Jaden Baker (77 page)

Now it was she who was locked in a room with an observation mirror.

Police had arrived with the ambulance. With three men down, and a literal smoking gun and gunpowder on her hands, in a house that was not hers, Libby was taken away, still screaming for Jaden to wake up. The entire way through the house, down the brick stairs outside, Libby kept up silent prayers, her heavy feet hitting the steps. The many neighbors who had come to watch the drama unfold didn’t matter to her. She knew they watched her, red and blue lights flashing across her face, tiny reflections in her eyes.

At the station, in the interrogation room, Libby saw her swollen face in the reflection of the mirror in front of her, a balding head blocking the view of her neck and chest. No longer sobbing, nor even crying, Libby stared straight ahead, through the person who sat in front of her, as though she was alone.

When her questioner posed his inquiries, Libby heard “Build me up Buttercup” play inside her head. It was such an upbeat tune, a romantic song, so out of line with the situation, she almost felt like laughing.
I need you more than anyone darlin’ / You know that I have from the start
. She’d heard the song only a handful of times, but it came to her so clearly the Foundations may have been in the room, serenading her. Whatever the officer or detective was asking her, Libby couldn’t hear him.
I’ll be home, I’ll be waiting beside the phone / Waiting for you.

These jeans were no good, she needed new ones. Jaden’s blood was drying, crusting on the knees, making them stiff on her skin. They cost her a good deal of money, having to get them at a higher end store that understood real women had thighs. She wondered if they even made this style anymore.

“Miss James, are you listening?” he asked, dropping his pen, folding his hands and staring. “Do you know what’s happening?”

James. It was one of her favorite names. She didn’t like Jim, or Jimmy, so she knew she could never use it for a son she may have. James went well with Elizabeth. James, the level-headed straight-talker of the Bible. Libby imagined she and James would have gotten along quite well. So she took the name for herself.

“Miss James?” he asked again.

His face came into focus. Bald, a little overweight like the majority of the people she knew, a goatee, hazel eyes, smashed nose. Had she been catatonic?

“Have you heard anything I’ve said?” he asked.

The Foundations came back from their intermission.
Why do you build me up / Buttercup baby just to let me down / and mess me around?
The song. She had loved it but now she hated it. It was too upbeat a song for a disappointing end to a relationship.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said. Her voice was strange to her, low and flat. It wasn’t hers at all.

Mr. Bald leaned back in his chair, ready to listen to her version of events. Maybe that was part of his training, to lean back instead of forward, seem less intimidating.

“What wasn’t supposed to happen?” he asked.

So build me up / Buttercup, don’t break my heart.
She screwed her eyes shut as she saw Jaden’s grinning face, his hair blown back as he raced Monty passed her and Adama. A tightening in her chest squeezed a tear from her eyes and down her cheek.

“I like to plan,” she said. “I like thinking about what my life will be like ten years from now.” She waited a moment, trying to get the song and any unwanted images from her mind. “He was supposed to be an engineer.”

Mr. Bald frowned, confused. “Who was?” he asked.

Libby sighed. “The man I loved. The left brain to my right. I think he would’ve liked football, not horses. We’d argue about how expensive they were, but in the end he’d realize how much I loved them. We were supposed to have four children. A boy, twin girls, and another boy. At Christmas,” she said, more tears dripping down her face, “we’d pile into the truck and go pick out a tree. We would’ve been so happy.”

The interrogator rubbed his face and continued to watch her in silence.

“But,” she started, chewing her lips and wiping her face, “that’s not what happened. Instead he was this—this gentle soul. He never got to junior high, even, worked as a laborer at a dock. He named his cat ‘Cat.’” She smiled and sniffled. “He was so afraid to live.”

Libby put her hand to her eyes, her face reflecting the free flowing sadness. Mr. Bald set a box of tissues on the table, and she grabbed a handful of them.

“Why were you in Joseph Madrid’s home tonight?” he asked her.

He didn’t care that Jaden was gone. All he wanted to know is why the crime had been committed. Why were they there, why did she shoot Madrid five times? It was a long story, and she didn’t know all of it, just pieces.

Distraught though she was, Libby had enough wherewithal to demand the following before mentioning a word about the act she’d committed: “I want to call my attorney.”

Had she been charged? She couldn’t remember. It was possible.

Mr. Bald sighed in defeat and pushed back from the table and left the room, making a face into the mirror, for the benefit of the other people watching.

Morbidly she thought about the funeral. Who would go? Wasn’t she supposed to be experiencing denial, or was that for the people who didn’t see the person die in their arms? It was too soon to think about how few people would be there, to honor the passing of him, to bid Jaden farewell, and hope he was no longer in pain but had found peace.

She buried her face into a tissue, then grabbed another. It was no good to cry now, she had to think about getting out of this mess. Jaden’s problems were over, hers had just begun.

Whether it was the recent experience, or her grief, time had little meaning, so she had no idea how much of it had passed when a new man came. She couldn’t see his face yet, but he was average height and had a slender build, dark hair.

“I’m done talking until a lawyer gets here,” she said, then blew her nose.

He wore a gray suit and a navy blue tie. When he sat down across from her, he put a manila folder in front of him and opened it.

“Did you hear me?” she asked him.

He nodded, jotted a few notes, then closed the folder and looked at her.

“I’m Special Agent Gates,” he announced in a quiet, solemn voice. “I’m with the FBI. You’re not being charged.” His voice was low, tainted with stale sadness, almost musical, like the beginning of Chopin’s Nocturne in C minor opus 48.

Libby didn’t understand. She shot and killed a man in his own home. The police led her away in handcuffs and put her in the back of a patrol car.

“What?” she asked.

“The FBI is absorbing this investigation and we’re dropping the charges against you. That means you’re free to go at any time, but I would like to ask you some questions first.”

That didn’t make sense. “How can that be?” she asked him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, withdrawing his badge from his pocket and showing it to her. “I know this is confusing. The FBI has been conducting an investigation into Archcroft for many years. Unfortunately Archcroft has contacts within the FBI, so we’ve had to play it safe. Joseph Madrid knew we were watching him. He was careful, so we had no proof or evidence that he was breaking the law. In a way, the FBI thanks you.”

“I’m not being charged?” Libby asked.

Special Agent Gates shook his head. “No. Here,” he said, and removed a piece of paper from the manila folder and slid it to her. Her eyes scanned over the document, taking in the legal jargon. It cleared her of all crimes she may have committed. It was dated for tonight, and signed by the Director of the FBI.

“A get out of jail free card?” she said.

One corner of Gates’ face twitched, but he didn’t smile. He nodded instead. “Now that there’s a crime scene—though you’re not indicted in it—the FBI is able to look at all of Madrid’s files. We’ve wanted to raid him for years, but, unfortunately, we haven’t had enough evidence,” he said, tapping his fingers on the table.

Having charges dropped should have relieved her, and though it was somewhat relaxing, it didn’t assuage the grief she felt.

“I know you have a lot on your mind right now,” Gates said, his voice so soothing. “I promise as soon as we hear from the hospital, I’ll give you word.”

“What?” she asked. “But Jaden’s dead.”

Special Agent Gates sighed. “No. He’s in surgery now. He lost a lot of blood. It was a close call for a second, but they got to him in time.”

Libby stood and walked around, putting her hand to her chest. “He’s going to be okay?”

“I don’t know, but he’s still alive. I promise I’ll take you to him when I get word.” He motioned to the seat she just left. “I do have some questions first, if you would.”

She grabbed more tissues and dabbed at her eyes, hating that she cried so much.
Oh God, please let him be okay
. She walked around the room for a few minutes. Finally she sat down. Back in her seat, Libby read over the document again, this time with a sense of hope.

“Here’s a pen,” Gates said, and he put a ballpoint pen on the document.

His hand. Libby watched with awe as he drew it away from her. Straight scars, crisscrossing each other, covered the skin on his hand, which he removed from the table.

Her own grief and worry about what was going to happen had so absorbed her, Libby hadn’t given Special Agent Gates a close look. He was handsome. His hair was black, graying at the temples. Based on the tautness of his face, with few wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, he was in his early forties. His nose was straight, cheekbones high, and jaw square and masculine. Behind his square reading glasses were haunting gray eyes.

Libby’s voice got stuck. She tried saying words but was physically incapable.

Gates put his cell phone on the table and said: “So I know when the hospital calls. Is everything all right?” he asked, observing her surprised face.

She nodded and tried to close her mouth.

“To fill in the blanks,” Gates said, “can you tell me who was at the house tonight?”

Libby swallowed and licked her lips. “Me,” she said, testing her voice. It worked. “Um, Alan. I don’t know his last name. Christine. I don’t know her last name. And Jaden Baker.”

Gates jotted the names in addition to capturing it on a sound recording. If the names sounded familiar to him, he didn’t show it. Her mind flipped pages back to months ago when she asked Jaden about his parents. He’d never met his father, who probably didn’t know Jaden existed. He was right about that.

“What did Alan do?” he asked.

Libby didn’t know. “He worked at Archcroft, he helped us get out.”

This was new information to Gates. “Get out of where?”

Would the explanation of it all be left to her? How much did he know?

“Um,” she said, collecting her thoughts. “Well, it was an underground facility north of San Francisco. One of their labs. I don’t know how many they have,” she added, hoping he wouldn’t ask.

Special Agent Gates did not ask, but a brief flash of regret and grief came over his face and settled behind his eyes. “An underground facility?” he mumbled, delving into his thoughts. “Who was there?”

The deliverance of his question told Libby exactly what kind of answer he sought, but she didn’t want to be the one to tell him. How could she answer without lying?

“I don’t know who all was there,” she said.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, as she suspected he would. “My question is, who was Madrid keeping in the facility?”

His gaze was intense. She had the impression that Gates could see right through her, passed her own eyes and into her mind and memories.

“Jaden,” she mumbled. “Madrid’s been hunting him for years.”

Libby was spared the question of why when there was a knock on the door and an older, taller man came inside, carrying a box. Everything about him screamed FBI, from his conservative dark suit, shiny black shoes, short gray hair and firm countenance. Gates nodded at him, and the new man nodded back. He put the box on the desk, opened, it and withdrew a thick file.

“What’s this?” Gates asked.

He handed the file to Gates, who took it but did not open it. “What is it?” he asked again.

“You’ll want to read it. It’s just the tip of the iceberg, but those are the general facts.” He pat Gates on the shoulder, regarded Libby with a smile, and left the room.