No one left, p.15
No One Left, page 15
Barbara was only half listening, because while James was right about that, Barbara wasn’t finished with her anger.
“And how easy would it have been for this Janice to convince George to give Adriel up?” she went on. “How easy would it have been for her to show George just how many wealthy families were lining up to give Adriel a better life? A better education. Better opportunities. Everything better! But it’s not better just because it’s their way! Our way is good for our people! Being here. On this sacred land. Learning from our elders. Understanding that we are all a small part of something much larger, something that goes back to the beginning. It’s what Adriel needs. It’s what we all need! They’ll never understand that. They want everything that’s ours. It’s never enough! Why? Why isn’t it enough?”
Barbara felt like her chest would explode. She needed to move, so she strode out of James’s trailer and let out the yell that had been trapped inside of her. Even the dog backed away. She turned and looked at the mutt with his ears tucked into his head and his tail between his legs.
“I’m not crazy,” she told him. He stared back at her. “It’s our children. Our children.” The dog almost seemed to understand her. Understand, at least, that she wasn’t a threat. He sat down but kept his eyes on her. Finally, Barbara went back inside.
“I’m coming with you to that children’s home,” she said. “You’ll need my help.”
42
JAMES
They needed to get inside, that much was clear, and so James told Molly and Barbara that it was time for a little performance. They would be a family. He and Barbara were looking to adopt.
“Molly, I might have you stay in the car,” James said. “Scope out the property first and then keep a lookout. See if Adriel comes in or out of any of the doors. If you’re questioned, you can say your parents are inside.”
“Barb,” James said, turning to Barbara, who was adjusting her wig in the hotel room’s bathroom. “If this sort of acting turns your stomach—and I understand if it does—you just let me do the talkin’.”
Barbara didn’t respond. Molly only nodded.
“You gals ready for this?”
Barbara turned to face him. “If Adriel is here, I will murder George Morris myself.”
A smile crept onto Molly’s face.
“Is that a confession?” James asked.
“Yes,” Barbara said.
James sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Let me handle one murder case at a time, please.”
The children’s home did look quite nice. These people had money. No cracking cement. No peeling paint. It looked like a college campus with a full, brand-new playground snaking around the side of the main building.
James grabbed Barbara’s hand as they walked up the steps, and she held her head a little higher. He could hear laughter inside. Happy sounds.
He rang the doorbell with his free hand. Barbara still did not look at him. She seemed to be concentrating, getting into character.
James rang a second time, and a moment later, a woman answered. She wore a casual blouse tucked into a pair of jeans. Her brown hair was pulled back by a scarf.
“Can I help you?”
“I sure hope so,” James said with a wide grin. “My wife and I are lookin’ to adopt!”
“Oh.” The young woman brought a hand to her chest. “Well, you’ll need to get in touch with our sister agency, then. This is the home for orphans.”
“Yes! We would like to adopt an orphan! We’d like to see who’s available.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but that’s not usually how this works.”
“Well, maybe not usually. But we spoke to Mr. Andrews. He’s a friend of mine. He said to come by and check out the kids.”
James stared intently at the young woman, who stammered an apology.
“I suppose I could show you around a little. But there are many factors in an adoption, and I can’t exactly guarantee . . .”
“That’s the spirit.” James plastered on that grin again and brushed past the woman, pulling Barbara along with him.
The entrance to the house was grand, and he could hear feet pitter-pattering on the floor above.
“So, the children attend classes,” the woman said, trying to scurry ahead. “But we can poke our heads into some of the classrooms if you would like.”
“Sure, sure,” James said. “That sounds good. We’re lookin’ for an Indian kid. You see, my wife here has got some Indian blood in her on her daddy’s side.” James paused here to lean into the young woman. He lowered his voice. “Indian princess, would you believe it? Anyhow, we’d love to ah . . . tap into that heritage.”
The young woman smiled warmly at them. James didn’t dare look at Barbara just then, but he hoped she wasn’t rolling her eyes.
“I see. Well, there’s certainly no shortage of Indian children here. It’s a common request among our adopters, as well. Life is difficult for the Indian children. They come from poverty and broken homes, drug addiction and alcoholism. I believe God blesses the Indian children who find their way here. And the potential parents who have it in their hearts to give these children a better future.”
“It’s a damn shame what those kids have to deal with,” James said, shaking his head. “A damn shame.” He squeezed Barbara’s hand to remind her this was all an act. He knew she would bite her tongue, but he also knew how much willpower that would take. In response, she gripped his hand tighter. Her nails jabbed into his skin.
“That certainly narrows our classrooms down, too! We put the Indian children together, because we have found them to be quite behind in their education. So, please be aware of that. In fact, the state classifies these children as ‘special needs,’ because it takes a bit of work for them to catch up in public school.”
“And once we find an Indian child we like, what happens then?” he asked.
“Our adoption agency will get you the appropriate paperwork, but we like to make it as simple as possible for you all. We want these children to find homes, even though we love taking care of them here.”
“No legal headaches, then?” James asked.
“Oh, no. Our lawyers have already done the work. Just show up on your court date to sign the papers.”
“Wonderful.”
The woman led them up the stairs and into a classroom to their right. She opened the door slowly. A male teacher stood at the front of a room full of Indian children at their desks. Everyone looked up.
“Sorry to interrupt,” the young woman murmured to the teacher. Her face turned pink. “We have a friend of Mr. Andrews here today who is interested in adopting! He’s just having a look around.”
The teacher’s gaze moved from the young woman to James and Barbara. He gave them a tight smile and a single nod. Then, he turned back to the class.
“Children! Please say hello to Mr. and Mrs. . . .”
“Mulvaney!” James boomed.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Mulvaney,” the children said.
James scanned each child’s face. Not Adriel. Not Adriel. Not Adriel. Not Adriel. He looked at Barbara. Her eyes were sharp. Her lips unmoving. James wondered if she recognized any of these kids.
“Looks like there’s some learnin’ happenin’ here!” James said. “We’ll leave you to it. Apologies for interrupting.”
James turned to the young woman. “You got more classrooms?”
“Three more full classrooms. One of Indian children.”
“Let’s see it.”
The woman took them to another classroom, where there was, once again, no Adriel.
“Do you want to, um, speak with any of the children? Meet them?” the woman asked.
“We’ll be in touch with the agency,” James said. “If you’ll point me in the direction of the little boys’ room, we’ll be out of your hair.”
43
MOLLY
Molly had expected lookout duty to be boring, so when a young man stepped out of a car, looked around nervously, and then darted to the side of the building—away from the playgrounds and toward the dumpsters—she had to convince herself that he was, in fact, who she thought he was.
She had only met Isaiah Winters that one time. But the nervous man in the parking lot was definitely the same guy who’d incessantly stirred his coffee that morning in the kitchen.
She could still see him, but barely. He stood at the top of a sloping hill, next to one of the building’s side doors. One hand was slung across his body, clutching his side, while the other held a lit cigarette.
Molly waited, watching. A minute, two minutes, maybe five. Finally, another man emerged from the side door, and the two began to speak. Molly grabbed her sketchpad and pencil and tried to begin sketching the second man. But he was too far away.
Could she get closer? She spotted a bench not too far from them and wondered how suspicious it would be if she sat there. The men seemed engrossed in their conversation, so maybe if she was quiet and inconspicuous, she could manage it. Isaiah couldn’t recognize her, though. She had a pair of sunglasses—and was grateful it was a sunny day—but thought she needed more. She looked in the back seat and found James’s baseball cap. She scooped her hair up, twisted it on top of her head, and tucked it under the cap. Good enough, she thought. She grabbed her purse—with her pistol inside—and opened the door.
When she got out of the car, she hugged the building as she approached the walking path and bench. She hoped she could pass as a staff member, which she thought would be less suspicious. But then, maybe that would make the men stop talking. Maybe it was better to pass as a kid. A resident. She took her jacket from around her waist and put it on. She wasn’t sure what she was trying to be, but she knew she needed a good look at the man’s face. Catching a little of their conversation wouldn’t hurt, either.
She walked slowly but deliberately toward the bench. When she sat, her back was to the men. She carefully opened her purse and brought out her pocket mirror. She opened it and looked through it at them. They didn’t seem to have noticed her. She studied Isaiah’s companion. Long, light-brown hair. Clean-shaven chin and lip. Purposeful, neatly trimmed sideburns. Clear skin. Lighter eyes, maybe green. A few freckles across his nose. Early twenties. Denim button-down.
“I thought you were done with this now they’re gone,” he said.
“I thought so, too, but maybe I shouldn’t be. Maybe I should finish what we started.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
Molly didn’t hear Isaiah’s response.
The other man spoke again. “And so, just, what? Screw me and my job? Is that it?”
“You actually want to work for these monsters?” Isaiah asked.
“I want to pay my rent.”
“We can find you another job.” Isaiah lightly touched the other man’s forearm, and the man’s face relaxed.
“It’s just . . . these are powerful people,” the man said.
“You think I don’t know this? My parents are dead. Murdered.” Isaiah’s voice cracked.
“So why keep going?”
Isaiah pulled away. He sighed. “If I’m losing sleep anyway, I might as well do some good.”
There was silence. Molly kept still, studying them.
“This is the last thing, right?” the man asked.
“I promise.”
The man looked at his wristwatch. “Give me five minutes.”
Isaiah glanced around, and Molly lowered her mirror into her lap. “Take your time,” he said, though Molly could tell he didn’t mean it.
“I’ll be right back,” the other man said, and then he went back inside.
Molly didn’t know what to do now. She wanted to leave, but that would draw attention. She also wanted to stay and find out why Isaiah was there. She slid down into herself, trying to hide most of her body as she sketched the other man. Every so often, she would bring her mirror up to see if Isaiah was still there. To see if the other man had come back.
It felt like more than five minutes, but she couldn’t be sure. James had bought her a watch, but she never wore it. She would need to start.
Finally, the other man came back out. She brought the mirror up. Papers.
They didn’t say anything else. Isaiah left, and the other man went back inside. Molly sat on the bench for a while after, finishing her sketch.
44
ADRIEL
After calling Barbara, Adriel stayed where he was. He didn’t want to. He wanted to leave. Run as far away as he could. But he thought maybe Barbara could find him now. Maybe Wayne or James knew how to find him through the phone wires.
He’d thought Mr. Tallsalt was a good person, but maybe he was wrong about that. He’d thought his dad loved him, but maybe he was wrong about that, too. Maybe Adriel had trusted them too much. Maybe no one was really good. Maybe all grownups had bad things inside them. Things that made them lie to kids.
Adriel wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t cooperate. He spent his days in his bedroom or outside, ignoring everyone. Once, he’d even hit his dad when George got frustrated and tried to grab him. It made him a little sad to see his dad’s face after that. Surprised. Confused. But Adriel was determined to stay mad. It wasn’t okay what they were doing. It all felt wrong.
And then, one day, Mr. Tallsalt said, “We have somewhere important to go today, Adriel. And if you don’t go willingly, we will drag you there. Do you understand?”
Adriel nodded.
45
SANCHEZ
Curtis Vasco always carried himself as if his memories had been wiped clean the moment he crossed the border. And maybe, in a way, they had. Sanchez had no idea what the attorney general had experienced in Mexico as a teenager. He didn’t know what needed forgetting. But Vasco was an American now, through and through.
The attorney general’s son, Curtis Jr.—or CJ, as most kids called him—had embraced baseball, because it was one of the few places he was allowed to be himself. Brown and Mexican and also American. The baseball diamond didn’t care. So, when he threw his shoulder out freshman year of college when the major league recruiters were already eying him, he took it particularly hard. He never played baseball again, never finished college, and bounced from job to job. He had not found peace as an adult.
Sanchez knew the senior Curtis would speak to him. They had, in some ways, kept in touch. Their families sent one another Christmas cards and invited each other to birthday and anniversary celebrations. Not surprisingly, the attorney general approved of Sanchez’s career field. He never acted as though he was better than a police officer or the son of a police officer who now worked in narcotics. Curtis Vasco believed in law and order.
But Sanchez had never asked the attorney general for a work-related favor. Though it was understood that they respected one another’s work, they never spoke of it beyond a simple, “How are things at the office?” and the standard reply, “Oh, they’re going. You know how it is.”
So, for Sanchez to call up Curtis Vasco and ask to meet, to ask to bring along a friend—a private detective poking around the business of government officials—it took some working up of courage. And some whiskey.
Curtis’s wife answered. “Gabriel! So good to hear from you. How is your mother?”
“She’s good. Keeping busy with the church. Making packages for the children’s hospital right now.”
“Oh, bless her. She’s a good woman. You’ll tell her I said hello, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And how about your sisters? Your father?”
“They’re all doing well.”
“That’s good to hear. What can I help you with tonight, dear?”
“Is your husband home?”
“He is.”
“I wanted to ask him something. I wanted to see if he has time to meet up with me and a friend.”
“Oh, I’m sure he has time for you, Gabriel. Let me go get him.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Vasco.”
Sanchez took another sip of his whiskey as he waited, listening to how quiet the Vasco house was on the other end of the line.
Finally, he heard Curtis’s voice. “Gabriel. How have you been?” Smooth and deep. Assured. The attorney general had also, of course, always intimidated Sanchez.
“Well, sir. And you?”
“Busy. Busy.”
“I can imagine, sir. I was calling to see if I could grab just an hour or so of your time. Perhaps we can schedule time for coffee? Or I could buy you lunch.” Sanchez cleared his throat. Why did his voice sound so high and shaky?
“I’m sure I could make that happen. Let me take a look at my calendar.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Next week. On Tuesday. An 8 a.m. coffee?”
“That would be perfect. I uh . . .” Just get it done with, Sanchez told himself. “Would you mind if I brought a buddy of mine? He’s a private investigator working a case he thought you’d be interested in.”
“James Pinter,” the attorney general said.
Sanchez’s mouth felt sticky. “Yes, that’s right. How did you know?”
“Word gets around.”
Sanchez waited. Swallowed too many times.
“He’s working the Judge Winters case,” Vasco said.
“I uh . . .” Still nothing was coming to Sanchez. The whiskey was supposed to give him courage, but now his thoughts were stuck.
“It’s all right, Gabriel,” the attorney general said. “He’s welcome to come. I’d like to hear what he has to say.”
“Excellent, sir. Thank you. We’ll see you Tuesday.”
“Please say hello to your family.”
“Yes, sir.” Sanchez hung up. His hand shook as he brought his glass to his lips and sipped. Lark was the one telling people about Pinter. That Sanchez was working with him. Probably warning them. Shit. He slammed his glass down. What a stupid decision. This would send him back to patrol.
