Hope House (35 page)

She knelt by the riverside and poured the contents of the bucket out into the rushing water.

“Swim away, little ones. Go in peace.” Gloria wiped the dirt and water from her face and dabbed at her tears. “My little grandchildren, go play and swim free to a happier place.” She knew they were dead already of course. The moment Kurt opened the tanks they most likely died, but Martine was right. Their little souls had to be released, given back to nature. So many years they had spent in a dark man-made tank, waiting to gain life through inhuman methods. So far removed from the way it was supposed to be.

Now you are free.

“And you are free too, Martine,” Gloria whispered beneath the sound of the crashing waters. “You are free too.”

Chapter Eleven

1.

Maison D’Espoir, Haiti, morning, Monday February 13
th

Bright sun in Kurt’s eyes woke him up. “The baby? Where’s the baby?” He rose from the bed too quickly and got a head rush.

“She’s right here,” Gloria said. “Don’t worry.”

“I was supposed to be watching her.” He felt like a failure.

“And you did watch her. I wasn’t gone long and then I took her to sleep with me in the other room. I just came back in to check on you.”

He smiled that Gloria was here. Just the existence of her brought him such joy. Yesterday he had been in shock mode. The bad flights here, finding out the sick truth behind the birth mothers, delivering a baby, seeing Martine get shot. . . It was a great deal even for Kurt to handle. But today was a new day.

The sun gleamed over Gloria’s freshly shampooed hair. She had located her bag and had changed her clothes. Even the baby
seemed more normal today. She’d had a bath too. Cleaning dirt, blood, and mud off an infant, in Kurt’s mind, made such a difference.

Kurt
knew he needed a shower and change of clothes.

“I’m sorry I was such a miserable jerk last night,” he said as he got up and headed to the bathroom.  “I just—”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. If I’m going to stick around you and her I need to stay focused. I can’t be popping in and out of killer mode. I’m making a choice and that choice means a new life with new behaviors. None of the old habits.”

“That’s the best way to keep your identity from being found out right? That’s what you told me.”

He grinned at her and would have kissed her if he didn’t reek. “Glad you were paying attention.”

“So you’re going to stay? With us?”

Gloria’s eyes were
so hopeful that he felt tears well up. “I’m staying. I need to take a shower but after that I’ll never leave you two again.”

He dashed out.

The road not taken. That’s what he was choosing. Okay, maybe it was the road most often taken: wife, kids, house in the suburbs . . . but for him, that was the other road and he couldn’t wait to go down that path.

2.

Airplane headed to Miami, afternoon

Gloria and Kurt buckled into their seats on t
he Maison private plane. Boris’ friend “took care of” the regular pilot and got them a substitute. A few weeks ago, Gloria would have been horrified to know the ease with which people could be killed, but now? Well, her views had changed. Kurt had said that you got used to death and she had disagreed; but in a sad way, it was true. It didn’t seem real anymore. She didn’t think of the dead pilot as having a grieving wife and family. Instead she pictured him taking kickbacks from Mick and smuggling her grandchildren into the United States for fraudulent adoptions. Maybe he didn’t deserve to die for that, but Martine didn’t deserve to die either.  Gloria could spend all day holding court in her mind about who deserved what kind of punishment but in the end it didn’t matter. The only thing of importance was going forward with her new child and with Kurt.

If they brought all this before the American authorities they’d investigate it. In several years, maybe, they’d start prosecuting. But then what? The Puglisis, from what she’d learned this week
formed a powerful crime family. Would they really go to prison? The adoption agencies were Mick’s enterprise and he was dead. Tad Boucher was dead. The pilot was dead. All the extra embryos had been destroy—released.

It’s over.

“You got the Hope House papers right?” Kurt asked.

“Yes.
We’re smuggling the baby into our country, but if something goes wrong at Customs, Maison D’Espoir’s paperwork should get us in. Glad Tad had the foresight to make both. Once we’re settled, I’ll use the Hope House document to get her a formal birth certificate.” Gloria explained.

“Think the document looks legit?”

“It’s the same one they’ve used for years for the adoptions. It’ll suffice.” She sighed.

“You  okay?” Kurt asked.

“We left behind a trail of death, are using false papers that list this little girl as my daughter, and now we’re flying back home as if we’re returning from a cruise.”

The plane lurched and the still nameless baby gurgled from her cat seat, buckled next to Gloria. Kurt clutched her hand. “You need to put it behind you and move ahead.”

“That easy huh?” She rolled her eyes.

“
Choose
to let it be that easy. Live your story and it’ll become the truth.”

She shook her head, glanced out the window and then back to Kurt.

“I read Dr. Tad’s journal, the one with all the birthdates.”

Kurt nodded. “And?”

“So many babies born through me. Donna’s fetus must have been used to generate another whole compound of infants. You said there were other international centers. And who’s to say the Puglisis were the only ones using this technology? Mick got it from some guy from Israel. Are they doing this too?”

“I think any legitimate scientist worth his spit would maybe, big maybe, make one embryo to see if he could. And then he’d destroy it. Only sick people like the Puglisis would turn it into a business and mass produce them. Once we destroy the Puglisi enterprises, it ends.”

“But I thought we agreed we weren’t taking this to the authorities because too many children would be hurt by it.”

“I’m not taking this to the authorities.”

Gloria looked around but there was no one on the plane except the pilot. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve got to meet with the head of the Puglisi clan and get him to agree to stop this once and for all.”

“Just like that huh?”

“I’ve got a way with words. Don’t you worry. In a week, I promise you, the Puglisi baby farming industry will be a thing of the past.”

Gloria didn’t want the details. If she knew exactly what he had planned, she’d feel obligated to stop him. Kurt had made it this far doing what he needed to do to keep them safe. What was one more week if it meant they could spend the rest of their lives in peace?

Gloria closed her eyes and tried to rest. It felt like days since she’d had more than a few minutes of sleep.

“Daisies,” Kurt said.

“What?” She o
pened her eyes.

“You wanted to know something about me. I used to pick my mother daisies. I loved my mother more than anything. She was kind and soft. She used to make me banana bread with chocolate chips in it. We had a field of daisies right by our house where I grew up and when they were in bloom I’d pick them for her everyday.

“My Dad got upset about it sometimes because she didn’t throw them away until they were brown and dead. I brought more in and she’d use glasses and pitchers as vases. Anything she could. Even those little Looney Tunes jelly jar glasses, remember those?”

Gloria nodded and smiled.

“There were times when Mom’d have ten bouquets of the flowers in the house. I swear, they just didn’t die. Mom said that was because I put so much love into picking them and love never really dies.”

Gloria’s heart swelled that Kurt was finally sharing something with her. “Until she died three years ago I still sent her daisies on her birthday and mother’s day every year.”

“So you weren’t in hiding the whole time?”

“I was. I’d send them anonymously from flower shops all over the country to throw off the authorities. I haven’t talked to her since I ran away the first time but I just know getting the daisies made her smile. When you told me you picked daisies by your house I knew—well, I just—anyway I wasn’t ready to tell you then.”

Gloria held his hand. “Thank you for telling me now. It means a lot. How did she die?”

“Cancer. But she lived a full life till the end.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was diagnosed with bone cancer. They gave her three months to live and said she wouldn’t be helped by any therapy. She had this life insurance policy and some company offered to buy it from her at half the pay out amount so long as they were made beneficiary.”

“Can they do that?”

“Why not? The insurance company doesn’t care who they pay when she dies. So she and my dad went on a cruise, she bought him a new car, bought herself a first class headstone. She had a daisy engraved on it. For me.”

Gloria knew he hadn’t spoken to anyone back home since he went on the run. “You went to her grave?”

“A year later. I took a huge risk going but no one saw me. I went at night.  A weeknight. When I saw the daisy carved in it, I just—I hated myself for running. That woman meant everything to me and I never saw her again because I was a coward. I can never get that back.”

“But if you had no choice—”

“I’m not doing that again.” He held her hand tight. “I’m in love with you, Gloria. I know it’s soon and that might scare you but—”

“It doesn’t scare me.” Truly it didn’t. Despite the short amount of time they’d known each other, it felt so natural to be around Kurt.

“Hear me out. I’ve been running for too long. Alone too long. My mother’s death—I vowed to myself and to her when I was sitting by her grave, bawling like a baby, that if I ever found someone I loved . . . that I really loved, I was going to stop running.”

Now Gloria was bawling. She knew absolutely nothing about Kurt. Certainly none of the details of the crime that had forced him to be a fugitive. It must have been pretty bad to sever all the ties from his past. But she didn’t care. The look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. He meant what he said. He loved her and was never going to leave her alone again.

Gloria’s heart was pounding out of her chest. As she spoke, she couldn’t stop her voice from quivering. It was fear and elation, hope . . joy . . . “I think—I think the three of us, you, me
, and the baby are going to be just fine. We’re going to have a very nice life together.”

Kurt smiled at her and squeezed her hand tighter. “Thank you, Gloria.”

Chapter Twelve

1.

Puglisi Family Home, Rhode Island, afternoon-Carlo

Carlo Puglisi sat in his worn recliner and sipped two-hundred-dollar single malt scotch. He gazed out the window of his office. Ten acres of sprawling lush grass. Inground pool. Tennis courts. He turned away from the window. The house he lived in was palatial. Seven bedrooms, six thousand square feet. Every surface and material was the best money could buy.

He downed the rest of the shot. But what the fuck did any of it matter now? Who was all this for? Mickey was dead. Angie barely spoke to him. Maria? Carlo shook his head.

Hell, he’d had his share of women on the side. He should have cut Maria some slack. He could admit to himself now that he had driven her into the arms of another man. But at the time he had flipped. Had gone too far. What he did to her was brutal. Unfair.

And now she was crazy as a shithouse rat, running around on Windy Key. She came back for the funeral and it had killed him to see her. Underneath the scars he had inflicted, she was still beautiful. He had reached for her hand when they had stood beside the coffin in the cemetery. Wanted to tell her he was sorry. He’d been crushed when he got the call about Mickey and he’d hoped . . . well it didn’t matter.

She’d pulled away from his touch and run from the graveside. Maria had missed her son’s funeral because she was terrified of Carlo.

He poured himself another shot of scotch and gulped it.

“Fucking idiot,” he said to himself.

What the hell did all this matter now? He had no one. No true friends. No family. None that really cared about him. They were all just waiting for him to die so they would take over. He couldn’t go get a haircut without worrying someone would slit his throat.

And for what?

Fuck. He wiped his eyes.

Mickey was dead. Fuck. He was a good kid. A real good kid. And he died in the line of duty. A good boy right till the end.

Mick loved his boys that was for sure.

Carlo shook his head when he thought of how peaceful Angie had looked at the funeral. He hadn’t seen her in years but she took to those kids like water.

Angie, his only daughter, wouldn’t even meet his eyes at first. He knew he deserved it. He’d killed her boyfriend and made her have that abortion but at the time he really thought it was for the best. Seeing her with those kids yesterday he knew now that was yet another mistake old boss Carlo Puglisi had made. Another fucking screw up for the old man. 

Another shot of scotch but the pain wasn’t subsiding. Some sadness was just too deep.

Angie was raising the boys. She’d made that clear. And his grandsons wouldn’t be a part of his life. She’d made that clear too. She didn’t want or need him or his money. Had plenty from Mickey.

Carlo had tried to hug Luke but the boy didn’t even know him. Ran from him like everyone else.

And the new one. What was his name? Donovon. He was a cutie for a darkie. Tiny little thing.

Carlo would never see them grow up. If Angie had it her way, which she always did, he wouldn’t ever see them again. Probably wouldn’t even get Christmas pictures. Mickey was a dutiful son, a good boy, who followed orders all his life, and he always sent pictures. But he knew Angie wouldn’t.

No one wanted Carlo’s money or his house. No one wanted him and it was his own fucking fault.

“Mr. Puglisi.”

Who the hell?

He looked up. He recognized the face. “How did you get in here?”

“Walked right in.”

“I have guards.”

“Not anymore.”

What was this guy’s name? He knew that face.
Tim Perconi.

Oh fuck. The guy he framed for the senator.

Carlo felt his stomach lurch and tighten up, and the single malt scotch that had burned going down, burned coming back up.

Puglisi Family Home, Rhode Island, afternoon-Kurt

“Tim Perconi,” Carlo said. His hands were shaking and Kurt smiled. Look who’s got the upper hand now, he thought.

The
old man who sat before him had withered, Kurt thought. All those years ago when he had first met the big boss he’d been so impressed. Carlo Puglisi, the one who held all the cards. The man everyone feared. The man everyone respected.

But
now he was just a tired old fool with a dead son and a crazy ex-wife.

“You come to
pay your respects?” Carlo asked. He tried to appear unperturbed, but he squirmed. Silence was the best way to disarm someone, so Kurt said nothing.

“My boy Mickey? You knew him?”

Kurt smiled. “Not personally but I’m happy he’s dead. It brought a lot of people great joy when he got his chest blown apart. The man who killed him was smiling ear to ear when he came to tell us he finished the job. He had pieces of your son all over him. Can’t tell you how good it made me feel.”

“That’s sick. You don’t have no respect? You come into my home and talk about my son’s death that way?”

“You have to earn my respect and frankly, you haven’t. Neither did Mick.”

“You’re upset about the senator is that it? I’m sorry about that. Really. I’ll give you some money for your troubles and we’ll call it even okay?”

“No.”

“Why? What do you want from me, Perconi?”

“That’s not my name.”

“Right, you had to go on the run. Had to change it.”

“Perconi was only my name for about six months. I met you and you messed up that identity for me.”

“So that explains why no one could get any background on you.”

“I’m good at what I do. You know, killing people and covering my tracks.” Kurt enjoyed watching the fear in Carlo’s eyes. “Payback’s a bitch.”

“What do you want then?”

“Shut down the baby farms—every damned one of them.”

Silence.

“Makes you too much money, eh?”

“They meant a lot to Mickey.”

“Did he run them all?”

“No, just Haiti but he  started them, took great pride—”

“Shut down the baby farms. All of them. And you live.”

The old man put his hand
s up in capitulation.  “I can make some calls. Please. Don’t kill me.”

Kurt relished watching the man beg. “So I have your word?”

Carlo shifted. His eyes glinted. “On my life, you have my word.”

Kurt lifted his gun and pointed at the man’s face. “Please, I gave you my word,” he whimpered.

With a shaking hand, Carlo reached for a gun in the table drawer beside him.

Kurt blew hi
s face off.

Like Carlo Puglisi’s word means anything,
Kurt thought as he stared at the faceless body. 

The house was empty now and he could rifle through and find records for the other centers. It was time to clean up. A thrill went through Kurt when he thought of the task at hand.

He stepped carefully around the spreading blood puddle to Carlo’s desk drawers. Kurt slipped on a pair of latex gloves and grabbed the handle to the file drawer.

“The fun is about to start.”