The Baby Thief (15 page)

“I know we’ve had problems in the past,” Carmichael said using his doctor-knows-best voice. “Some of the hormones have not worked out. But we have a new one now, and so far, I haven’t heard one complaint.” He felt a tiny twinge of guilt. There was no new hormone, but he was pushing JB Pharma to send him one, and if they did so soon enough, Sarah would be the first to use it.

“Why are the shots necessary?”

Carmichael reminded himself to be patient. “The hormones help your ovaries produce more than one egg for me to work with. The more eggs I harvest, the better chance I have of selecting a healthy baby for you.”

“Why can’t I just have your baby?”

As many times as he’d heard the question, it surprised him to hear it from Sarah. Her mother, the lovely Tamara, had been the first of the Sisters to ask him many years ago. The anguish of losing his son had still been an open wound then. And the guilt would never go away. He had caused the boy’s death and would never let himself father another child.

“It is not God’s will.”

“Why not?” Sarah squirmed in her seat. “What if I had a boyfriend and wanted to have a baby? Would I still be welcome here?”

“Of course.” Carmichael smiled in spite of his worry. “The church is your home. You and any children you may have will always be welcome.”

Sarah was silent for a moment.

He decided it was time for his pitch. “Having a baby shouldn’t be left to chance. The babies I create in the clinic are special. The semen has been carefully screened for diseases and defects, and your eggs are carefully harvested. Once the eggs are fertilized, I select the most perfect embryo to transfer to your uterus. You can even choose the sex of your child.” Carmichael paused and lowered his voice. “A boyfriend can’t do that for you. Only I can.”

“Do I have to decide right away?”

“Of course not.”

Her body seemed to relax a bit.

“But your prime childbearing years are between now and twenty. That doesn’t mean you can’t have a children after that,” he quickly added, because many women in the compound had done just that. “It’s just easier on your body now. You’ll have an easier labor and recover your health and figure faster.”

“Should we skip the exam today?” she asked timidly. “Since I don’t know if I’m ready for a baby?”

“Sarah, a pelvic exam is something every woman should have once a year just to make sure she’s healthy. To make sure she can have a baby. You do want to find out if everything is in working order don’t you?”

Sarah nodded, lips pressed together again.

“Don’t be nervous. Rachel will be in the room, and it only takes ten minutes.” Carmichael was disappointed by Sarah’s hesitation even though he half expected it. Darcie’s influence on the girl had been profound. But in the long run he would win her over, he was confident.

“Why don’t you go back to the exam room, get undressed, and wait for me?” When she stood to go, he added, “Please think about what I’ve said. Getting pregnant the old-fashioned way is quick and easy, but a child is forever.”

* * *

Back in her room, actually a small corner of a larger room partitioned off with blankets, Sarah lay on her bed and cried. She didn’t really understand why. Nothing bad had happened to her. The Reverend had been very gentle, very kind. He hadn’t pressured her about having a baby either. She had disappointed him, Sarah knew, and it made her feel guilty.

He had always been kind to her, to everyone, and she loved him like a father. Sarah couldn’t believe what she’d said about having his baby. She didn’t even know why she’d said it. It just popped out. Maybe she’d meant it as a test. Or thought he might tell her why he wouldn’t get any of the Sisters pregnant with his own sperm. She knew he had sex with her mother sometimes, and Sarah suspected he slept with Rachel too. But none of the kids were his.

Maybe he couldn’t have kids, Sarah thought with sudden horror. She’d probably hurt his feelings by asking. Sarah wished she could disappear. How could she face him again? After today, he must think the worst of her.

Sarah cried even harder, angry with herself for the way she’d handled everything today. She’d told the Reverend she wasn’t ready, yet when Rachel had stepped up with the needle to give her a hormone injection, she hadn’t said a word.

Sarah told herself it would be okay. Nothing serious would happen. Other women had survived the injections and so would she. It didn’t mean she had to have her eggs harvested either, Sarah decided. Just because her body would be producing extra eggs, didn’t mean she had to give them up for anything. All she had to do was say no. The Reverend would never force her, she was sure of it.

The tears kept coming. Sarah was ashamed to be so emotional about routine stuff. She wondered if it was the hormone kicking in already. She hadn’t heard anyone else complain about being depressed after the injections.

“What’s the matter, Sarah?” Her little sister, Delilah, stood by the bed with a worried expression. It was such a grown-up look for such a tiny girl, Sarah had to smile.

“Nothing really. I was just missing Darcie.”

“I miss her too sometimes.”

“She was lots of fun wasn’t she?”

Delilah shrugged, her expression still serious. “You’re fun too, when you’re not sad.” Her little sister was dark-haired and delicate, unlike herself. At six, Delilah was like a miniature woman, poised, sensitive, and flawless. Sarah loved her so much it hurt sometimes, like now, when she was being so sweet.

“Thanks for saying so.” Sarah sat up. “I’m not really too sad. It’s just been a funny kind of day for me.” She thought of that morning on the playground, wanting to be a child again and knowing she could never go back.

“Do you want to play checkers? That might make you feel better.”

“Sure.” Sarah’s heart ached even more. If she left the compound, even for a while, she would miss Delilah and her mother terribly. If she met a boy and fell in love, which deep in her heart she wanted more than anything, Sarah knew she would not come back. Either way, she was bound to be unhappy.

Sarah tried to push it all out of her mind and focus on Delilah. Her sister needed her right now, and it was selfish to dwell on her own problems so much. She reminded herself how lucky she was to have a home, a family, and someone as special as the Reverend to take care of her.

Chapter 14

Thursday, Nov. 2, 10:10 a.m.

“Look, if you have another priority right now, I can assign the story to someone else.” Tom Warren, associate editor for
Modern Man
, spoke in the clipped tones of someone who is pissed off but wanted to be able to deny it later.

Eric resented the threat. He tried to keep his voice amicable. “Give me two more weeks. I’ve done all the research and most of the interviews. I just need to write the thing, and you know how fast I work when I have to. I’ve never let you down.”

“You’ve never been a week late either.”

“Give me a break.” Eric was irritated now. He’d always suspected Tom was a control freak but had never experienced it firsthand. He would have told him to shove the story up his ass if he hadn’t already spent so much time on it. He needed to finish the piece and get paid. “Everybody needs some slack at least once in their lifetime.”

“That’s true.” Tom’s voice softened slightly. “But I want to run the story in January alongside the tax article on how to get the most benefit out of your dependents.”

“Now there’s a heartwarming story.”

“Don’t knock it. If you had any kids yourself you’d know how expensive they are. If you don’t start planning and saving for college from the moment they’re born, you’ll never be able to afford it.”

“But if you raise them to be resourceful, they’ll make it on their own,” Eric countered. He’d paid his own way since he was fifteen, including five years of college.

Tom was silent for a moment, then abruptly changed the subject. “All right, two weeks. Don’t screw me on this. January is a big issue. Almost half our renewals come in the first of the year.”

“It’ll be on your desk November 15th, I promise.”

“Good.”

The phone buzzed in Eric’s ear. Tom had moved on to the next item on his list. Eric reminded himself that freelancing was better than the alternative, dealing with someone like Tom every day. Worse yet, becoming someone like Tom.

He turned back to the blank computer screen, determined to make this draft work. He’d abandoned his first two efforts, both of which were mushy and melodramatic. Obviously, his feelings for Jenna had taken hold of his entire life, even affecting his ability to write objectively on the subject of families. His yearning to be a father had never been greater. In fairness, he knew he had to give more voice to the employer’s position in the
Men and Maternity Leave
article.

After a few minutes of staring at the screen, Eric decided to read through his notes again.

An hour later, he started making phone calls to clarify insurance policies.

When he’d run out of sources to call, he went to the kitchen and made himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich, which he ate standing in the kitchen, drinking milk straight from the jug.

Another forty-five minutes in front of a blank screen and he was back in the kitchen. Eric stood with the refrigerator door open, staring at a loaf of bread and a bag of broccoli he would never eat. He’d bought it on a whim last weekend, thinking he would start eating healthier. There it sat, getting soft and brown. He pushed the door closed.

Time to get out of the house. No point in sitting in front of a computer all day gaining nothing but girth around the waist.

It occurred to him—as he stared down at the worn brown carpet while putting on his shoes—that he could go next door and start one of the dozen projects he needed to complete before renting out the other half of the aging duplex, thus making the property a profitable enterprise, as intended. Eric rejected the idea just as quickly. Fixing up one side so he could live in it had wiped out what was left of his savings account. Spending any real money on the other half before he finished the
Modern Man
piece would be foolish.

Eric grabbed his rain jacket, then headed out to the Firebird. Feeling guilty about not writing, he planned to visit his hospital kids to ease his conscience. He drove in a downtown direction but ended up parked under city hall, home of Eugene’s public safety officers.

Eric sat for a minute, disgusted with himself and what he was about to do. After he’d talked with Katrice—who was even nuttier than Jenna—he had decided, or so he thought, to stop wasting his time looking for her. Yet here he was, about to take a little more grief from Jackson, because apparently he couldn’t accomplish anything else, including a good night’s sleep, until he had resolved the mystery of Jenna McClure’s disappearance.

On his way upstairs, scenes from the movie
Vanished
played in his mind. What he remembered most was how Kiefer Sutherland became so obsessed with his girlfriend’s disappearance it took over his life. Eric refused to think about the fate of the girl in the movie. To believe for a second that Jenna might be dead took his breath away. She was alive, he knew, he just had to find her.

Jackson was not in his office. Eric was relieved and irritated at the same time. He’d expected the detective to humor his request, but not a without quota of harassment. The sketch artist was another story. Without Jackson’s authority, he might not be willing to spend the time. Eric decided to risk it and ask anyway. He went back out to the reception area. Bobbie, his sweetie, was not around. A middle-aged cop named Rick Wetzel was at the front desk.

“Hey Rick, who’s doing sketches these days?”

“Officers Rice and Burchly. Why?”

“I need a favor.”

“Still looking for that girl?”

“Yep.” Eric grinned, trying not to feel foolish.

“You must really have it bad.”

“Yep.”

“Rice is in the data room. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Officer Rice had quads that threatened to burst out the seams of her pants and blonde hair cut short enough to make the Marines happy. Eric had spoken with her a few times during his stint as a crime reporter and found her to be courteous but not very friendly. He’d heard enough about her to know that charm and bullshit would work against him. He opted for the direct approach.

“Officer Rice?”

“Yes?” She looked up from her computer terminal and reflexively squared her shoulders.

“I need a couple of sketches done. Do you have time?”

She pushed back from the desk and stared at him. Eric tried and failed to read her expression.

“Is this police business?”

“A woman has disappeared, possibly kidnapped. I’ve filed a missing persons report and need someone to draw sketches of the men I saw her with.”

“You were the last person to see her?” She was curious now; Eric could see the flicker in her eyes.

“I believe so. I’ve talked to her employer, her friends, even her mother. No one has seen her since Saturday.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Eric told the story yet again, keeping it brief. He resisted the urge to add his own impressions of the events. Rice listened without interruption, her pale blue eyes in rapt attention, filing away the details.

“Did you ask the people you talked to,” Rice used her fingers to count them off, “her employer, her friends, her mother, if they knew either of these men?”

“Yes. They have no idea who they could be.”

“How far away were you?”

“A block and a half.”

“Two hundred yards?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t guess. Tell me.”

“Less. At the time I didn’t think I saw them very clearly. But I have watched the scene over and over in my mind so many times these guys have faces now. I don’t know if my subconscious has made up the details or remembered them, but I’d like to try to get it on paper before it fades again.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Rice stood. Eric had to respect the work that went into shoulders like hers. “Come this way.”

Each sketch took about forty minutes, and Eric felt drained when he left. The likenesses turned out well, and Rice had let him make photocopies. He stopped in the Missing Persons office and Detective Zapata told him an investigation was underway. When Eric tried to learn specific information, Zapata brushed him off.