The Baby Thief (27 page)

Spending almost half his life in prison, Zeke had learned to sit patiently with his own thoughts without losing awareness of his surroundings. Even though he’d never actually lived in Eugene, he was familiar with the area. He’d been coming here once a month or so to play video poker and pick up prostitutes. He had managed to stay sober during those trips. Alcohol was trouble and would land him back in prison quicker than anything. He’d learned that lesson the hard way and wasn’t going down that road again.

He watched the people on the street, knowing their story by the way they dressed. The men bundled in layers, wearing everything they owned on their backs, homeless because of their weaknesses. The women looked worn and ratty even in their sexiest clothes. They were all weak, slaves to their need for alcohol, drugs, money, and/or attention. He understood these people, felt at home here. After a while, he’d go have a talk with the apartment manager to see if–

The door to apartment number six opened and Darcie stepped out onto the balcony looking like she’d swallowed a pumpkin. Sarah waltzed out behind her, smiling like an excited schoolgirl. Zeke was so startled he dropped his cigarette and had to fetch it before it burned his thigh.
What the hell?
Sarah was supposed to be in the hospital or on her way back to the compound with Rachel. Were the two of them pulling a fast one on the Reverend? What a twist. Now that he had mentally separated himself from the church, Zeke found the situation amusing. Too bad he wouldn’t be able to use this information to his advantage, but he had more important things to do.

He followed the girls to a nearby Taco Bell. Daylight was starting to fade, and Zeke buttoned his jacket against the chill as he sat in the truck. He was anxious to find take care of business. The situation with the reporter made him very uncomfortable.

Zeke had taken a lot of money that didn’t belong to him and had threatened people with guns to get what he wanted. But other than slapping a smart-mouth woman or defending himself in a bar fight, he’d never seriously hurt anyone. Now he was thinking about killing two people. Maybe there was a way to slow down the reporter or send him in another direction.

Sometimes he still thought he should just run for it. To forget Darcie’s baby and the extra money and get the hell out of town. Get as far away from Carmichael and the kidnapping as he could. Deep down, Zeke knew better. If anyone ever connected ex-con George Grafton with the picture in the paper, he was fucked. Sooner or later the law would find him. In the meantime, he would be looking over his shoulder every step of the way.

He slammed his fist against the dashboard. A teenager walking by jumped at the sudden sound. Zeke turned his head, not wanting his face to be seen. Goddamn Carmichael for getting him involved in a stupid bullshit kidnapping. He should have refused, cleaned out his bank account, and walked away. He hadn’t, and Zeke knew it was more than the promise of big money. He’d gotten juiced up just hearing Carmichael talk about the snatch. After years of living in the church, with every day the same as the next, the idea of doing a job had excited him.

If only the reporter hadn’t been there that day. What a rotten break. Zeke shook his head. He’d worked hard and saved his money for years; he deserved the boat and the retirement. He had to find out what the reporter knew and put a stop to his little investigation before the cops got involved.

Zeke put the truck in gear and headed west across town, hoping to find the address while he still had some daylight.

The house was in an older subdivision off Polk Street at the end of a short cul-de-sac. The location wasn’t bad, but Zeke was disturbed that it was a duplex. At first drive-by, nobody appeared to be home on either side, but the risk would be double just the same. He parked next to a baseball field at a nearby school and waited for darkness.

It was his first B&E in twenty years, and Zeke was nervous. He trotted in a circular pattern to the street behind the intended address. He counted houses until he was sure Troutman’s duplex was directly behind the green house with the white trim. By his estimation, the two properties should share a back fence. The green house had lights on everywhere. Zeke could see two teenagers sitting in the living room watching TV and an older woman washing dishes in the kitchen facing the back yard. The other houses on the short street seemed quiet; no one was out and about.

Before he could change his mind, Zeke moved quickly along the side fence, hopping over a short gate that separated the front and back yards. He headed straight for the back corner, not letting himself look to see if any kids or dogs were present. No barks, no shouts. The worst was over. With a surge of confidence, he pulled himself up and over the six-foot wooden back fence and dropped into the yard on the other side.

He went to his knees for a second, sucking in air and waiting for his heart to settle down. Zeke vowed this would be the last time. He was too old for this shit.

After a quick look around the perimeter of the house, he discovered getting in would be a piece of cake. The bathroom window wasn’t even locked. All he had to do was slip out the screen and push the glass open. Hauling himself up and through the window, which was five feet off the ground and only eighteen inches wide, made him grunt and sweat. He remembered why he’d quit doing houses and started robbing stores. B&E was too much work, especially with all the new alarm systems people had. Troutman apparently didn’t own much of value, because no alarm had sounded. This wasn’t exactly an upscale neighborhood. Nicer than any place he’d ever lived, but not somewhere Zeke would come to steal valuable jewelry.

Using a small penlight, Zeke did a routine search of the bedroom first. The most important thing he established was that Troutman didn’t own a gun. Or at least he didn’t keep it in the bedroom like most people did. Zeke moved into an adjacent office and turned on a small desk lamp.

Books and papers and files were everywhere. A noisy ticking clock on the wall made Zeke feel rushed. He grabbed a handful of papers from a chair and tore through them. A bunch of nonsense about men and babies. Zeke threw the papers down and moved to the desk. Sitting right on top were the composite drawings. Zeke picked up his likeness, held it under the lamp, and stared. It wasn’t that good. If he let his beard grow in, no one would ever match him to the picture. The Reverend’s likeness was startling. If they caught Carmichael, it would be over for Zeke too. Even if the man could keep his mouth shut, his girlfriend wouldn’t. The bitter taste of panic filled his mouth. Had the cops seen these pictures? Had Troutman made a statement that would hold up in court?

Underneath the pictures, Zeke found an open notebook with short, daily entries. He read the first few.

Monday: talked to Det. Jackson yesterday and again today. He thinks I’m overreacting. Filed a missing person report while I was at the police dept. All I know is Jenna got into a gray van with two men Saturday and hasn’t been seen since. This is strange, even for my dates
.

Wed: talked with Katrice (Jenna’s best friend) at Geronimo’s and she says Jenna has taken off before without saying anything. Still convinced something is wrong
.

Thurs: had police composites done and took them to Joe at the News. He’ll do a story about the disappearance, along with pics. Who knows what will come of it?

Fri: only a few freaks called about the pics, and I got myself thrown out of the hospital for good. Very depressed
.

Relieved, Zeke put the notepad down. So Troutman was getting nowhere, and no one had identified his picture. That was good news. Maybe the reporter just needed a little accident, something to keep him off the streets until Zeke finished his business with Darcie and moved on.

Zeke decided it would be best to do the job somewhere else, make it look random, rather than personal. It occurred to him he had no idea what Troutman looked like. He needed to find a picture of the guy. Zeke headed across the hall into the living area. Troutman’s house was clean, for a guy, but musty smelling, as if no one had been home for a while. The heavy front drapes were closed, so Zeke turned on a small table lamp and began to search.

As he rummaged through a bookcase looking for a photo album, the phone rang. Annoyed, Zeke sat back on the floor and waited it to stop. After the fourth ring, an answering machine clicked on. “This is Eric Troutman. You know what to do.”

After a beep, the caller left an exasperated message. “It’s Jackson. Again. Where the hell have you been? Same message as before.” The phone clicked, then Zeke heard the tape squeal forward.

Jackson. He’d just read the name in Troutman’s journal. He was a cop.

Zeke hurried to the machine, which was on a low table next to an easy chair. Answering machines were still new to Zeke. He’d only been out in the world for a few months between prison and the compound and had not had many opportunities to keep up with technology. This gadget couldn’t be too complicated. He needed to hear what the cop had to say. After a quick look at the black box, he pushed the button next to the blinking red light.

He heard a soft click, then the cop’s voice filled the room. He had an undercurrent of excitement. “Jackson here. I think we’ve caught a break in the case. A parole officer in Portland saw the composites in the paper and thinks the older guy might be an ex-con. You need to come in and look at mug shots before we can move on this. I’ll be at my desk all afternoon and again tomorrow morning for a few hours. Call me when you get in.”

Zeke hands clenched into tight fists. He hadn’t seen his parole officer in six years, but she obviously hadn’t forgotten him. Fuck and doublefuck. The one and only time he’d stepped out of line, and he was busted. God damn bad luck had followed him around his whole life.

He wasn’t going down without a fight. If Troutman wasn’t around to ID his picture or testify in court, they had nothing on him. The reporter had to go.

Zeke returned to the bookcase, grabbed a high school yearbook and quickly scanned the pages until he found Troutman’s name under a picture. Blonde, beefy guy with a square face, but older now.

The rumble of an engine filled the driveway in front of the house. Zeke dropped to the floor, a burglar’s instinct. His chest tightened in an agonizing squeeze. Ignoring the little shooting pains down his left arm, he crawled to the space behind where the front door would open. A car door slammed, blasting the silence of the neighborhood. Zeke listened for footsteps and heard little clicking sounds instead. High heels.

A knock at the door, followed by a woman’s voice. “Eric, it’s Kori. I need to talk to you.”

Zeke’s body uncoiled. A girlfriend or ex-girlfriend. It didn’t matter as long as she didn’t have a key.

The pounding got louder. “Eric. I know you’re in there.” Long pause. “Carl hit me again, and I need to talk to someone.”

Zeke thought Carl had the right idea. This woman was a whiny pain in the ass. He hoped she would go away before he had to hurt her.

“Eric!” She was crying now, loud enough to make a spectacle of herself. Loud enough for neighbors to peak out their front windows and see what was going on over at Troutman’s.

Stupid cunt. Stupid bitch. Zeke wanted to choke the noisy life out of her. He ground his teeth together to keep from cursing out loud.

After a few moments, the sobbing sounds began to move away. Zeke relaxed his grip on the knife. It seemed like an eternity before the engine started and the car backed out.

His nerves almost at a breaking point, Zeke moved from his position behind the door to check out the kitchen for a beer. Just one beer, he thought, to settle his indigestion and give him a little courage. There was nothing in the fridge but a loaf of bread and a quart of milk. Pissed and relieved at the same time, Zeke quickly closed the door and hurried from the kitchen, resisting the urge to search the cupboards for a bottle of real alcohol.

Too keyed up to sit and wait, Zeke began to explore the house. He wanted to know exactly where every corner and piece of furniture was located. The yearbook picture didn’t tell him how big the guy was or how much of a fight to expect. The element of surprise would be on his side, but Zeke had never stuck a knife in someone with the intent to kill. The thought made him a little queasy.

He had no choice. He couldn’t let the reporter look at his mug shot and confirm his part in the kidnapping. Once they put out a warrant, his freedom was tainted. If they caught him, it was over. He’d sooner put a gun to his own head than go back inside. In fact, Zeke decided, he needed to buy a gun. That way, if he ever got picked up, he could shoot at the cops and trigger his own death. It didn’t have to get to that point. Not while he had this other plan. It was him or Troutman. One of them had to die.

Zeke walked up the hallway counting steps, knife in hand. He could smell the stink of his own fear, but the pain in his left side had finally dulled. He wished like hell he could do the job somewhere else, but he was already in the house. Might as well wait for Troutman to come home and get it over with. Steal enough stuff to make it look like a robbery.

Zeke promised himself, with God as his witness, he would get back on the straight and narrow. After this was over, he would never hurt anyone again. Killing the reporter and his girlfriend was the worst kind of sin, but at least they’d be together. Stealing Darcie’s baby was different. He would be doing the kid a favor by giving it to a rich couple instead of leaving it to a life of poverty and misery with Darcie. Zeke figured it would be an act of atonement and a good way to start his new life.

Chapter 28

Saturday, Nov. 4, 7:42 p.m.

Sarah was nervous about being back at the hospital. She was afraid someone would recognize her from that morning and want to ask her more questions about the hormone. She couldn’t abandon Darcie, who, after a few hours of labor, had been wheeled into surgery for an emergency C-section. The nurses had tried to keep Sarah out of the labor room, but she had insisted on being Darcie’s coach. Sarah had been with her mother during Delilah’s birth and had sat with several other Sisters during the first phase of labor.