Sins of the Mother (21 page)

The detective said, “It doesn’t matter, because as I said, we’ve ruled out you . . . and your wife. We’re working this case as if it is a stranger abduction.”

He and Jasmine were cleared, but the detective’s words provided no real relief.

“We’re concentrating now on sex offenders in the area . . .”

Sex offenders?
He couldn’t listen to any more. After a quick good-bye, Hosea hung up, not giving Detective Cohen time to pull his hope down any lower.

Hosea pressed his hands against his temple and tried to massage the fear and the anger away. He closed his eyes for just a moment of rest, but this time, it wasn’t the little girl from the morgue who waited behind his lids. It was that faceless man. With hands. With his daughter.

Sex offenders.

It was instant. It was automatic.

He felt his fury rise.

This had happened so often that he knew what to do: slowly, he uncurled his fingers, which had clenched into fists. Opened his mouth wide and inhaled oxygen. Let two seconds pass.
Exhaled carbon dioxide. Again and again. Then he counted from ten to one.

But still, his heart raced.

So he started at twenty and counted backward again. Slower, this time.

Finally, he was back to normal.

There had never been a time in his life when he’d felt such rage. It had been close to this when his father was shot. But then, at least he’d had his father with him—he could see him, touch him, protect him, and pray over him.

But he couldn’t do any of that for Jacqueline. And that’s what filled him with a fury that bubbled over, more each time.

And now he had to listen to Detective Cohen talk about child molesters . . . the scream was building up inside of him, but he couldn’t release it. It felt as if he were on the brink of crazy.

He grabbed the telephone and felt a bit of the peace that he was seeking when he heard, “Son!” But then he heard his father’s anxiety.

Reverend Bush said, “I was getting ready to call you. I just spoke with Mae Frances.” His father kept on, not taking a breath, not giving Hosea a chance to say a word. “Why didn’t you reach out to me? I would’ve gone down there with you. That’s not something you should have done alone.”

Then, when there was a pause, Hosea said, “Jasmine went with me, and it was something we had to do, because we can’t keep making this about everyone else.”

His father exhaled a long stream of air into the telephone. “We’re a family; we’re in this together. But okay, at least we know that Jacquie’s still out there.”

How do we know that?
Hosea wondered. Right now, his little girl could be . . . he had to squeeze his eyes tight as the image of his daughter and that man was back.

“Son?”

His father’s voice sounded like an echo through the pounding in his head. Finally, Hosea answered, “Yeah?”

“What’s wrong?” his father asked.

“I . . . I . . .” He panted and counted:
Ten, nine, eight . . . 

Reverend Bush said, “I know you’re not getting weary.”

His breathing was back. “It’s not that, Pops, it’s . . .” He pressed his lips together, not sure that he wanted his thoughts to turn into words. “It’s my head. All the things that I see. Everything that I imagine happening to my baby girl. I can’t stand it.”

“I know,” his father said softly. “We can’t get weary.”

“But how can I not when I can see her hurting? Hear her crying. She’s so afraid, Pops.”

“Hosea—”

“I can’t take it. And sometimes I wish . . . I almost hope . . .” Even though his eyes were shut tight, tears still squeezed through. “Pops, a part of me wishes that girl in the morgue . . . I almost wished it were Jacquie, because the thought of her being abused and tortured . . . Pops,” he sobbed, “sometimes I pray that she’s dead—”

A gasp. Then a scream. And Hosea’s eyes popped open.

In front of him, Jasmine stood, horror all over her face.

“Pops, I gotta go,” he said.

“What was—”

He hung up on his father’s words; his eyes were glued to his wife. “Jasmine,” he said as he wiped away his tears.

Her eyes were huge. She stared at him as if she didn’t know him. “You want Jacquie to be dead?” she whispered.

“No.” He stood slowly. “That’s not what I meant. I wish to God that she was here.”

Jasmine shook her head. “That’s not what you said,” she cried. “I heard you. You said you wish she was dead.”

“I only meant that I can’t stand the thought of what may be happening to her. I don’t want her to suffer; I don’t want her to have any pain. I don’t want her to be afraid. And since I can’t be there to protect her . . . then I . . . I . . . if that’s what’s happening to her, then I’d rather give her to God.”

“How can you say that?” Jasmine cried. “How can you give up on her like that when she’s out there?”

“I’m not giving up!” Hosea said. “Never. I was just talking to my father about what’s in my heart.”

“And your heart wants our daughter
dead
?”

“No. My heart wants her safe. My heart wants her happy. My heart wants no harm to ever come to her. But with every day that goes by, with each hour that passes, I know that our chances of finding her—”

He couldn’t finish that thought, not the way Jasmine barreled toward him, her hands already raised, her fingers coiled into fists. He grabbed her wrists before she could take a swing.

“Let go of me,” she growled as she fought to escape his grasp.

After a moment, he released his grip, but then stepped away from her reach. “Jasmine,” he began.

“Don’t say anything else to me, Hosea.” She shook her head as tears tracked down her face. “I can’t believe you,” she sobbed. “I can’t believe you would give up like this.” Only the walnut desk that she leaned on kept her from dropping to her knees.

“I’m not giving up,” his voice quivered as he tried to convince her. He let a few silent moments pass before he took a step forward. He needed to hold her and make her understand.

But when he moved, she did, too. She glared as she backed up. Looked at him as if she would never be able to love him again.

“I understand,” she whispered.

He wanted to believe that she did, but the way she spoke, he knew that she didn’t.

She said, “I understand your lack of faith. I understand why you want to forget Jacquie. I understand your horrible words. Because she’s . . . not . . . your . . . daughter.”

Her words were so sharp, they went beyond his heart. She slashed straight through to his soul. “No!”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “She’s not yours,” she repeated, deepening his wound. “So you couldn’t possibly love her the way Brian and I do!”

“No!” But even though he yelled, he knew her heart had hardened; she couldn’t hear him.

Jasmine stomped out of the office and slammed the door behind her.

You couldn’t possibly love her the way Brian and I do!

For the next hour, Hosea sat and heard those words over and over again.

R
EGRET
! T
HAT’S WHAT
B
RIAN WAS
living with. Like a chronic disease, his regret was ever present, ever growing.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact date when he first noticed the symptoms, though he was sure the first prickling probably came when he’d allowed Hosea to raise his child. But the doubts hadn’t disturbed him much then—they’d just lingered in a corner of his mind, simmering. After all, wasn’t he doing the right thing for everyone?

But then he’d received the call from the FBI and had made the trip across the country. He’d sat with Jasmine and shared her grief. And his regret had begun to bubble.

Then there was yesterday. The fear he’d felt when Hosea had walked into that room and said that a girl had been found made every bone inside of him tremble. While he’d waited on the other side of those heavy doors at the morgue and wondered if the dead little girl was his, his bubbling regret began to boil.

By the time he’d stumbled into his hotel room last night, his regret was volcanic. Full blown. Chronic.

Brian was sure that was why Jacqueline had come to his dreams last night, crying out for him to save her. And that was why before the New York sun even began its rise, he was already out of bed, on his knees, praying like he never had before—for forgiveness for what he’d done and for God’s mercy to bring Jacqueline home.

Then after he’d eaten and dressed, he made a list of friends and contacts who could hook him up with media. He’d make those calls tonight.

Now at the mall, Brian rattled the doorknob of the center, but the room was locked. So he waited. And paced as he waited. And thought as he paced. And his thoughts became a strategy.

“Hey, you’re here early.”

The voice startled him from his deep thoughts.

As Keith unlocked the door, he said, “Maybe I should give you the keys and let you open up in the morning.” He chuckled.

“Whatever it takes,” Brian said, trying to keep the impatience from his voice. He wasn’t interested in any kind of chitchat; he was ready to work his plan. First, he would stuff one thousand envelopes, then he’d hit the computers. After that, the phones. Then he would go to the police and the FBI and anyone else who was involved.

“So . . . you’re from California, right?” Keith asked as he clicked on the lights.

“Yeah.” Brian was already heading to the back of the room where he’d sat with Jasmine yesterday.

“So . . . how long are you going to be here?” Keith asked.

Brian pivoted and faced the young man. Twenty-four hours ago, his answer would have been just a day or two. He would have explained that he’d come just to give his support, but
there wasn’t really anything that he could do. Then last night, he’d slept with all that regret.

After a moment of thought, he said, “I’m gonna stay for as long as it takes.”

The light-brown-eyed young man nodded. “Yeah, ’cause she’s your daughter, right?”

From the moment he’d walked into this room two days ago, Brian had known he was the topic of many hushed conversations. He’d said nothing, not wanting to be any kind of distraction.

But this, he wasn’t going to take. This, he had to set straight.

“Hosea’s her father,” he said with more baritone than was naturally in his voice. “And you need to understand that. I’m just here to help Jasmine and Hosea find
their
daughter.” His stare was hard. “Just like you are.”

Keith held up his hands, began to back away. “Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”

“No offense taken,” Brian responded, though they both knew he was clearly disturbed. “I just want to make sure that everyone knows the real deal.”

Keith said, “I know now.”

“Yes, you do.” Though he was finished, Brian didn’t make a move. Just glared at the man as if his message could be sealed with a stare.

The air was thick with tension, with silence. Then their release as the door behind them swung open.

Keith turned first, as if he was looking for any reason to back away even farther from Brian. “Hey, Hosea, Jasmine. I didn’t expect you guys here so early.”

Hosea glanced at his wife before he said, “Uh, I have to get to the church, but I wanted to make sure Jasmine was fine.”
Standing behind her, Hosea couldn’t see the way Jasmine crossed her arms, rolled her eyes.

But Brian saw.

“I have a conference call,” Hosea began, “and I’ll be back right after.”

Brian frowned just a bit, his glance moving back and forth from Jasmine to Hosea. He was sure Hosea’s words were meant for his wife, but she said nothing.

Only Keith responded, “Okay, I’ll take care of Jasmine till you get back.”

Hosea hesitated, waiting for an acknowledgment from his wife. But when Jasmine moved toward the back of the room without a word or a glance, Hosea shook his head and walked out the door.

Brian said to Keith, “I’m going to finish up those envelopes that I was working on yesterday.”

“Sure,” Keith said with more than a bit of relief in his tone. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Brian had already moved away—his eyes, his thoughts, on Jasmine. She’d returned to the chair where she’d been sitting yesterday.

It must be the strain,
Brian thought as he looked at Jasmine, so different than when he’d seen her the day before.

He sat next to her and lifted a flyer from the stack. “Should we just pick up where we were?”

Jasmine didn’t look at him when she nodded. She stared at the envelopes on the table until Brian handed her a folded flyer.

Silently, the two moved together. Their own assembly line: a flyer, then an envelope. A flyer, then an envelope.

Brian kept up with her, but with a sideways glance he studied her slumped shoulders, slackened face, and dreary eyes. He could tell that she hadn’t taken the care to get dressed the way
she had yesterday. He was used to seeing Jasmine in only high-end clothes and perfectly applied makeup, no matter what she was going through. But not today.

The faded black jogging suit she wore with its frazzled sleeves looked just about ready to be thrown away. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, though there was more hair outside of the elastic band than there was being held back. And without makeup, Brian could see the worry lines and the circles under her eyes.

He let some time pass, then, “Are you okay?”

Tears were already making paths by the time she raised her eyes. Brian didn’t wait for an answer, just grabbed her hand, lifted her from her seat, and led her toward the door.

Keith frowned as they passed; he opened his mouth, took another look at Brian, and then shut his mouth hard.

Jasmine and Brian kept moving until they bumped into Mrs. Whittingham.

She took one look at the two holding hands, and she said, “Where . . .”

But they were already down the hall at the escalator by the time Mrs. Whittingham finished her question. Only then did Brian release Jasmine’s hand.

Jasmine sniffed and asked, “Where
are
we going?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “We can grab a cup of coffee. Or we can just walk. Whatever you want.”