The Baby Thief (12 page)

The image disappeared as quickly as it came. The idea that they would cut out her heart lingered. She couldn’t stop thinking about some bastard walking around with her heart. Jenna trembled with rage. Action-packed scenes played in her mind. Getting free from her straps and leaping on the doctor when he entered the room. Rising up from the operating table, seizing the scalpel and stabbing them both. Given a chance, she would fight for her life. Even if it meant her own death. She would not let them take little pieces of her for themselves.

It was impossible to stay angry. The drug made her mind float from one thought to another. She drifted off for a while, then was suddenly awake again. Hours seemed to have passed. Why weren’t they coming to check on her? How long had it really been?

Time seemed to have stopped. With only horror for company, each minute seemed like an eternity. The painkiller made it worse, slowing her brain so that each thought was a struggle. How long had she been awake? How long had she been in the room? What day was it by now? The drug was also a blessing. Without it, the confinement of her arms and legs would have been unbearable. She would have driven herself crazy struggling against the bindings.

Jenna closed her eyes, unable to look at the blank grayness of the room any longer. She pictured herself on a beach somewhere with a brilliant blue sky, a warm sun, and a cool breeze. She listened for the rhythm of the ocean, the call of a seagull, the rumble of a fishing boat leaving the bay. Her body relaxed, and the afternoon stretched out in a gentle daydream.

“How are you feeling?” The voice was soft, but the suddenness of it startled her. Jenna’s eyes flew open. A dark-haired man wearing a surgical mask was at her bedside. All she could see of his face were gray eyes, which seemed surprisingly kind. He wore a cream-colored sweater and black wool pants and did not match her image of a kidnapper.

Confused and afraid to trust her perceptions, Jenna demanded, “Who are you?” Her voice betrayed her. It was scratchy and weak and still desperate for water.

“It’s better for both of us if you don’t know.” He set down a tray and patted the back of her hand. Jenna flinched, unable to pull away. “Please don’t be afraid.” His eyes pleaded with her to believe him. “I’m a man of God as well as a doctor.”

“I need water.”

“Ask and you shall receive.” He smiled and turned to pour from a pitcher beside the bed. His reference to God failed to comfort her. Son of Sam claimed God spoke to him through a dog. In fact, God was pretty popular with psychos.

“What do you want with me?” The water could wait; she had to know.

“It is not I who wants something of you. God has given us all a purpose in life, and now he calls upon you to do his work. Can you sit up to drink this?” He held the water over her chest, eyes twinkling with amusement.

In that instant Jenna hated him. Hated his power over her—that she should need his help with a simple sip of water. She wouldn’t let pride get in the way. She wanted that cool liquid. She needed it to live.

She eased her head forward, letting the queasiness pass in stages, then opened her lips. He gently poured little sips into her mouth until she’d swallowed the whole glass. Jenna cleared her throat and asked again, “Why am I here? What do you want?”

He seemed uncertain. “I’ve debated at length about how much to tell you. First, let me put your mind at ease. I don’t intend to harm you in any way. Second, if things go according to plan, you won’t remember anything about your stay here, which should be a relief to you. For now, let’s just say I plan to borrow some tissue.”

“You’re going to cut me open?”

* * *

“Not really. It’s a very small amount of tissue, and it won’t be painful, I promise.” Carmichael used his most soothing voice. He’d meant to ease her fears, not escalate them. He’d forgotten how easily non-medical people were alarmed by invasive procedures. His church members had such faith in him he rarely had to worry about bedside manners.

“Don’t bullshit me!” Spit flew out of the girl’s mouth.

Stunned by her vehemence, Carmichael was speechless. She should have been more sedated. He would have to increase her dosage of Versed. He tried again, more firmly this time. “As long as you’re in my care, you will not be harmed. The best thing you can do for yourself is stay calm and let your wounds heal.”

He reached for the bread and apple butter sandwich he’d brought and held it to her lips. “You need to eat to keep up your strength and fight infection.”

“I’d rather die.” She turned her head away.

What a feisty one, he thought with grudging admiration. She reminded him of his wife, Anne. She’d been a spitfire too, the only woman he’d never been able to dominate.

“I won’t let that happen,” Carmichael said, gently stroking her chin. “I’ll just add a nutritional supplement to your IV line, if necessary. You might as well eat and enjoy what pleasure you can.”

“Why? Why me?” Jenna cried out, her face red with fury.

Carmichael realized the poor girl must be terrified under all that anger. He wished he could explain to her why she’d been chosen; it would probably make her feel safer. He’d promised Elizabeth that Jenna would never know she had a sister. The less she knew, the safer it would be to let her go.

The memory-impairing drugs were not foolproof, and this girl seemed to have a high tolerance for them. She had already surprised him by coming out from under the ketamine much sooner than he’d expected, and now she was more alert and hostile than she should be. The fall from the back of the van had given him a sprained forearm and two bruised knees. Only the fact that he’d landed on Jenna had kept him from serious injury. Carmichael had no intention of underestimating this patient again.

“Do you want the sandwich or not?” he asked softly. After a few seconds, Jenna turned back. She’s beautiful, Carmichael realized. Although Elizabeth was attractive, Jenna, with almost the same features, was stunning. He reached to touch her hair, its long honey-colored waves forming a halo around her face.

“What is it?” she asked, pulling her head away.

At first Carmichael didn’t know what she meant, it had taken her so long to respond. Then he realized she was asking about the sandwich. He found it amusing that it mattered to her.

“Homemade apple butter and bread. The simple and nutritious food the good Lord meant for us to eat.” He held the offering to her mouth again. Jenna leaned forward and tore off a hunk, chewing slowly at first, eyes narrowed suspiciously, then ravenously reaching for another bite when she realized it was exactly what he claimed it to be.

Carmichael watched her with pleasure. Her skin glowed with the pinkish tan of outdoor exercise and her eyes danced with life despite the drugs and the injuries. He admired her muscle tone and vitality. What a great baby maker she would be! Too bad Elizabeth insisted on carrying the child herself. Jenna seemed so much sturdier, so much more likely to have a healthy, ten-pounder than Liz.

“Water.” Jenna grunted around a mouthful of bread

He lifted the glass and let her drink, but decided he would have to teach her some manners if she wanted him to be her friend. “You should say please.”

Jenna let out a short, harsh laugh, causing her to choke and cough repeatedly. Carmichael watched her silently, unable to help. Finally the spasm passed. When she spoke, her words were slurred from the drugs, but the hostility was clear. “Put me back where you found me, and I’ll say thank you. Until then, you can go fuck yourself.”

The words stung. Carmichael thought they had reached an understanding. Earlier in his life, he would have slapped Jenna for her disrespect. But the need to punish women physically had faded in the years since he’d given up drugs and alcohol. He’d promised God never to hurt anyone again. But he couldn’t let the insult go. He had treated her civilly and expected the same in return. There were many ways to alter behavior and win someone’s respect.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He ignored her curses and strode out of the small room. Some women were so noisy during labor that he’d designed a small, soundproof room in the underground clinic just for that purpose. Zeke had changed the knob to a lock-and-key system the day before they picked up Jenna.

Carmichael moved quickly across the combination birth/surgery area to a supply cabinet where an assortment of painkillers, antibiotics, anesthesia, and synthetic hormones were kept. He intended to give her some Valium, then try to feed her again. It was important that Jenna eat. Sometimes when women didn’t eat properly their bodies didn’t ovulate. He also needed to give her another injection of clomophergonal, a powerful follicle-stimulating hormone that hadn’t been approved yet by the FDA. Every extra egg Jenna produced would increase Elizabeth’s chance of becoming pregnant. If she produced extra oocytes. There was a possibility Jenna would have a bad reaction to the fertility drug and need to be taken off it. Clomophergonal was the most powerful synthetic hormone he’d ever tested. But the chance seemed unlikely considering Jenna’s tolerance for depressants.

The girl was silent when he re-entered the room, but as soon as he reached for the IV bag she started shouting questions. “What is that? Why are you drugging me? How do you know I’m not allergic to it?”

“Relax, dear.” Carmichael emptied the Valium into the IV line. “It’s only a mild tranquilizer. I know you’re not allergic to it because I’ve given you plenty already. Without this drug, you’d be going crazy in here. I want you to be as comfortable as possible.”

“Ha!” It was more of a grunt than a word. “If you want me to be comfortable”—her eyes started to swim—“let me keep my tissue”—her voice got woozy—“and go home.”

Carmichael smiled. He’d thought Anne was one in a million, but Jenna was so much like her it made him ache. Jenna hadn’t once begged for mercy or complained about pain, yet he knew her collarbone still hurt, even with the drugs. What pride! He lifted her gown and rolled Jenna up on one side. With practiced fingers, Carmichael dabbed her with isopropyl alcohol, plunged the hormone hypodermic into her smooth white buttock, and rolled her back. Her eyes flickered wildly.

“Just an antibiotic to keep you from getting infections,” Carmichael said, trying to ignore the rush of blood to his groin produced by his glimpse of Jenna’s muscular glutes. She looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I understand you’re angry.” He stood and let the emotion flow through his voice. “But being abusive will not help. I have no intention of harming you in any way. The only reason you’re hurt now is because of your own foolishness. I’d like to make your stay here as comfortable as possible, but in the future I will not tolerate profanity.” He picked up the water glass and plate and turned to leave.

“Wait!”

Carmichael suppressed a smile and turned back. “Yes?”

“How did I get hurt?” She seemed suddenly frightened and needy.

“You don’t remember?”

“Not really. Did we have an accident?”

He was pleased. The ketamine/Versed combination had wiped out her memory of the abduction and ride to the compound. But he had to be careful with the ketamine. Too much of the powerful paralyzing drug could kill her. He didn’t plan to use it again until the oocyte retrieval. For now he would only give her Versed to keep her sedate, but if the drug lived up to its reputation for short-term memory loss, he would feel safe about letting Jenna go when it was all over.

He decided it wouldn’t hurt to tell her. “You leapt out of a moving vehicle, taking me with you.” Carmichael smiled warmly. “But I’m not seriously hurt, so I forgive you. You, on the other hand, have a broken collarbone and multiple abrasions. So I don’t recommend further heroics.” Tomorrow, he would quiz her on the details to see how much she remembered.

Jenna was silent for a moment, then said, “You’re never going to let me go, are you?”

“Of course I am. I’m a doctor and a man of God. When you have fulfilled your destiny here, you will return to your life as if nothing happened. In the meantime, you are safe in my care.”

“What do you plan to do with me?”

“You’ve forgotten already haven’t you?”

She tried to glare at him, but her eyes blinked back tears.

Pleased, Carmichael smiled brightly. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine. Rachel will be in later to give you a bath and check your catheter.”

Chapter 11

Tuesday, Oct. 31, 7:26 p.m.

Eric found himself eating at Geronimo’s for the third time in a week. This time he sat in the lounge, not wanting to take up a table during a busy dinner hour. Yesterday had been a total waste. He’d sat down to write a few times and accomplished nothing. The story he was working on for
Modern Man
about men taking maternity leave was not fleshing out the way he’d hoped. Perhaps it was a lack of attention.

First, he’d gone chasing after Jackson to witness the arrest of Jason Reinhart and Leo Manfred, aka, the clown and the cowboy. Eric had taken several decent pictures of the armed robbers, which he’d sold to the Willamette News, but that was it. Jackson had agreed to question the men about Jenna’s disappearance, which they vehemently denied knowing anything about. The detective later admitted that questioning Reinhart, who was only eighteen, about the kidnapping had frightened the kid so badly he’d readily agreed to accept a plea bargain on the robbery and murder charges in exchange for his testimony against Manfred.

Eric was no closer to knowing what really happened to Jenna. He couldn’t move forward with his life until he found out. His reporter’s obsession with an unfinished story, combined with an intense attraction to Jenna, made it impossible to think about anything else.

He sighed and pushed his plate away, leaving the baby carrots and rice untouched. The bartender, a woman in her late thirties named Katrice, had been near the top of Jenna’s phone list, and Eric intended to pump her for all he could. He’d introduced himself earlier, but she’d been too busy to talk to him.

Eric watched as she poured another beer for a man at the other end of the bar. The woman moved with an elegant grace, despite the hustle around her, never spilling a drop of the brew served in tall, slender, glasses. Her dark hair grew to her waist and gave her a gypsy look. Eric suspected that she would eventually tell him more than he wanted to know.