Forever (12 page)

She was waiting for him out in the reception
room, wearing a robe, hand on the front door knob. Without a word,
she opened it wide.

Without a word, he stalked past her.

Without a word, she shut the door, softly,
and threw the deadbolt home. Then, alone again, she wandered into
the living room and flopped down into a chair.

Wearily, she rubbed her face with her hands.
How could I have been so goddamn stupid? she demanded of herself.
Rebirth, hell! Who was I kidding?

She gave a low, humourless laugh.

The only thing their romp had confirmed was
how wrong they were for each other - as if that had taken any
reaffirmation.

Johnny Stone. God. She had been a fool to
let him in.

Well, good riddance. He was gone now.

And this time, for
good!

New York City • Walnut Creek, California • Ilha da
Borboleta, Brazil

The World Headquarters for Children's Relief
Year-Round, aka, CRY.

As though beseeching.

Along the far wall, multicoloured askew
letters, contrived to look like child's print, jutted eight inches
out from the plush carpeted walls. They read:

CHILDREN'S RELIEF YEAR-ROUND, INC.

a not-for-profit corporation

In keeping with CRY's polished image, the
receptionist was a cool, poised young brunette with pulled-back
hair and red-framed glasses. At the moment, she was frowning over
her steepled, red-lacquered fingernails. 'I'm sorry,' she said as
Vinette finished explaining about Jowanda, 'but that's a matter
which should be taken up with your regional CRY office.'

'I know, but they wouldn't help me! That's
why I'm here. Don't you see, ma'am. They lost my baby.'

'Let me assure you, Ms - ' The receptionist
paused, eyebrows raised.

'Jones,' Vinette supplied.

The receptionist lowered her hands to the
desktop, folded them, and smiled tolerantly. 'Let me assure you, Ms
Jones, that CRY does not lose children. CRY is dedicated to caring
for them.'

'Well, they lost my Jowanda!' Vinette
declared. 'Why else can't they find her?'

'Then there must be a computer mixup. Why
don't you go back to your regional CRY office? I'm sure they'll
have this straightened out in no time.'

But Vinette hadn't come all this way for
nothing. 'I want to see somebody here,' she said stubbornly.

'I'm sorry,' the receptionist said firmly,
'but in order to do that you need an appointment.'

Vinette's heart sank. She could see all the
beautiful dreams of herself and Jowanda crumbling to dust.

'But I don't even know who I'd have to see!'
she pleaded desperately. 'Please, ma'am! I came here all the way
from Washington D.C.! There must be somebody who can help -'

The telephone on the reception desk bleeped
softly. 'Excuse me,' the receptionist said, lifting the receiver.
'Reception, good afternoon.'

She listened for a moment and her attitude
immediately changed.

'Oh, Mr Crandall!' she gushed. 'Why yes,
sir! I'll call you the moment they arrive! Of course I'll ask them
to wait so that you can meet them out here personally . . . Why,
thank you, Mr Crandall!' She hung up looking inordinately pleased,
and self-consciously smoothed her hair.

Vinette waited for a moment before clearing
her throat.

Startled, the receptionist looked up.
Obviously, she had already dismissed Vinette from her mind.

Vinette drew a deep breath and raised her
head. 'I would like to set up an appointment.'

'Fine.' The receptionist reached for a memo
pad. 'And who would you like it with?'

Vinette squared her shoulders. 'Mr
Crandall.'

The receptionist laughed and shook her head.
'Good try, lady, but no dice.' She pushed the memo pad aside. 'Mr
Crandall's our CEO and only concerns himself with the overall
picture.'

Vinette stood there, her mind racing. She
asked, 'In that case, could I kindly borrow a sheet of paper and a
pen?'

The receptionist sighed again, but could see
no harm in the request. She reached into a drawer and handed
Vinette a pen and a sheet of paper.

'Thank you,' Vinette said politely, and
headed for one of the conversation areas. Siting down, she hunched
over the low glass table and hurriedly began to print five neat,
large words on the paper. When she was done, she traced the letters
over and over in order to make them thick and dark so that they
could be read from a distance. While she worked, she kept glancing
anxiously towards the elevators.

The automatic doors slid open and a couple
emerged.

The man was middle-aged and
distinguished-looking, and held himself with the kind of
self-assurance only great wealth and power can bestow.

The woman was immaculately groomed, with
perfectly coiffed silver hair, and was expensively dressed. In the
subdued lighting, diamonds flashed brilliantly from her tapered
fingers.

Vinette was acutely aware of her own cheap
clothes; her lack of jewellery and sophistication; the mean project
from whence she hailed. She watched as, together, the couple went
to the reception desk to announce themselves.

'Mr and Mrs Hammacher!' the receptionist
gushed warmly. 'How nice to see you! Mr Crandall's expecting you.
He'll be right out to give you a personal tour. Please, do have a
seat - ' Smiling, she indicated the conversation groupings with a
sweep of a hand and immediately picked up the telephone.

The couple approached where Vinette was
sitting.

Vinette's heart was thumping madly. This was
the moment she had been waiting for. Offering up a silent prayer,
she waited for the couple to come a little closer. Then she held up
the sheet of paper.

The thick, neatly printed block letters
read:

CRY-

WHERE

IS MY BABY?!

Faced with the sign, Mrs Hammacher tensed,
by reflex, laying a hand on her husband's arm.

'I'm sure there's nothing to worry about,
dear.' Mr Hammacher cupped a hand under his wife's elbow and
changed direction, giving Vinette a wide berth. Even so, he cast
her a worried glance over his shoulder.

The receptionist, suddenly aware of what
Vinette was up to, glared across the room and instantly telephoned
security.

Vinette sat there with quiet dignity. Her
eyes unwavering. Her sign accusing.

Within moments, two burly, baby-faced men
from security hurried out, closely followed by a craggy-faced,
white-haired executive who exuded power and charm. His face
hardened as he looked around. 'What the hell is going on here?' he
demanded quietly of the receptionist.

'I'm terribly sorry, Mr Crandall!' She rose
from behind her desk. 'But this woman -' she pointed a trembling
finger in Vinette's direction, ' - is making a nuisance of herself.
She refuses to leave!'

The men from security moved towards
Vinette.

The white-haired executive held up a hand.
'Hold it right there, boys,' he told them authoritatively. He
turned apologetically to the Hammachers, who were standing off to
one side. 'I'm sorry for this disturbance. This won't take but a
minute.' Then he strode towards Vinette and regarded her with
speculative amusement. 'Well, ma'am, you've certainly got my
attention,' he told her in a kindly voice. 'Now, what seems to be
the problem?'

Vinette shut her eyes and took a deep
breath. She had rehearsed her speech over and over. Offering up a
silent prayer, she called upon the Lord for help. And sure enough -
the entire story came spilling out in such a concise,
easy-to-follow nutshell that it surprised even herself.

When she was done, she said, 'I'm appealing
to you for help, Mr Crandall. I don't know where else to go, what
else to do, or who else to turn to.'

Hugh Crandall smiled. 'If you ask me, I'd
say you've come to the right place, done the right thing, and
talked to exactly the right person. Now, let's see about finding
your baby, eh?'

He helped her to her feet and led her over
to the receptionist. His smile was still in place, but his eyes had
suddenly turned cold and hard.

'Get Aaron Kleinfelder to take care of Ms
Jones at once,' he told the receptionist. 'If he can't get this
problem sorted out by quitting time, I want Ms Jones put up in a
hotel room at our expense. I expect every courtesy to be extended
to her.' He paused, and despite the softness of his tone, there was
no mistaking the authority in his voice. 'Do I make myself
clear?'

The flustered receptionist swallowed hard.
'Yes, sir, Mr Crandall!'

'Then I suggest you get on it - now.' He
turned once more to Vinette, a twinkle in his eyes. 'I will say one
thing for you, Ms Jones,' he told her admiringly. 'You certainly
know how to get things done.'

'No, Mr Crandall.' Vinette shook her head,
and there was something about her which shone like polished steel.
'I just put my faith in Jesus. It's Him gets everything done,
praise the Lord!'

Aaron Kleinfelder was a cherubic man with
laugh-crinkled eyes, wiry, frizzy grey hair, and an imposing belly
of Pickwickian proportions. Once Vinette was seated next to his
desk, he offered her a sugar biscuit out of a tin.

She shook her head. 'Thank you, but no,' she
said quietly, although she hadn't eaten a bite all day and her
stomach was rumbling. 'I don't want no cookies. All I want is to
find my baby.'

in that case,' he assured her cheerfully,
'we'll just have to find her, won't we?' He helped himself to a
handful of biscuits, but kept the tin within Vinette's reach. 'You
see, Miss Jones, this baby - ' he rolled his chair sideways and
tapped the top of his computer terminal' - will help us to find
your baby.'

Vinette smiled tentatively for the first
time that day. Thank you, Jesus! she thought fervently. He's not
telling me my baby doesn 't exist. He's telling me we're going to
find her, amen!

'May I?' Shyly, she gestured to the open tin
of biscuits.

'Help yourself,' he invited, and pushed it
towards her.

'I thank you.' She took a biscuit and bit
into it delicately.

'Now then,' Aaron Kleinfelder continued.
'First, I've got to call up the correct file. Do you happen to know
whether your baby was put into one of the orphanages? Or into a CRY
foster care programme?'

'Orphanage.' Vinette nodded definitely.
'Least, that's what the lady back in D.C. told me.'

He nodded. 'Then we'll start from there.'
Spinning around on his chair, he flicked on the screen and typed
CRY ORPH CODE on the keyboard.

Like magic, the grey screen literally
exploded with green letters:

ENTER YOUR PERSONAL ACCESS NUMBER

He tapped the keyboard in a flurry. Then the
screen went blank and changed yet again in the blink of an eye:

CRY ORPHANAGE-PLACED PERSONS

01AFRICA

02AMERICA-CENTRAL

03AMERICA-NORTH

04AMERICA-SOUTH

05ASIA

06AUSTRALIA

07EUROPE

SELECT ONE:

Aaron Kleinfelder punched in:

03

The screen read:

CRY ORPHANAGE-PLACED PERSONS

AMERICA-NORTH

The machine flashed up:

SUPPLY NAME OF STATE OR UNITED STATES

TERRITORY:

'Dis . . . trict ... of ... Co .. . lum . .
. bi . . .a,' Aaron Kleinfelder said in slow syllables as he typed
it in. 'There.' He sat back, and within four seconds, the letters
changed to:

1.000PERSONS CONSIDERED FOR CRY

1.001PERSONS REJECTED BY CRY

1.002PERSONS CURRENTLY IN CRY-ORPH PROG

Ignoring the seven following selections, he
immediately typed in:

1.002

There was a pause, then:

PERSONS CURRENTLY IN CRY-ORPH PROG

01CRY IDENTIFICATION NUMBER

02SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER

03NAME OF PERSON

He glanced at Vinette. 'You wouldn't happen
to have a CRY identification number for your child, would you?'

She shook her head.

'Then I'll need your child's full name,' he
said. 'Jones is her last name?'

She nodded. 'Her first name's Jowanda.
Middle name Daneece.' She spelled the names slowly. He typed:

JONES, JOWANDA DANEECE

Then:

REFER FILE CRY ORPH TS 10

NA CD 748300099440001

He punched in that file, and after another
moment's pause, the screen suddenly began to flash:

ACCESS DENIED ENTER OPUS NUMBER

In the subterranean, 2,000-square-foot
computer room of Scientifique Cosmeceuticals, Inc.'s research and
development facility in Walnut Creek, California, an alarm bell was
assaulting the eardrums.

'Code Red! Code Red!' shouted one of the
dozens of computer operators seated at rows of white Formica work
stations. 'Someone's trying to enter the OPUS file!'

The department head strode out of her
glassed-in office and came to stand behind the young black man who
had raised the cry. 'All right, Bobby,' she said coolly, her hands
in the pockets of her starched white lab coat, 'let's find out who
it is.' She stared down at his computer screen. 'With all the
industrial espionage going on, I wouldn't be surprised if it's a
hacker for the competition. But who knows? It could even be an
accidental entry.'