His Child. Delores Fossen
Why the heck haven’t you called me before now? Jess, it’s been three months.”
“It’s a long story. Too long to get into here. I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“It’s about Christy, isn’t it.”
Just the mention of her friend’s name made Jessie’s heart feel tight and heavy. It was as if a fist had gripped it and wouldn’t let go. Christy had been dead eight months, and the pain was still just as fresh, just as raw as it had been when Byron had come by the apartment to tell her the news. The news that Christy wouldn’t be coming home, ever.
It was so strange. Even though she’d seen her friend’s body, it was still hard to believe Christy was dead. It was hard to believe Jessie would never again hear the laughter that had come so easily to the fun-loving woman that she considered a sister in every way that counted.
“You were asking too many questions about Christy’s death,” Byron concluded. “And someone didn’t like it.”
Maybe. And maybe it had nothing to do with Christy. Jessie just didn’t know. She didn’t have time to speculate out here in the open, where she was a sitting duck. That didn’t mean she was giving up on finding the person responsible for Christy’s death. She would never do that. One way or another, she would get to the bottom of it. It was a promise she’d sworn to Christy, and herself, the day of the funeral.
She pushed the painful memories away, knowing she couldn’t deal with them at the moment. “Listen, Byron, I can’t talk much longer. I need some money, but I’m afraid I’ll be spotted. I want you to do it the way we talked about before I left Austin. Transfer all of it.”
“All of it? Jess, what’s wrong? Let me come and get you right now. Or better yet, go to the nearest police station.”
Jessie ignored that advice. “Please do the money transfer and work out some travel arrangements. I need to disappear for a while. It’ll take—what? Two days? Three?”
“If I do it the way you wanted, it’ll take three. I’ll have to cover my tracks.”
She didn’t tell him how much that scared her. Three days of hiding out. Three days of praying they wouldn’t find her again. “I’ll pick up the money at the location we discussed. I also need you to check out a warehouse here in San Antonio. And be careful. I don’t know the exact address, but it’s on Isom Road, near the airport. It’s sandwiched between two old brownstone buildings.”
“What happened there?” he asked. “Why do you want me to check it out?”
“Just see if you find anything unusual—but don’t go in there alone, Byron. It might not be safe. Also, I’d like for you to lean a little on my former employer, Ray Galindo. See if anyone was asking about me at the cantina before I disappeared. I’ll call you again when I can.”
“No!” Byron shouted. “Talk to me now. Go to the local cops—”
“I can’t do that. If I tell them everything, you’ll be in a lot of trouble.”
“To heck with that. You go to the cops. You get yourself some protection.”
“Maybe—”
“There are no ‘maybes’ about it.”
Jessie took a deep breath. “All right. I’ll go to the San Antonio police, just as soon as I have the money.” And maybe during those three days, she could figure out exactly why someone wanted her dead. “I don’t want to put my neck out that far unless I have some way to hide afterward.”
She hung up the phone, ignoring the shouts and profanity from the one person she considered her friend.
Jessie didn’t know what was going on, but she wouldn’t bring Byron into this. Not yet. It definitely wasn’t the right time to tell the San Antonio police, either. She didn’t believe they could stop what Jake McClendon and his hired help had already put into motion. They couldn’t save her. She was on somebody’s hit list, and all the cops in the state of Texas probably couldn’t stop it.
Jessie pulled the black Spurs cap lower on her forehead and started toward the motel. Such as it was. She had been able to retrieve some money—the cash from a locker she’d rented at a bowling alley. But staying at a more comfortable place might put the wrong people back on her trail. That’s why she’d chosen the downtown area, and not the north side where the kidnappers had originally found her. Maybe, just maybe, the change of location would help keep her alive.
The accommodations didn’t matter much to her, anyway, and they were temporary. In three days she would have to leave San Antonio. No doubt about it. Staying would be a mistake, and she’d made too many of those already.
One of the biggest mistakes had been going to Jake McClendon’s hotel. Now that she’d shaken off some of the effects of the fatigue and adrenaline, she wondered what had possessed her to do something that incredibly stupid. Breaking into a suite in one of the ritziest hotels on the San Antonio Riverwalk. Holding a gun on a man like him. And with all those risks, she hadn’t accomplished a darn thing—something she should have realized in advance.
What had she expected him to do? Admit to everything? Yeah, right.
Instead, she should have spent that time trying to figure out why all of this had happened to her. Of course, two days of thinking about it hadn’t produced any answers—but eventually something had to make sense. The surrogate pregnancy plot was still her first bet, if she could just figure out why McClendon had changed his mind and decided to kill her, instead.
She checked for the small dot of lipstick on the doorknob of her motel room. Still there, and in the same spot, to indicate the knob hadn’t been touched. It was an inexpensive way to detect intruders, but it wasn’t the only thing she’d added. The small door alarm she had purchased from a discount store hadn’t been tripped. Once inside, she closed the door and quickly reset the alarm.
Jessie turned on the lights and set the groceries on the foot-wide counter of the kitchenette. In this case, the kitchenette consisted of a broken microwave oven, a small fridge, and a counter with a warped top.
Home, sweet home.
A dump, actually. It was a lot like the places she’d lived as a kid. The once-white paint on the walls was now dingy yellow. Shag carpet. A shade of green no one made anymore, or wanted. The shag had been pressed flat and had probably been that way for at least two decades.
She laid her purse aside and took the things from the plastic sack. Some grapes. A small carton of milk. And a box of sugary corn flakes—the only thing in the bunch that she actually wanted to eat. The rest was so she could have some semblance of a balanced meal.
Jessie handled the last item in the bag as if it were a bomb that might explode in her hands. A home pregnancy test. She eyed it and the food again. She didn’t know which she dreaded more.
She read through the instructions for the test and peered at the small vial that was enclosed for a urine sample.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she mumbled.
It wasn’t exactly the size of receptacle that would make collecting a specimen easy, but she went into the bathroom and made do. When she came back out, she slipped the vial in its little plastic stand and placed it on the scarred night table. She set the timer on her watch for ten minutes. And waited to see if a little blue circle would form in the bottom of the tube.
The first minute crawled by.
Jessie refused to think beyond this test. First, she had to get the results. She’d go from there. Go where exactly, she didn’t know. She was sure there were rules to this game, but she didn’t know them. Heck, she didn’t even know the name of the game.
“Don’t scream,” the voice warned.
She didn’t, because her throat snapped shut. She knew that voice, knew who it was without looking behind her. Jake McClendon.
Jessie