

  No, I can’t contact the police, at least not right now. I can’t even bring Erik into this, though I’m sure he’d want to help. As far as I can tell, he’s a good cop, which means he’ll want to do everything by the book. Which means a moment or two after I tell him about what I witnessed, he’ll call it in. Which may or may not alert the two men who killed the girl who I’ve come to think of as Star’s mother.

  I check the wallet next. The Velcro makes an irritating ripping noise. I crinkle my nose at the sound, afraid it will make Star fuss again, but Star doesn’t seem to care. In fact, it looks like she’s starting to fall asleep.

  Inside the wallet are five one-hundred dollar bills. They’re so crisp and fresh they look like they came straight from the bank. Like the only other person who touched the bills before handing them out was the bank teller.

  Also inside the wallet is a business card. The background is a generic stock photo of footprints on a beach. At the top the words LITTLE ANGELS ADOPTION AGENCY with the name Leila Simmons, LSW beneath. There’s an address on the card—San Angelo, about three hours away—along with a phone number and email address. On the back of the card, somebody has written out a phone number in blue ink.

  LSW stands for Licensed Social Worker. Which means Leila will be my first call in the morning. Only after I do some research.