Echoes (7 page)
Matt Hammond must have been thinking he'd stepped into
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
. The strange thing was, she didn't care. The bond she felt with Star and her mother and Lance, and even Sofie and Antonia, meant more than anyone's opinion. They were family, and she'd learned in the Bronx, amid the chaos and clamor of Lance's relatives, exactly how much that meant.
She sent Mom a soft smile, and her mother smiled back.
Matt searched the faces. He didn't know what to make of the supposed miracle healing or Lance Michelli. The man might be a fanatic, except he'd deflected attention—not the sociopathic behavior of a cult leader. Until Star spoke up, he'd seemed normal enough—concerned, but normal.
Matt slid his gaze to the guy's primary relationship: Rese Barrett. She'd been uncomfortable with the talk of miracles and healings, though she hadn't denied the occurrence. She was obviously in love with Lance Michelli. An attraction of opposites? She'd demonstrated loyalty and an instinct to protect. What would she be willing to hide?
The mother exhibited neurodegenerative thought and motor characteristics, but he didn't automatically discount what she'd said. If Maria had been "taken away," they were not dealing with abandonment, and while that didn't affect his taking the infant into the legal, and possibly physical, custody of the state, it might impact things later.
Star's was an odd though appealing lunacy. Even Sofie . . . He hadn't noticed her wrists until the window's light caught the faint scars. They piqued a desire to know more, but that was part of the job. The more details he could gather about each of them, the better he could decide whether to remove the infant from the home where he was being cared for and try to find a different place in an overtaxed system.
Had things in this house frightened Maria enough to leave the baby? He wasn't making assumptions, but if she was in the country illegally, she could have been manipulated with threats of exposure or expulsion. She might not know the infant's American citizenship would give her the right to stay. Anchor babies were a goal of illegals for that very reason. She had nothing to gain by leaving him—unless she'd been forcibly separated.
He wasn't seeing that here. If there'd been any illegal adoption or baby transfer plans, the last thing they'd do was notify his department. Not when they had an undocumented infant. And their concern for Maria seemed genuine.
He finished jotting down his notes. "I'll need to see the baby."
Rese led him into a suite off the kitchen. The infant lay curled in the center of the bed, like an inch worm, knees to elbows. His brownish skin was touched with a slight newborn rash, and he had a full head of black hair. Matt lifted the baby from the bed and examined the square face, the unmarred mouth. Mass hallucination?
The old woman watching over him didn't seem the sort. She fixed him with a rapier look and said, "Don't w . . . ake him." The lag in her speech might suggest stroke, but she was used to matriarchal power.
"I'll try not to." Matt sat down on the chair and unbundled the baby. He checked him for bruises, malnutrition, any sign of neglect. He seemed healthy. "How's he been fed?"
"Maria nursed him." It was Lance Michelli who answered. "He's had formula since she left."
Matt noted the dimples on the infant's fist. "But she nursed him for a week?"
They all nodded.
"Has he been fussy, colicky . . . ?"
"No more than any newborn, and less than some." Again Michelli.
Matt cocked a brow. "You have experience?"
"Nieces and nephews. We all live close, or did. They're in the Bronx." He glanced at his sister, who had followed him into the room. "Except Sof, who just got here."
She said, "Our family owns an apartment building and lives in most of it. Lots of children."
Matt nodded then turned back to Lance. "You said Maria hasn't named him, so I'm guessing there's no birth certificate?"
"Not yet. The midwife's been asking."
It wasn't the strangest case he'd handled and was far from the worst. He'd seen no sign of drugs, no weapons. He wasn't there to judge their religion, only the safety of the environment. And if there was any truth to what Elaine Barrett claimed to have seen, Maria may not have chosen to leave the child. That argued for as much stability in the situation as he could provide. She'd look for her child here, if she could—or chose to.
"Well, he seems healthy. I'm going to place him in the legal custody of the state." He glanced around. "That can include physical placement unless you're willing and able to care for the infant while we sort this out?"
"Of course," Sofie replied unequivocally. "We have six adults here. We can certainly care for one newborn baby."
"I'll need to assign someone temporarily as physical guardian." He turned to Lance Michelli. "If Maria asked you . . ."
He nodded. "I will, but I think she'll be back. If she can."
Matt's instincts told him the same. But he'd been wrong before. People were endlessly disappointing.
————
After leaving the villa, Matt squeezed in between crates of Gatorade and Ensure stacked on the narrow, shady porch and knocked on the door of the small house. If the place hadn't almost been hidden by the surrounding foliage, the neighbors might have had a serious beef with the pack-rat resident. When the door swung open, he saw that the porch was not an anomaly. Packs of toilet paper rose like insulation from floor to ceiling along both sides of the entryway.
The woman patted the packages and smiled warmly. "For the church outreach."
They swapped TP instead of recipes? Handed it out like tracts? He extended his hand. "Matt Hammond." There was not one attractive feature on the woman, yet he found the whole of her homeliness oddly charming.
"Come on in. None of this bites."
He could get buried alive in it though.
"You wanted to talk about Maria?"
He followed her down the hall. "I need to find out if she's got family here who would take responsibility for the infant."
"If she does they ought to be drawn and quartered." She tossed a glance over her shoulder. "I mean that in the kindest way."
"Of course. And why do you hold this compassionate opinion?"
They broke free into a kitchen that was amazingly immaculate; the floor, sink, stove, and three feet of usable counter space fairly sparkled. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
He wouldn't especially but said, "Herbal if you have it."
She took down a canister. "I think osmanthus. You don't strike me as needing chamomile."
Without caffeine, chamomile would have him snoring. "You were saying about Maria . . ."
"Ever seen slavery?" She spooned a teaspoon of yellow bits into a steeping bag and pulled the string tight. "I've read about it, watched documentaries. It's a whole different thing to see it in action."
"You're saying . . ."
"I would be shocked if she was in her living situation voluntarily."
Matt crossed his arms. "How did you find her?"
"I take supplies to that part of Agua Caliente." She poured water from the already steaming kettle over the tea bag nestled inside a flowered cup and saucer. "People are packed into those apartments like . . . Well, mostly they're families trying to get by. They work in town, cooking, cleaning, construction, or nearby, picking. But when I asked about the men who had Maria, the women crossed themselves and spat."
"And that told you what?"
"I'm not great with the language, but I know what
diablo
means. If they're the devil's tools, it can't be good for her."
"That's what the women told you? They worked for the devil?"
"Did the devil's work. Make of that what you will." Michelle removed the bag and handed him the tea. "Once I knew she was there, I kept an eye out. They never let her leave the building. Only reason I got her out to have the baby is that they were scared stiff to deliver it."
"Why didn't she go to the hospital? They're required to treat her."
Michelle shrugged. "She was terrified, absolutely refused, so a midwife in the church took her on."
"Can I get that number?" He sipped the tea while she flipped through a personal directory and wrote it on a slip of paper.
"Here you go. But the baby was born by the time Mrs. Sommers got called."
"Did Maria intend to dispose of him?"
Michelle brought a hand to her bosom, stunned by his word choice or the idea itself.
"If her situation was as bad as you say, she might not have motherly feelings for him. She might have thought he'd be better off dead, and . . . maybe that's why she refused the hospital."
Michelle couldn't be so naïve as to think it didn't happen. The birth could have caught the girl by surprise, and then people in the house were there before she could harm the infant. Or maybe she had, and that was why he wasn't breathing when Lance picked him up.
"She seemed fine the times I checked. Sleeping almost constantly, but nursing and changing and holding the baby when she was awake."
"So you'd say she bonded."
"I didn't see anything to make me think otherwise."
He sipped the sharply floral, almost peachy, brew. "How well do you know Lance Michelli?"
"Well enough to trust him with a young mother. Rese had been attending our Bible study before she started working such long hours."
"Ever seen him work a miracle?"
"What?"
"Star claims Lance healed the baby's cleft palate." He waited while Michelle turned that over in her mind.
"If a miracle happened, it was God who worked it. But I will say this. I've had a burden for that man since the day I met him."
"What kind of burden?"
"To uphold him in prayer. Sometimes protection. Sometimes just lift him up." She poured water over a second bag for herself. "The night that baby was born, I awoke with tears streaming from my eyes and a sense of wonder and delight."
This was getting too weird. "Did you know what happened?"
"Not until now."
"No one else said anything? Not even Lance when you checked in?"
She shook her head.
Why would he keep it quiet? He could have all the zealots hailing him prophet—or charlatan. Not to mention the scores of blind and lame who'd come falling at his feet. Tidy little racket if he played it right.
Instead, he'd low-keyed the supposed healing. There'd been no sign of a cleft on the baby's face, except a faint red line. Where it had closed? He frowned. His job required analysis and observation and a good deal of intuition. It didn't call for superstition.
"Have you heard from Maria in the last twenty-four hours?"
"No." She removed the tea bag from her cup.
"Do you have reason to believe the baby could be in danger?" He drank his tea, eager to be done.
"Maria could be. The baby? I don't know."
He handed back the cup and thanked her, then made his way through packaged diapers, toothpaste, dish soap, canned goods, and the walls of toilet paper to the door. He pocketed the midwife's info. He would call from the car and see if she'd answer some questions. Michelle had raised his concern for Maria, but the young mother wasn't his responsibility—only her infant.
Some ten minutes later, the midwife motioned him into the sunroom tacked onto the front of the house, or maybe it was a porch converted to a solarium. "So what would you like to know about Maria's little son?"
They went over what he'd already been told. Mrs. Sommers knew nothing about a cleft lip. The infant had presented healthy when she arrived.
"Did you suggest Maria take the baby to the hospital to make sure?"
Mrs. Sommers shook her head. "The girl was adamant. No hospital. No
mèdico
."
"And no birth certificate?"
She shrugged. "Maria hasn't named him."
"This baby's an American citizen. He's eligible for assistance. He's also her ticket to remaining in the U.S. Why would she keep his birth secret?"
She crossed her arms. "Maybe she doesn't want to remain."
R
ese followed the sloughing sound and smell of wet plaster to the scaffolding Brad had set up inside the three-story San Francisco row house. Even though the day was wet and foggy, sweat formed a circle at the neck of his faded black T-shirt. She lifted the model onto the scaffold planking at his feet.
He stuck the trowel into the pale blue wall plaster and looked up. "What's that?"
"The way it works."
He scratched the back of his neck. "I'm in the middle of something, Rese."
"Just take a look."
"I'll look at it later. Can't let this plaster dry."
She moved the model out of his way. "Well, we have to make the bid this afternoon, and we should have it in our heads which way to go."
"Yep."
She set the model on the workbench in the center of the room. "Have any more of that mixed?"
"You take over here, and I'll blend up the last wall's worth."
They worked in silence, slathering the walls with plaster, then dragging it to a smooth, pale finish. They'd found the original molds in the attic, so they were casting their own raised moldings to run along the ceiling. White curlicues on sky blue. Very period.
They kept at it until they'd finished both remaining walls, then sealed the remaining plaster to patch air pockets that might open up or crack, though they were both skilled enough she doubted they'd find any. What she really wanted was to deal with their bone of contention. They'd be presenting the plan in less than two hours, meeting the owners of a small Nob Hill hotel, with diagrams and photographs and—she hoped—her model for the staircase.
The original staircase had been damaged years ago in a quake. The previous owners had pocketed the insurance money and painted over the cracks. She wanted to replace it altogether with a gentle spiral that met current regulations and added a beautiful focal point. Brad was stuck on saving the original, which she would have agreed to if it hadn't been a clunky eyesore from the day it was constructed.
She finished scrubbing her hands and dried them off, then let Brad have the sink. Since she had him confined in the narrow bathroom, she said, "Did you look at it?"