Abandoned: A Thriller (41 page)

“Did I answer your question satisfactorily, Agent Barrett?”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

“How long ’til we know something?” AD Jones asks the director. “One month. Six weeks on the outside.”

“So fast?” I marvel.

“Washington has a short memory. Right now the president’s excited about this. Best to seize the moment while it’s ours.” His gaze goes serious. “Now, I need to know, before I really let the dogs loose: Are there any stumbling blocks I should be aware of? Anyone not on board? Anything at all?”

I fight to keep my gaze from sliding over to AD Jones. The alien in my belly stirs, but not really; I know that’s a fantasy. He or she is still just a bare collection of cells. I consider Alan, both his age and his misgivings.

“No, sir,” I say, smiling as I lie. “I think we’re good to go.”

“Glad to hear it.” He checks his watch and nods to himself. “Good timing, then. I have to run. I’ll let you both know as things develop.” He shakes our hands and heads out the door.

“You’re getting better at lying,” AD Jones says, when he’s gone.

“Lying and equivocation aren’t the same thing,” I retort. “Ask any lawyer.”

“It’s not a criticism. That’s a skill you’ll need to develop where you’re going. In the meantime, we’re all still here, so bring me up to date on this case.”

I tell him everything we know. He interjects a few questions but is largely silent.

“Why do you think he let Heather Hollister walk without giving her a lobotomy?” he asks when I’m finished.

“I don’t know. Maybe she personalized herself to him in some way. Maybe she looks like his mother. I’m not sure.”

“What’s your gut say?”

This is his way. He asks for our instincts, because his own got him where he is today. AD Jones trusts his people.

“Every sense I have of this guy so far tells me that everything he does is deliberate. His actions are driven by reason based on self-preservation, not emotion. Heather Hollister is a piece that doesn’t fit, but only because we don’t know how she fits yet.”

“And the fingerprints?”

“Again, I don’t know. If that’s deliberate, I can’t imagine why. It
could be something as simple as him thinking the plastic on the body bags wouldn’t retain a fingerprint.”

He stares off, and I know he’s calculating all the facts I’ve given him. “Okay,” he finally says. “Sounds like you’re on the right track. I agree, property records and the undercover op are the best paths you have at the moment. Keep me briefed.”

“Yes, sir.” I get up to leave. “One other thing, sir?”

“Yes?”

“I need to leave an hour early today,” I say. I look down at my feet, embarrassed. “Why?”

“Doctor’s appointment.”

He leans back in his chair, twirling a pen in his right hand. “Baby stuff?”

“First checkup, yes, sir.”

His eyes pin me for a moment longer, and then he leans back over his desk again and starts working on the paperwork there. “Approved.”

I beat a hasty retreat. I wonder at my discomfort on the way down in the elevator. Why do I care? What difference does it make that I’m going to see an obstetrician about being pregnant versus seeing a general practitioner about something more mundane?

The answer comes:
Because it makes me a woman.

Being pregnant makes you a woman more than anything else. You can talk tough like the boys, wear a gun like the boys, even be a boss like the boys, but once your belly starts to show, everyone is reminded: You’re not one of the boys and never will be.

Why does it matter? I ask again, and again the answer comes:
because of who we stand against.
Our strength, our guns, our organizational might, those are the things that keep the evil men at bay. It’s not shame about being a woman, it’s the maddening question: Would Sands have crept into my house if I’d been a male agent instead of a female one?

In my heart of hearts, I don’t think so.

I touch my belly. It’s a baby, it’s hope, it’s a future life, but what it feels like right now is a bull’s-eye, outlined in neon, carrying a bullhorn and shouting out loud for all the world to hear,
This is where I’m weak! This is where I’m weak!

This
, it says,
is the place where you can hurt me the most. Shoot me here, and you shoot my soul.

The doctor I’m seeing is a serious woman—not serious in that way that makes a person unapproachable, not grave, but in that way that says you have all of her attention and she cares.

Meeting a new doctor, even though I’m not a fan of going to the doctor, is easier than meeting new people in general. When a doctor examines my scarring, it’s usually frank and open, and I can be relatively certain the curiosity is professional. This doctor is no exception. Her name is Sierra Rand.

“Why did your parents name you Sierra?” I ask.

I’m buying time. Now that I’m here, sitting in this office, and she’s sitting there, with her white coat, file folder, and pen, I find that I’m terrified. Seeing a doctor has suddenly made it all too real.

She seems to take it in stride. “My parents were big into hiking and camping. As the story goes, I was conceived in a tent on Mount Whitney, which is part of the Sierra Nevada mountain range.”

“It’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks. They were just getting over being hippies when I was born. I could have been named ‘America’ or ‘Freedom,’ or something like that, so I have no complaints, trust me.” She smiles. “Now, what can I do for you, Ms. Barrett?”

She’s killed the banter, and it leaves me discomfited. No escaping now. “I’m pregnant.”

She doesn’t smile or offer congratulations; she doesn’t frown. Her expression is a PhD study of the noncommittal. “How do you know?”

“The usual. My period stopped a little over two months ago, and my boobs got sore, so I did a home pregnancy test and it came up positive. Followed it up with a blood test to confirm.”

She consults my chart. “On your intake form you said you’ve had a child before?”

“One.”

“And is she healthy?”

“She was.”

She frowns and puts the chart back down on her lap. “Was?”

“She was murdered by the man who did this to my face.”

I see it then, as I’ve seen it before: the look of recognition. My story was splashed in the papers and on television. Instead of going goggle-eyed or, what I hate even worse, searching for the “right thing to say in this situation,” she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Barrett. I didn’t put two and two together.”

“It’s okay. And call me Smoky, Dr. Rand.”

“Smoky.” The smile again, a nice one. “You’re welcome to call me Sierra, but you should probably call me Dr. Rand. Studies have shown that patients trust their physicians most when they stay in costume. They just don’t believe I’m a doctor if I don’t wear the white coat.”

I open my jacket a little and show her my gun. “Similar phenomenon. It doesn’t matter how much I flash my badge; if I’m not carrying, people don’t really believe I’m an agent.”

“I assume you had an obstetrician. Can I ask why you’re not seeing him—or her—about this pregnancy?”

“A him. Dr. Evans. To answer your question—superstition, I guess. The daughter he saw died. I don’t want him having anything to do with this baby.” I look down, a little embarrassed, maybe a little ashamed. “I know that’s unfair, and really I don’t blame him for her death, but …”

“You want a fresh start in every way.”

I look back up, surprised. “That’s right.”

She smiles reassuringly. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Smoky. The first thing we want to reduce in an expecting mother is stress. It makes sense not to be stressing about your physician, whatever the reason.”

“Thanks.”

“So, back to your daughter. Was she healthy? Any problems with the pregnancy or delivery?”

“No, Alexa was easy. I had minimal morning sickness and a four-hour labor. She was a healthy baby and a healthy child. She ran a really high fever when was six months old, and she cracked her forearm once when she fell off the jungle gym. Other than that, she was fine.”

“Good. How about you? Have you developed any health problems since then?”

I take a deep breath and tell her what only a handful of other people know. “I had an abortion not long after my rape.”

She takes it in stride, not even looking up from my chart. “Any complications from that? Infection, more bleeding than usual?”

“No.”

“Have you been going to your gynecologist regularly?”

“Yearly pap.”

“Excellent.” She looks at me directly now. “Were there any physical complications resulting from your assault that I need to know about?”

“Just the scars. Everything he did was exterior.”

“Okay. Now, I notice you didn’t put down any medications, but I always ask. Some patients are more private than others. Are you on any antidepressants?”

“No. Thought about it, but no.”

“What about birth control?”

“We were using the sponge. Can’t recommend it now, I guess.”

“So you’re not on the pill?”

“No.”

“What’s the medical history in your family?”

“My mother and father both died of cancer.”

“What about miscarriages, difficult childbirths, genetic defects?”

“I heard something about a great-aunt who gave birth to a son with a cleft palate. Other than that, no.”

She makes a few notes and puts my chart aside.

“You sound like an ideal candidate for a healthy childbirth, Smoky. You’re in good shape, at a good weight, with no history of blood pressure or heart problems, you don’t smoke, and your first birth went well, with no eclampsia, diabetes, or clotting.” She smiles. “There’s no
reason to expect you’ll have any difficulties with this pregnancy. We’ll keep a close eye on things due to your age, but I’m not concerned.”

“What are the risks because of my age?”

“There’s an increased risk of chromosomal disorders as the mother gets older, primarily Down syndrome. The statistics are debated. The worst-case scenario I’ve heard presented is as follows: at age twenty-five, a woman has roughly a 1 in 1,250 chance of having a baby with Down syndrome. At age thirty it’s 1 in 1,000. At age 40 it’s a 1-in-100 chance, and above forty-five it drops to 1 in 30.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m giving you this in fair disclosure, but keep in mind, seventy-five percent of all babies born with Down syndrome are to mothers under the age of thirty-five. We’ll also, if you like, do a blood test that will look for markers associated with having a Down syndrome child.”

“When would we do that?”

“It will depend entirely on you. The test is most accurate between the sixteenth and the eighteenth weeks, but there’s no need to wait that long. First-trimester screens, when done properly, are ninety-five percent accurate.”

“So I’d have plenty of time to decide, if it did have Down syndrome, whether I wanted to keep it.” I sigh. “Great.”

She reaches out to briefly touch my arm. “Smoky. There’s no reason for you to think your baby is going to be anything other than healthy. I’ve delivered quite a few healthy children to women over forty years of age.”

“And a few that weren’t, right?”

“Yes. But those few women had all been tested and knew that they were going to be giving birth to a Down syndrome child. It was their choice, and they were no less happy about their babies than anyone else.”

“Really?”

“Think about …” She hesitates. “Think about your daughter. Would you have regretted bringing her into the world, even if she’d had a birth defect like Down syndrome?”

It shouldn’t be a startling question, but it certainly hits me that way. I think about it, about Alexa, my sweet girl. Would she still have been her, if she’d been born with a handicap? I close my eyes for a moment and her face comes to me, as I saw it on that last morning. I see her smile, I hear her giggle; most of all, I see the essence of her shining in her eyes.

Yes, I think. Alexa would always have been Alexa, in whatever form. I open my eyes. “No, I wouldn’t have regretted it. She would have been my baby, and I wouldn’t have loved her any differently.”

“Well, there you go.”

This is a woman who chose her profession not because it would make her the most money, not to avoid the pressures of other medical disciplines, but because it was her calling. She loves what she does and has no choice about doing it; it’s her fate to help bring new life into the world.

I think about Douglas Hollister strangling his own son. A parent killing his own child has never seemed more alien to me than right here, right now, in this woman’s office. I touch my belly, and search for understanding, but it’s unfathomable. How could I ever kill this baby?

“It won’t matter.” I say it as I know it, and I feel a surge of relief. “We’ll do the test, but it won’t matter. I want this baby, Doctor.”

I’m mortified to find that I’m crying. I thought I’d put all these tears behind me. I’d settled into a new life, a new love, a new marriage. I’d recovered my ability to be flip and to let fly, to laugh on a dime and damn the torpedoes. The river of sorrow that had haunted me for so long had turned into a stream and then had dried to a puddle.