Hand of Fate (8 page)

Chapter
12

Pierce Residence

Allison picked up the phone to call Child Protective Services, but instead of a dial tone, all she got was a fast busy signal. Again. The phone lines were still overwhelmed, even though the radio and TV stations were urging everyone to stay off the phone unless it was an emergency. She held Estella on her lap, the useless phone loose in her hand. "I guess she's ours to take care of, at least for now," she told Marshall.

He crouched down on his heels. "Well, that's not such a hardship, is it, sweetheart? Aren't you a pretty thing. And smart. I can tell just by looking at those bright eyes that you're smart."

Estella watched him, her face serious, her rosebud lips pressed together as if she were waiting for something.

"Maybe try something in Spanish," Allison said. "You know more than I do."

"Which is hardly anything," he said. Then he looked at Estella. "Hola. Me llamo Marshall," he said. He reached his hand toward her, fingertip extended.

To their surprise, she flinched, then turned her head and started to cry softly, a repetitive, exhausted sound. Allison pulled the little girl to her chest and patted her back.

"It's like she's afraid of me." Marshall stood up and took a couple of steps back.

"Oh, I don't think so," Allison said, but part of her worried he was right. Maybe not afraid of Marshall, but of another man. Some man in her life. The thought made her heart contract. Had anyone ever hurt Estella? Even uttered a harsh word to her? "I think she's had a terribly long day, and you're just one more stranger looming over her. We've had hours to get used to each other." Turning Estella back around, she still held her close, thinking that the girl might be able to feel her heart beating against her shoulder blades. Maybe she could think like a mother after all.

"Do you think she's hungry?" Marshall asked. Then he turned his gaze to Estella, careful not to come any closer. "Comida?" He looked at Allison. "I think that's it, anyway. I don't remember the word for hungry, but I think comida means food. Comida, Estella?"

Estella licked her lips.

At the sight of her little pink tongue, Allison said,"I think you got her interest." Then a bit of panic set in. "What do we have in the house to feed a child, Marshall?"

They both liked to cook, with the result that their refrigerator was stocked with items like capers, kalamata olives, and roasted red peppers. And what was Estella used to eating? Did they have any tortillas in the house? Or refried beans? And what if all she really wanted was something like a Pop-Tart?

Allison's earlier feeling of confidence was evaporating. Weren't there rules about what you fed toddlers, like no grapes or hot dogs or hard candies, so they didn't choke? And what about allergies?

"We'd better not give her peanut butter," she said. "Or any kind of nuts. What about milk? Do you think milk would be okay?" She looked at Estella. "Leche?" she hazarded.

Estella looked interested. So, a glass of milk. Allison wondered if they had any plastic cups.

"I think we've got one of those blue boxes of mac and cheese," Marshall said. "Don't all kids like mac and cheese?"

They all ended up eating the mac and cheese, although Marshall couldn't resist grating half a block of Tillamook Sharp Cheddar into the pan.

Before they took their first bite, he said grace. "God, thank You that You kept us all safe today. Thank You for bringing Estella and Allison together, and help us to get Estella back to her family. And help this city to get back to normal--and for this crime to be solved. Loving God, watch over us."

"Amen," Allison said, and then ladled pasta onto everyone's plate.

In lieu of a booster seat, Estella was perched on the yellow pages. She had only consented to leave Allison's lap when their two chairs were placed side-by-side.

"Nicole and I were supposed to meet with Jim Fate tomorrow. He was getting death threats."

"Guess they were more than threats," Marshall said. "Did he say who they were from?"

"He didn't say much at all." Allison sighed. "And now it's too late to ask."

"Do you think it's terrorism?"

She raised her shoulders. "Who knows? Jim Fate has made a career out of making enemies. It could be personal, it could be political, or it could be anything in-between."

Estella ate well, but was still unnaturally quiet, jumping at any unexpected noise. Eventually, the child's head began to droop. Her eyes were at half-mast. It wasn't yet seven o'clock, but Estella was clearly ready for bed.

Allison tried calling Child Protective Services again. She was surprised when she actually got a dial tone and then again when th
e p
hone began to ring. And ring and ring. She was about to hang up when an obviously harried woman answered.

Allison quickly explained what had happened. She could hear the caseworker's sigh through the line.

"I can't get hold of most of my staff. Even if I could, I'm not sure I could find a foster home for this girl right now. The Red Cross is working on a Web site to reconnect missing relatives, but it's not up yet." As she spoke, more phones rang in the background. "Look, I need to put you on hold for a second."

When the woman came back on the line a full five minutes later, Allison said,"Why don't you take the information I have about Estella. Things should be better by tomorrow, and we can keep her for tonight. And you could always call us if you hear from her family."

"Sounds great," the caseworker said, and from her tone Allison could tell she was already moving on to the next set of problems.

After Allison hung up, Marshall said,"Maybe I should sleep in the guest room, and you two can have our bed. I mean, we can't leave her on her own, and I seem to make her nervous."

"Honey, are you sure that's okay? The guest bed isn't that comfortable."

He raked one hand through his hair. "Of course it's okay. A few hours ago, I thought I might never see you again. Sleeping on the guest bed is a small price to pay for having you safe and sound."

Getting ready for bed offered more challenges. Luckily, Estella knew how to use the toilet. Should Allison try to bathe her, change her clothes? But she had to admit that she would look askance at any stranger who undressed or bathed her future child. She set Estella on the edge of the tub and contented herself with removing her little socks and shoes. Using a warm, wet washcloth, Allison knelt down and wiped Estella's face, hands, and feet, murmuring baby talk that felt a littl
e m
ore natural than it had earlier in the day. When Marshall knocked on the door, Allison was marveling over Estella's tiny, perfect toes.

"It's strange to think that in six months we'll have our own baby toes to stare at." Marshall's voice was husky, as if the day was catching up with him.

Allison felt exhausted, from the miles she had walked and from the residue of fear that had hovered over her the whole time. "I don't know if I'm ready." She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling the full weight of the day. Only half-aware of the gesture, she put her hand on her belly.

"I don't think anyone is ever ready." Marshall's hand was warns on her shoulder. "We're just going to have to take it a day at a time, and trust God to give us the wisdom we need."

Allison carried Estella to the bed and tucked her in on Marshall's side. Estella closed her eyes, her breathing already slowing. But when Allison turned to get up, the little girl opened her eyes and sat up, crying out in Spanish. The only word Allison understood was "Mami!"

Reluctantly relinquishing the idea of a shower, she slipped into her pajamas and slid into bed. And five minutes later, she and Estella were both asleep.

In the middle of the night, Allison jerked awake from a nightmare where people had again been falling to the sidewalk, but this time bright-red blood bubbled from their lips. She lay in the darkness and heard Estella repeat, "Mami, Mami, Mami." Her little voice was sad and hopeless, and it made Allison's heart break.

She reached over and switched on the light by the bed. "Hush, honey. I'm here. I'll watch over you."

But Estella still begged, looking past her, unwilling to pretend any longer that this stranger was her mother. ''Mami. Mami."

It was a long time before they both fell asleep.

Chapter
13 Hedges Residence

Dear God," Berenice Hedges began, and Nic obediently closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of the heaping platters of food. She didn't believe in making her mother angry. Especially when she was starving.

Besides, they did have a lot to be thankful for. Mama squeezed Nic's hand, and Nic passed it on by squeezing her daughter's hand. She heard Makayla's giggle as she completed the circle by squeezing her grandpa's hand.

Nic was alive. Mrs. Lofland was alive, when she could so easily have been trampled to death in the stairway. Nic's family was fine, as were nearly all the residents of the city of Portland. And right now, as Nic waited for Mama to finish praying, she could smell the tureen of milk gravy sitting directly under her nose, the mouthwatering scents of beef and garlic and roux. She was alive and she was hungry, and she was about to eat a delicious meal.

And then there was Leif. Nic had let him hold her this afternoon. Only for a moment. But she had let herself relax against his broad chest, tucked her head under his chin, and felt some of the unbearable tension leave her body.

"Amen," Mama said. At the same time Makayla's hand shot ou
t a
nd grabbed the serving dish heaped with potatoes that had been cooked along with the pot roast.

"Say excuse me," Nic cautioned, as Makayla heaped potatoes on her plate.

Her daughter grinned unrepentantly. Her braids bounced as she lunged forward for a roll.

"So will Makayla be staying with us for a while?" Nic's father asked. Lloyd Hedges was a tall, slender man with big eyes made even bigger by his narrow face.

"I'm afraid so. They're putting together a task force to figure out exactly what happened." Nic tried to hide her pride at the next bit of news. "I've been appointed the case agent." She had lobbied hard for it, pointing out to John Drood, the special agent in charge, that Jim Fate had reached out to her and Allison just before he was killed.

"Congratulations," Berenice said. "I think." She knew what long hours such an assignment meant.

"Why can't I just stay home by myself instead of coming here after school?" Makayla said. "I'm almost ten. And everybody thinks I'm at least twelve."

Makayla already came up to Nic's nose. She had another striking feature: her unusual green eyes. Even strangers commented on them and sometimes asked where she had gotten them.

No matter how much she tried to pretend Makayla was all hers, there were times when the truth slapped Nic in the face. The green eyes, the height, the paler hue of her skin--all came from Makayla's daddy.

But Nic had sworn to herself that Makayla would never, ever know that.

Or him.

Nic shook her head. "It doesn't matter what you look like. Wha
t m
atters is how old you really are. And in this state you have to be twelve before you can stay home alone. Besides, in the next couple of weeks there are probably going to be times when I don't come home until after midnight. Your grandma will feed you and make sure you brush your teeth and do your homework."

"And say your prayers before you go to sleep," Mama added, giving Nic a significant look.

Nic didn't rise to the bait. She was mostly silent through dinner, her mind going back through everything that had happened during the day. Was it really just this morning that the Bratz Bandits trial had begun? It seemed like a week ago.

She mentally retraced her route down the stairs with Mrs. Lofland, and then back into the courthouse. She again saw Mrs. Lofland safely into a taxi--paying the driver herself over the older woman's protests--and then walked with Leif back to the FBI office. It had been a rare sunny day, the kind that made you think that spring was just around the corner. February could be cruel like that.

But as they walked through the nearly empty streets, past abandoned cars and even an empty stroller, Nic only had eyes for Leif. "Did you ever listen to his show?" Leif had asked.

"The Hand of Fate? Not really. Too one-sided for me. He made sure he always had the last word. Not to speak ill of the dead, but the last time I listened to him, he was saying that food companies could be counted on to do a good job of policing themselves because they wouldn't want to kill off their own customers. And that the big-government advocates were using Chicken Little tactics to scare consumers. Well, hello, I am scared. I've got a child to raise. Peanut butter is pretty much 50 percent of Makayla's diet. And that one company had rats and mold and all kinds of things it doesn't bear thinking about. I say, bring on the nanny state." She realized Leif was grinning at her. "What?"

He shook his head, looking amused. "I just don't think I've ever seen you get that riled up."

"And I don't like to feel like that. If I'm going to listen to the radio, I'd rather listen to some jams, not something that's going to raise my blood pressure. But don't worry. Just because I want the food policed doesn't mean I won't do a good job on this."