Jubilee's Journey (The Wyattsville Series) (12 page)

Most evenings she went to bed shortly after she’d said goodnight to Ethan Allen. She seldom sat in this spot with everything silent as it was now. It brought back memories—good memories, but too many of them, and they always ended with the same thought, the same longing. The clock ticked, a faraway horn blared, Dog rustled around, scratched at his hind leg, then dropped back to sleep again. Familiar sounds all of them. Yes, familiar and comforting, yet tonight the quiet was disconcerting.

The tiny shoes were still where they had fallen when Olivia removed them before carrying the child to bed. From where she sat Olivia could see a small hole in the bottom of one shoe. She lifted the shoe in her hand and turned it over. A piece of grey cardboard had been trimmed to size and stuffed inside to cover the hole. It was obvious that someone cared for this child, but who? And where were they now?

It was after one o’clock when Olivia dialed Seth Porter’s number. The telephone rang ten times. No answer. Certain she’d not get an answer on the eleventh ring, Olivia was just about to hang up when someone lifted the receiver. She expected a hello, but all she heard was the loud thump of something falling. “Seth?”

“Yeah, yeah,” a hollowed out echo answered back.

“Seth, are you okay?”

“Mostly,” he finally answered. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not certain. There’s something about the robbery at Klaussner’s that’s troubling me.”

“Good grief, that happened early this morning!”

“Yes, I know, but Ethan Allen mentioned he saw you there, and I was wondering—”

“He was late for school, wasn’t he?”

“Well, yes, but that isn’t—”

“I knew it! Three times I told him to get going and—”

“Were there other kids there?”

“You mean other kids being late to school?”

“Not school kids, little kids. Girls maybe?”

“There was a sizable crowd of folks, but no babies far as I could tell.”

“Not babies, little girls. Maybe sitting on the bench across the street?”

“I can’t say who was back there. I was looking to see what happened.”

“Oh.” The sound of disappointment was obvious in Olivia’s voice. “Maybe you ought to come down here. There’s something I need to ask you.”

“I’m in my pajamas. Does it have to be now?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Minutes later the apartment doorbell bing-bonged. Olivia pulled it open and made a shushing gesture. “Be quiet. I don’t want to wake the children.”

“Children?” Seth said. “There’s more than one?”

Olivia nodded. “Ethan Allen brought this little girl home—”

“He’s only twelve! Boys ain’t supposed to start that stuff ‘til—”

“No, it’s a
little
girl! Ethan said he found her sitting on the bench across from Klaussner’s.” Olivia quietly eased open the door to her bedroom and pointed to the sleeping child. “That’s her,” she whispered. “Did you see her there today?”

Seth tiptoed across the room, looked down at the child, then looked back at Olivia. He shrugged and shook his head.

After they left the room and closed the door behind them, Olivia told Seth the story Ethan Allen had told her.

“So the kid said this Paul guy was inside Klaussner’s?”

“Not exactly,” Olivia answered. “She just said she was supposed to sit there and wait for him. But when Ethan asked where Paul was, she pointed to the store.”

“Maybe she meant the barber shop next door?”

“I doubt it,” Olivia said. “If that’s where he went, why didn’t he come back?”

Seth ran his fingers through his already-rumpled hair. “Hmm, that’s a point. This Paul, is he the kid’s father?”

“No, her brother,” Olivia answered. She explained that the girl’s name was Jubilee Jones and apparently her parents were deceased. “When I asked where her parents were, she said dead.”

“Maybe the kid’s lying,” Seth suggested. “Remember how Ethan Allen—”

Olivia shook her head. “I don’t think so. This girl is different. She doesn’t volunteer anything, but when she does say something you kind of know she’s telling the truth.”

“Kids are kids,” Seth said, thinking back on how Ethan Allen could tell a story longer than a person’s arm.

“There was not one word about a missing girl on the news. Not one,” Olivia said. “So now I’m in a quandary as to what to do. I thought maybe you’d have some suggestions.”

“Me?” Seth gasped. “Why me?”

“Well, you were there.”

“I didn’t see the girl. I’ve got nothing to do with this.”

“But maybe you could find out whether or not her brother was involved.”

They argued for almost twenty minutes with Seth insisting that Olivia was getting mixed up in something that was none of her affair, and Olivia claiming the child was much too young to be turned over to the authorities.

“Ethan Allen never did admit it,” Olivia said, “but I knew how frightened he was. This girl is half his age! Imagine being seven years old and all alone.”

“But with Ethan Allen you had a right. You were related to him,” Seth argued. “You’re not related to this kid in any way.”

“Maybe not, but somebody is. Once I call in the authorities they’re going to take her away, lock her up in a home for orphan children.”

“Yeah, well, if they find out you’ve got a kid what don’t belong to you, they’ll lock you up!”

“They’re not going to find out. All I have to do is find the child’s Aunt Anita.”

“Have it your way,” Seth said angrily, “but when they come and arrest you for kidnapping, don’t call me!” With that he turned and stomped out the door.

Olivia did not go to bed that night. She sat in the straight-backed chair until four-thirty; then she napped on the sofa until six. Since she was already awake, she got up, washed her face, and began waiting for the six o’clock news to start.

The Hospital

The last time a shooting took place in Wyattsville was back in 1944, and it was little more than a superficial leg wound. Walter Clemmons had put a bullet through the thigh of his brother-in-law. Although everyone knew the two of them didn’t get along, Walter claimed he’d mistaken his wife’s brother for a burglar. It was nothing more than a family squabble that got out of control and could hardly be considered a crime. This was an out-and-out crime—armed robbery and, from the look of things, conceivably homicide.

When the first ambulance driver called in his report saying, “Gunshot victim, white male, fifty-eight, chest wound, heavy bleeding, non-responsive,” the emergency room supervisor issued a “Code Blue,” the crisis management procedure they practiced monthly but had never before used.

Minutes later two interns, two orderlies, and three nurses stood in front of the emergency entrance. Sidney Klaussner was rolled from the van and taken to Exam Room One where Doctor Kellerman waited. Minutes later Sidney was on his way to the operating room.

Paul wasn’t quite so lucky. When the second ambulance rolled up no one was waiting. The two ambulance attendants brought the gurney in. The only doctor still on duty in the ER was Alfred Peters, a second-year neurosurgery resident. He would have been in the operating room with Doctor Kellerman were it not for the fact that Alfred was nursing a hangover and hung back when the others rushed to answer the Code Blue.

“You gotta be kidding,” he grumbled when the second gunshot victim was brought in. Alfred had the makings of a great surgeon someday, but unfortunately this wasn’t the day. His head ached, and his eyeballs felt fuzzy and out of focus. If it were a kid with a broken arm or a woman showing signs of the flu, he could have stumbled through the process with no problem. But the boy on the table had a gunshot to the head.

The kid was eighteen, nineteen at most. Alfred looked down at a face younger than his own. The boy seemed to drift in and out of consciousness, but the fear in his eyes was palpable. Trying to gather his thoughts, Alfred asked, “Can you hear me?”

No answer.

“You’re at Mercy General Hospital. You’ve been shot, but we’re going to take care of you.” Alfred was trying to sound confident, trying not to let his voice reflect the haze he was stumbling through. “Do you remember what happened?”

Without moving anything but the focus of his eyes, the boy looked up. It was an almost imperceptible movement, but one that pushed through the hangover fog and grabbed hold of Alfred’s heart.

“Let’s get this kid stabilized!” Alfred shouted. Somehow he forgot the pounding in his head. He was no longer a resident with a hangover; he was Doctor Peters. Fifteen minutes later Paul, who by then had lost consciousness, was sliding through a CT scanner. Doctor Peters stood behind the glass watching attentively.

“Okay,” he said when he saw where the bullet had cut a swath across the right side of the boy’s skull. If he used the kind of skill he was capable of the kid had a decent chance, but given the swelling and external trauma anything could happen.