For now, though, I need to clean up this mess while Star sleeps. It’s already past four o’clock, which means I’ll need to wait at least another three hours before the next step.
I start to collect the pinkie finger and wallet—I plan to bag them, though again I’m not sure what will ultimately happen to them—but pause to glance back down at Star.
I pull off the latex gloves, toss them in the duffel bag, stand back up and slip the gun from the waistband of my jeans. I set the gun on the arm of the couch, and bend to gently pick up Star from the wool blanket.
Cradling her, I sit on the couch and stare down at her and do everything I possibly can not to fall asleep, too. Right now I’m running on twenty hours of no sleep, and something tells me it’s going to be a long time before I close my eyes again.
Five
Alden used to be a large town with a population of several thousand people, but since the factories went under over a decade ago, most of those people moved away. Now there aren’t many businesses in the area, and there certainly aren’t any gyms. I typically get my exercise in the late mornings when I wake, running three miles around town, so I’ve never had any need for a gym bag. Or any other bag large enough to inconspicuously conceal Star.
Alden being the small town that it is, everybody knows everybody else. It’s not like everybody is friends, but they see each other in passing, noting who is married and who is single and who is in a relationship. Noting who has children.
Everybody in town knows me as Jen Young. They know I’m single, and that I don’t have children, so openly carrying one through town probably isn’t the best idea.
In the end, I use a reusable cloth grocery bag. It’s not as big as I’d like, but it does the trick.
I stuff the bottom with two towels—my last two clean towels—and set Star on top.
I throw on a gray sweatshirt, so the bagginess of the sweatshirt will conceal the SIG at the small of my back.
I’ve already stuffed the duffel and its sour shit-stained contents in a garbage bag. My first impulse is to drop the garbage bag in one of the dumpsters when I leave the apartment building, but part of me wants to hold on to it for now. It’s evidence, after all, and maybe this will get to the point that the police will need to take over. In that case, I don’t want to screw up the chain of evidence more than I already have.
I have a car—an ’02 Honda Civic—but I don’t use it much, and besides, we’re only going five blocks. Not even a quarter mile.
It’s just past seven o’clock and the early Saturday morning is cool and crisp, the wide sky a pale blue.
I walk holding the grocery bag in my left hand, swinging it slightly to give Star that rocking sensation. I keep my right hand free in case I have to reach for the gun. I don’t expect I will, but last night I didn’t expect to encounter a girl covered in blood either, so better safe than sorry.
Alden is slowly waking. As it’s the weekend, most people are still home. Not much traffic is moving about. Two blocks ahead, I smell the smoker over at Benny’s BBQ. The place doesn’t open until noon but they’re already smoking the meat.
Meredith rents a two-bedroom ranch house on High Street. The place is a dump, but it’s all Meredith can afford on her salary as a waitress. She’s twenty-two years old, has two kids, and is studying to become a phlebotomist. Neither of the kids’ fathers are in the picture, and Meredith’s mom doesn’t help more than what’s required. There’s some resentment there for some reason, at least from what I’ve been able to gather. I’m not close to Meredith, but we get along fine at work. She seems like a good mother, which is the main reason I thought of her late last night while I knelt over the duffel bag. The other reason is that Meredith barely makes ends meet so she’s usually desperate for extra cash.
She stands in the doorway, holding her own baby in her arms. She wipes the sleep from her eyes before she frowns at the folded wad of twenties I’m holding out to her.
“I’m confused—how much did you say?”
“Three hundred dollars.”
“For just a couple hours of my time?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
Before I can answer, the pacifier falls from Star’s mouth, and she starts to fuss.
Meredith’s eyes immediately dart down at the grocery bag.
“Is that—”
I cut her off.
“Can I come inside?”
Before she can answer, I push my way inside, sidestepping Meredith who stands there stunned.
She says, “Is that a baby? Where’d you get a baby?”
Before I can say anything, a patter of footsteps charges toward us, and Meredith’s other son—five-year-old Johnny—rushes up to his mom and grabs onto her leg.
“Pancakes!”
“Johnny, I told you not now.”
“Pancakes!”
“Johnny, I said not now!”
There’s more bite in her tone than she probably intended, and Johnny’s face closes up at once. He looks almost ashen, and his bottom lip starts to tremble, and Meredith, probably sensing an oncoming tantrum, issues a heavy sigh.
“Yes, fine, pancakes. Now go watch cartoons and leave us be.”
Johnny’s face lights up, and he gives me a sort of triumphant smile before tearing off toward the living room.
Meredith shakes her head at me.
“Whatever you do, don’t ever have kids.”
But then she pauses, looking down again at the grocery bag.
“Whose baby is that, anyway?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m not sure. Look, Meredith, the less you know, the better.”
The absurdity of my statement nearly causes Meredith to bark out a laugh.
“You’re joking, right? You come here first thing in the morning and offer me three hundred dollars to … do what, exactly?”
“Watch Star for a couple hours.”
“Star?”
“That’s what I’m calling her.”
“You don’t know her real name?”
“Let’s just say I found her last night.”
“Found her where?”
“Again: the less you know, the better.”
Holding her younger son, she releases a heavy breath.
“I already have two kids of my own to deal with.”
“I know. And normally I wouldn’t bother you, but I’m in a bind.”
“What do you want me to do with her?”
“Feed her. Give her a bath. Put her in a diaper and clothes. Just keep an eye on her until I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“The less you know, Meredith.”
“Shit, Jen. I don’t know. This sounds shady as fuck.”
“It is. But it’s also worth three hundred dollars of your time.”
“Three hundred dollars.”
“Yes.”
She stares down at the folded twenties in my hand.
“Okay. When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure exactly.”
“But it’ll just be a couple hours?”
“Yes.”
“Is it okay with you if I call my mom to come over and give me a hand?”
“I’d prefer you don’t. No offense, but your mom seems to be a gossip, and right now it’s best if not many people know about this.”
Meredith bites her lower lip, gazing down at the bag again.
“This isn’t, like, against the law, is it?”
“No.”
At least, I’m pretty sure it’s not. Not as far as Meredith is concerned, anyway. She’s just taking care of a baby. She doesn’t know the whole story. She doesn’t need to know.
Beyond the sound of Saturday morning cartoons from the living room, Johnny shouts, “Mommy, pancakes!”
Meredith’s face tenses, and for an instant I realize I’m losing her. The money sounds good, of course, b
ut it’s another child to worry about on top of her other two children.
“Five hundred.”
Her eyes go wide after I say the words, and her mouth drops open.
“Five hundred?”
“Yes. Three hundred now, two hundred when I get back. All you need to do is feed her and bathe her and clothe her. That’s it. I’ll be back in a few hours, and then you’ll never see the baby again. And this whole thing will just be our little secret.”
She bites her bottom lip, still clearly conflicted, but the promise of five hundred dollars is too much to pass up.
Meredith takes the grocery bag from me with her free hand, and gives me the smile she uses on the drunks at the bar when she’s fishing for an extra tip.
“See ya in a few hours.”
Six
The Alden Public Library sits near the heart of town. A squat brick building with just one floor, it keeps minimal hours as not many people in town utilize the books and DVDs and free Internet.
I volunteer at the library a couple days a week, mostly helping to restock shelves. It gives me something to do during the day. Otherwise, I’d sit alone in my apartment and stare at the wall and think about things I don’t want to think about.
The library keeps short hours on Saturdays—opens at nine, closes at noon—so I pull into the parking lot right at nine o’clock on the dot. Thanks to Meredith, I’ve had time to return to the apartment to take a shower and change into some fresh clothes. My hair is still damp as I step out of the car and make my way toward the entrance.
Despite the fact the time is now 9:01, the door is locked.
I lean close to the window in the door. The place is dark inside. Nobody around.
“Jen?”
Gloria Ruskin’s voice drifts from behind me, and I turn slightly to glance over my shoulder to watch the old woman shuffle up the walkway.
“Good morning, Gloria.”
She squints at me.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You’re wearing a sweatshirt. It’s the third week of June.”
The sweatshirt, of course, is to conceal the SIG I still have pressed against the small of my back, but Gloria doesn’t need to know this.
“I haven’t been feeling so good the past couple days. Think I might be coming down with a cold.”
Gloria’s hand immediately flies to her face.
“Then stay away from me, young lady. I don’t want to get sick.”
“Don’t worry, I promise not to sneeze on you. Is everything okay? You’re usually here before nine.”
I step away as Gloria approaches the door, a ring of keys in hand. She sighs as she slides a key in the lock and pulls open the door.
“Howard wasn’t doing so well this morning. I thought I should maybe stay home with him, but … you know how it is.”
Howard is Gloria’s husband, a sweet old man who’s been battling Parkinson’s the past three years. Both of them are retired, children and grandchildren spread out around the country. Gloria runs the library with a sort of strict dedication that makes me envious. She’s here every day, from open to close.
“If Howard isn’t feeling well, why don’t you take the day off? I can cover for you.”
The moment I say the words I regret them, as clearly I have much bigger things to worry about. Still, Gloria is one of my favorite people in Alden, and hence so is her husband whom I’ve only met once, and if Gloria needs to take care of her husband, then so be it. Besides, today the library is only open for three hours. It would give me more than enough time to do what I need to do and then close up.
Gloria waves a dismissive hand as she leads me into the library, flicking on light switches as she goes.
“That’s very kind of you, Jen, but Howard will be okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure.”
The door behind us opens, and Mr. Tucker enters. He wears an Astros baseball cap and lifts his hand in a quick hello as he breezes toward the table of four computers.
Gloria calls over to him.
“Good morning, Frank. I haven’t had a chance to turn on the computers yet. Do you mind waiting a minute?”
Mr. Tucker lifts his hand again in acknowledgment and takes what I’ve come to think of as Mr. Tucker’s Seat at the computers. He’s almost as old as Gloria’s husband. A widower with no kids, he spends most of his time at the library watching YouTube videos. His favorites are cat and dog videos. Sometimes when I’m restocking books I’ll hear him chuckling at one wacky video or another.
I follow Gloria into the office where she hits the button to provide power to the computers out in the main room.
Gloria says, “What brings you in this morning, anyway?”
“My Internet’s acting weird at home. I was hoping to use your computer here for a couple of minutes. I’d rather not deal with Mr. Tucker out there, if at all possible.”
“Certainly. Just do me one favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Wipe the keyboard and mouse down with a Clorox wipe once you’re done.”
The great thing about Gloria—she likes me so she doesn’t care what I do. I’m always on time, always clean up after myself, never give her or anybody at the library attitude. Her trust in me is so high she’d probably give me her social security number if I asked for it.
As Gloria heads back out into the main room, I sit down at her desk and turn on the computer. It’s an ancient PC, and takes forever to power up, the gremlins in the computer box clicking and tapping away as the screen runs through its usual nonsense before the Windows logo finally appears.
The real reason I want to use Gloria’s computer is because I’d installed the Tor browser on it several months ago. Gloria doesn’t know much about computers, and I made it so the browser can’t easily be found. I could have done the same to one of the four computers out in the main room, but there’s always the chance somebody might stumble across the program. Mr. Tucker prefers his YouTube animal videos, but maybe he’s a computer genius when nobody’s looking. Better to keep the program isolated.
Once the Windows logo disappears and the desktop pops up, I click the mouse several times to bring up the Tor browser. It’s something that Scooter—an old friend and team member, who died saving my life—had once advised me to use what feels like a lifetime ago, but every time I use it now I think of Gabriela. It’s been almost a year since she was killed by narcos. Gabriela knew being a journalist was dangerous, especially where she lived in Mexico, but that hadn’t stopped her.
Tor is designed to keep websites from tracking your movements or location. Whenever I use the Internet now—and I rarely do—I use the browser.
I bring up Google and then do a search for “leila simmons” and “little angels adoption agency.” The main website for Little Angels Adoption Agency is the first website listed. I scan the site, which looks legit. Real pictures of real people, not stock photos.
On the staff tab, I find Leila Simmons listed as an assistant director. She looks to be in her late-forties. Hispanic. She has a warm smile with dark eyes and curly black hair.
The phone number and email address below her picture match the same ones on the business card.
The number scrawled on the back of the business card, however, isn’t anywhere on the website. Not that I expected it to be. It’s probably a cell phone number. Most likely her personal cell phone number.
I close out of the website and Google Leila Simmons’s name again. She has a LinkedIn account as well as a Facebook account. A few other websites mention her name, too, websites focused on adoption. One site congratulates her on winning a humanitarian award.
I close the Tor browser, wipe down the keyboard and mouse with a Clorox wipe, and head out into the main room. As expected, Mr. Tucker is chuckling at something on his computer.
Gloria stands behind the counter, checking in the books and DVDs from yesterday.
“Did you wipe everything down?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very good. I suggest you head home and get some sleep if you’re not feeling well. Maybe make yourself some chicken noodle soup.”
“Yes, ma’am. I hope Howard is feeling better.”
Gloria’s ever-present smile falters for a second.
“Yes, dear. So do I.”
I swing by the computers to wish Mr. Tucker a good day. He lifts his hand in my direction as he continues to chuckle. When I get close enough, I see a hedgehog on the screen, balled up and floating in a tub of water.
The second I get in my car I pull out one of the disposable phones. I’ve already loaded this one with minutes, and as I pull out of the parking lot, I’ve dialed the number on the back of the business card and listen to it ring four times before somebody answers.
“Hello?”
A soft voice. Feminine.
“Is this Leila Simmons?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I found something you may be interested in.”
“Who is this?”
“What I found was in a duffel bag, along with a yellow Velcro wallet.”
A long pause on the woman’s end. When she speaks next, her voice has become a low whisper.
“Is the baby okay?”
I’m not shocked by her question. Somehow I knew she would know about the baby. Still, it’s unnerving to hear her ask it so simply.
“Yes.”
“And what of Juana?”
Juana is presumably the girl I saw last night covered in blood. The one who thrust the duffel bag—and the baby inside it—in my arms minutes before she was struck by a car. The girl who had five crisp one-hundred dollar bills in her wallet along with a card for the woman I now have on the phone.
When I don’t immediately answer, Leila Simmons sucks in air and sounds like she’s ready to cry. Her whisper becomes somehow even quieter.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Seven
At ten minutes to noon, Leila Simmons pulls into the parking lot of the roadside diner. She drives a forest green Volkswagen Jetta, its left rear hubcap missing. She steps out of the car wearing sunglasses, but I recognize her from the pictures on the Little Angels’ website. She’s a bit taller than she looked from the picture, but maybe that’s because of the heels. Despite the fact it’s the weekend, she’d dressed professionally, like she’s about to attend a meeting. Which in a way is true. Only it’s not the type of meeting the woman probably has in mind.
Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 50