The Baby Thief (4 page)

Carmichael slipped outside, using the secret panel in the back of his closet that opened to the west side of the compound. The sun was moving toward the horizon, leaving behind a pink glow that would slip into twilight. He loved this hour of day and rarely missed an evening walk on the grounds, seeing the property in its best light. So much of his time was spent in the lab that his skin had become almost translucent. His golfing buddies from the old days at North McKenzie Hospital would hardly recognize him now. Carmichael smiled, imagining their expressions if they could see him. He may have lost his tan, but he’d gained fifteen pounds and a ponytail. They would be even more shocked to discover his self-imposed isolation. When he’d decided to leave the hospital, amidst rumors and allegations, Northup and Rubison had tried to talk him out of it. They couldn’t believe he’d give up his career so easily. But he hadn’t left it for long.

Soon after moving to the compound, he’d borrowed money to transform the basement—originally built as a bomb shelter—into an OB clinic. He’d delivered Marilynn’s baby in the new clinic a few months later. Then Tamara had begged him to leave the condom off and let her get pregnant. Carmichael had refused. After what he’d done to his only child, he could never let himself be a father again. But out of compassion for Tamara, he’d convinced Elizabeth—his longtime colleague, friend, and lover—to appropriate some sperm from the Assisted Reproduction Clinic.

The insemination was successful, and soon other Sisters clamored for babies without the complications of men and sex. God had shown his approval with a second financial blessing. Liz’s stepfather died, leaving her a small fortune that she had planned to donate to child abuse prevention. Carmichael had persuaded her to give him the money to equip an embryo lab instead. He’d always been fascinated with
in vitro
fertilization and had seized the opportunity to pursue new techniques without bothersome restrictions.

His first petri dish embryo had given him a thrill that neither sex, nor money, nor drugs could replicate. He’d become obsessed with creating life that was predestined to flourish. His clinic was basic, but his success rate was excellent, partly because of his skill and partly because his patients didn’t have fertility problems. Eventually, he borrowed money to purchase a DNA thermal cycler so he could biopsy the embryos and determine which were female. The Sisters seemed to prefer baby girls. The males, and any other abnormal embryos, were studied and discarded.

All of that was at risk now. Elizabeth had asked him to do a bizarre and dangerous thing and, God forgive him, he’d had no choice but to agree. Elizabeth had kept him from losing his medical license and going to jail after “the accident,” and then she had funded the clinic. He owed her everything.

Carmichael rounded the corner of the compound and slipped quietly onto a bench near the children’s playground. The swings and slides were rough, homemade from timbers and tires. But the kids didn’t care. Their jabbering, squealing frenzy of activity was strangely soothing to his troubled heart. One by one, he recalled each of their names, forgetting only a boy of about ten swinging by himself.

The boy seemed out of place among the girls gathered around the swings. It reminded him of his own childhood in rural Illinois, surrounded by seven giggling, chatty sisters. He remembered the thrill of the chase as he ran careening through the house clutching a doll or purse as two or more sisters pursued him, shrieking and threatening bodily harm. Their mother had hated the noise and occasional destruction and usually sent them to their rooms to memorize Bible verses.

But his father… His father had been unpredictable, laughing and joking one minute, shouting and slapping the next. Those delicate doctor’s hands that never touched a chore could pinch harder than those of any school bully.

The piercing cry of a blackbird shattered the images. Carmichael eased himself off the bench and watched the creature disappear into a Douglas fir. He thanked God again for the beauty around him. If not for the majestic pines on the hill and the lush gardens, the compound would be as ugly and austere as any gray-brick prison. In a way, it was a self-imposed prison for the church members. The women were free to leave any time, but they had lived in the secular world and found it lacking. Here, at the Church of the Reborn, he provided them with fresh-grown food, spiritual guidance, a safe place to raise children, and the best ob/gyn in the state. Even those who left, usually seeking romance, often returned.

But what would happen when he brought Elizabeth’s sister to the compound? She would have to be drugged and restrained. Could he keep her presence a secret? More important, would God forgive him? Carmichael stopped to say a silent prayer.

A moment later, he walked past the greenhouses where the tangy scent of tomatoes lingered in the cooling air, then on past the chicken coops and pig pens. Carmichael said a quick ‘thank you’ to God for Brother Ezekiel, a jack of all trades who patched up old plumbing and butchered livestock with equal dexterity. He’d met Zeke at an AA meeting years before and witnessed his transformation from an aimless, troubled soul into a dependable man of God. When the church moved out to the compound, Zeke was one of three male members to follow and the only one to stay.

Carmichael felt guilty about the pitifully small salary he paid Zeke to keep everything running. Zeke was the first close male friend he’d had since grade school, and Carmichael depended on him more and more every year. There were still a few young boys in the compound to help with heavy chores, but they would leave as soon as they cut their apron stings. Carmichael sighed. Women had always loved him; men did not.

“Reverend.” Out of nowhere came Zeke’s voice, as if thinking about him had made him appear.

Carmichael turned back and fought to control his irritation. He hated to be disturbed during his evening walk. “What is it?”

“The bank.” The handyman’s tight voice gave nothing away. He was lean, brown, and muscular and looked like a balding rancher. “I thought you should know about it right away.” He handed Carmichael a folded, single-page letter.

“Tell me.” Without glancing at the letter, Carmichael started toward the compound. Zeke fell in step beside him.

“Either we make a payment right away, or they’ll start the process to assume ownership of the property.”

Even though he’d known it was coming, hearing it was like a punch to the belly. He should have paid better attention to finances. With all the donations coming in and payments going out, Carmichael couldn’t keep track of it by himself. Zeke handled the everyday bookkeeping, while he did most of the fundraising, even though it degraded him—a doctor and a man of God—to beg for money.

“Can we make a partial payment?”

Zeke shook his head. “We don’t have enough cash to meet next month’s overhead. The donation we were expecting from the United Christian Foundation fell through.”

Carmichael fought the urge to swear out loud. He was sick of worrying about money. He pressed his lips together and walked in silence. They reached the compound and entered the huge kitchen through the attached greenhouse. The five women preparing the evening meal called out to them simultaneously.

“Good evening Reverend. We’re fixing your favorite meal!”

“Fried chicken and mashed potatoes!”

A burst of giggling. Chicken and potatoes were almost daily features on the menu. For a while, the Sisters held a contest to see who could create the best new recipe with chicken and potatoes. Carmichael had finally made them stop, unable to eat some of the bizarre concoctions they’d come up with.

“Good evening ladies. Glad to see we’re back to basics. Don’t forget the corn on the cob.” He grinned to show he was teasing, but he knew they would send a couple of kids scampering out to the fields to pick what was left of the crop. Even if no one else had any, there would be corn on his plate. “Thank you for preparing our evening’s nourishment and enjoying the work the Lord has given you. See you at supper.”

They left the kitchen and moved quickly down the narrow stone hallway into Zeke’s office. Once the door was closed, Carmichael said, “What do you suggest?”

“We’re out of options, Reverend. Except that idea I have you don’t like.”

“I asked you not to bring that up again. Show me the books, and I’ll see if I can come up with anything.”

After an hour of going through every expense, every expected donation, they were no closer to a solution. Carmichael’s jaw began to ache from grinding his teeth. He couldn’t let the bank take his land. Nor would he let Zeke see how worried he was.

“Let’s pray together, Ezekiel. The Lord will provide.” Together they went to the chapel where Carmichael humbly begged God to send him a pile of cash.

He’d just returned to his living quarters when his satellite phone rang. Smiling, he hurried to answer it. Only a few outside people had his private number. God was working quickly. He picked up the phone. “Hello, Mr. Akron.”

“No, David, it’s Elizabeth. The donor is going to ovulate sometime around the fifth of next month. You need to pick her up this weekend and get her on hormones immediately.”

Chapter 5

Wednesday, Oct. 25, 9:16 a.m.

“Hey, those aren’t the right words,” the little boy in the white hospital bed protested. “You’re skipping stuff.”

“Sorry, pal.” Eric glanced at the boy, whose name he’d temporarily misplaced. “I’ve got a lot on my mind today.” He hadn’t stopped thinking about Jenna since he left her apartment that morning. She’d been sound asleep, so he’d left a note asking her to meet him that afternoon. He’d called twice to confirm, but she hadn’t answered. His feelings for her were a kaleidoscope of worry, awe, affection, and lust.

“Eric?”

“Here we go.” Feeling guilty, he flipped back to the beginning of the book and started over. The story about a wimpy dragon was so familiar he could almost recite it from memory. But Matt—how could he have forgotten his name?—knew it even better. Eric had read it to him ten times over the last three months.

Matt’s chemotherapy wasn’t working. Eric had spent enough time in children’s cancer wards to know, starting with his little brother Chris, who’d died of leukemia when he was five and Eric was sixteen. He knew what it felt like for a parent to lose a child. Eric had practically raised Chris, feeding him bottles, changing diapers, and walking him while he cried with the pain of teething. In fact, taking care of everything whenever his mother and her current husband were drinking. He’d also helped with his half brothers, Nick and Trevor, when they were babies, but not as much as with Chris. By the time Chris was born, his mother had been so burnt out, she’d practically handed him to Eric and said, “Here, you do this one.”

Losing Chris had been more than he could bear. He’d left home soon after, hitchhiking to Oregon with seventeen dollars in his pocket, and hadn’t set foot in Illinois again. He kept in touch with everyone by phone a couple of times a year, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back.

Eric smiled at Matt over the top of the book, but the boy’s eyes were closed. He kept reading, forcing himself to put some enthusiasm into the litany of words. Jenna popped into his brain again, this time wearing a tight white nurse’s uniform, leaning over the bed, stroking the boy’s forehead. Then those wonderful, kissable lips parted slightly as she looked up at him and said–

“No sleeping on the job, Troutman.” Eric’s eyes flew open. Dr. Clark shook his head. “That book finally put you to sleep too?”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” Eric’s cheeks flushed hot.

“Matt is, so why don’t you get out of here for today?” Dr. Clark picked up the clipboard hanging from the bed and flipped through it.

Eric started to ask about Matt’s condition, then stopped. It was better not to know. The first year he’d visited kids with cancer he’d asked a million questions. Knowing every detail had overwhelmed him in the long run and made their deaths harder to take. Now he just tried to be their friend and leave the disease to the doctors.

“See you next week.” He stood and picked up his coat. His mind was on Jenna again. He would see her in a few hours. If she showed up. Eric’s pulse quickened, and his legs followed suit. If he hurried, he’d have time for a quick shower. He wished he’d gotten his hair cut the week before like he’d planned. He wondered if he had time to pick up a new shirt. He’d asked her to meet him at Full City, a coffee shop downtown, so maybe he looked all right. Then again, he hadn’t bought a decent shirt since his last Christmas banquet at the paper. Maybe it was time. When Eric reached the parking lot, he was running.

* * *

Jenna was on her second cup of coffee by the time noon rolled around. She hadn’t planned on showing up at all, then at the last minute had rushed out of the apartment and arrived early. Her phone had rung all morning, and she’d finally unplugged it, not wanting to talk to anyone but Eric. She’d been too upset to talk to him either. She was embarrassed by her display of emotions the night before, first crying, then throwing herself at him like a nympho. What must he think? Jenna was unnerved by how much his opinion mattered.

He’d asked her to meet him, so he must want to see her again she rationalized while sipping her coffee and trying not to watch the door. What if he just wanted an interview so he could write the story? The thought of Eric dumping her made Jenna’s chest tighten. Liking someone this much so soon was scary. Maybe she should get up and leave. Walk away before she got hurt.

She stayed put.

Eric rushed in a few minutes later, breathless and wet from a shower. “Am I late?” He slipped into a chair across from her, banging his recorder on the table.

Jenna’s shoulders went rigid. He’d brought a recorder. He expected an interview. How could he after last night? Despite her professional appearance and hard-earned slimness, she suddenly felt like an overweight, small-town girl who’d grown up without a father or boyfriend and would never be taken seriously by men.

“I shouldn’t have come. I’m not sure I want to do an interview.” She started to get up.