The Surrogate (28 page)

“I don’t want to die, Jamie,” Joe told her. “I want to live on and make little brothers and sisters for Billy. I want to live to a ripe old age with you at my side. But if I die tomorrow, I will be grateful for this time we have had together.”

She nodded. “Me, too.”

Then she reached for him, and they made love with tears and poignancy and frantic professions of eternal love.

Joe woke at dawn surprised that he had slept at all. Jamie was curled on her side beside him. He lay there for a time, reminding himself why it was necessary for him to get on with things, why he couldn’t wait a few more days to make this trip no matter how gut-wrenching it was to think of her here alone and defenseless. Their time here had been glorious, but always a nagging voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him that the longer they stayed in one place the more likely they were to be discovered. Someone could make an innocent remark about seeing a young couple with a baby walking on the beach. Or helping this clueless guy who was trying to buy clothes for his girlfriend and her baby. Or renting a beach cabin to a young couple who arrived on a motorcycle with a baby and not much else.

He swung his feet to the floor.

After he’d pulled on his clothes and picked up his boots and knapsack, he looked toward the bed. Jamie was watching him. When she started to speak, he shook his head. Instead of words, he put a fist over his heart in a gesture of eternal fidelity.

L
ENORA PICKED UP
the phone. “Law office,” she said.

“Lenora Richardson,” a man’s voice requested.

“This is she.”

“I am a friend of Jamie Long’s.”

“Oh, my God!” Lenora said, clasping the receiver more tightly. “How is Jamie? And
where
is she? We lost track of her.”

“I wonder if it would be possible to speak with you privately. I have Jamie’s permission to make this request.”

Suddenly wary, she asked, “Why? What’s going on with her?”

“Jamie’s life is in danger as a result of the surrogate-mother arrangement negotiated by Mr. Abernathy. She speaks highly of you and asked me to consult with you as to the best way to handle this situation.”

Lenora took a few seconds to replay the man’s words. “I’m not an attorney,” she said. “You need to speak with Mr. Abernathy.”

“Perhaps, but I would prefer to speak confidentially with you first.”

Lenora tapped her pencil on the desk. “This is highly unusual,” she said softly, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the door separating her office from Bentley’s was closed.

“I’m aware of that,” the man said.

He sounded earnest, Lenora decided. And worried. Maybe even frightened.

“I wouldn’t ask this of you if it weren’t very important,” he added.

“I gather you don’t want to come here to Mr. Abernathy’s office.”

“I’d like for you to meet me at the bar at the Holiday Inn on Mockingbird Lane. At six o’clock.”

“Will Jamie be there?” Lenora asked.

“No.”

“How will I know you?”

“I’ll find you. Jamie said you look like a runway model.”

Lenora had trouble concentrating on her work the rest of the afternoon.

Bentley left at five-fifteen. Lenora was locking the door minutes later. As expected, the traffic at that hour was impossible. She was ten minutes late when she walked into the hotel bar. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Several men at the bar had turned on their stools to stare. One man was watching her more surreptitiously in the mirror over the bar. Then she saw the young white guy with a shaved head and whiskery face waving at her from a corner booth.

She headed for the corner, taking in his jeans, black T-shirt, heavy black boots, and great build.

She sat across the table from him. “What’s your name?” she asked. “And what’s your connection to Jamie?”

“I’m Joe. I’ve known her since she was in grade school. She said to tell you that someday she hopes you and she can lunch together again at the Driskill Grill.”

They were silent as a waitress approached. They both ordered coffee.

“Okay, so you know Jamie,” Lenora said. “But why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff? And what makes you think that her life is in danger?”

For more than an hour Lenora listened to Joe’s tale, interrupting with frequent questions. And at one point she took out her cell phone to call her husband and tell him she would be later than she had at first thought.

What she was hearing was just too bizarre to be believed. But why would anyone make up such a story?

She switched from coffee to a gin and tonic. Joe stuck with coffee.

Lenora confessed that she’d been worried about Jamie. Even though they had agreed to stay in touch, Jamie had never responded to her phone messages or her letters. And when she showed up at the ranch, she was told that Jamie had packed up and left without leaving a forwarding address. A nagging voice had said that Jamie would have let her know that the surrogate-mother arrangement hadn’t worked out and given some indication of her plans for the future. And it seemed strange that Amanda herself had not told Bentley that the arrangement with Jamie Long had been terminated—and perhaps asked him to find her another young woman to use as a surrogate mother. Lenora had been stunned when she heard that Amanda Hartmann had given birth to a baby boy. There hadn’t been nearly enough time for that to happen, unless she got pregnant about the same time Jamie was inseminated, and Lenora was positive that Amanda had once indicated she was no longer able to have children. And besides, Lenora just couldn’t see Amanda putting her carefully augmented and liposuctioned body through such an ordeal.

But using her brain-dead son’s semen to impregnate Jamie?

The newspaper story about the return of a kidnapped baby in Oklahoma City that Joe had showed her was convincing, however. The missing woman was described as tall, slender, and in her early twenties. And she had a baby about the same age as Jamie’s would have been.

Lenora rubbed her forehead in an attempt to ward off a threatening headache.
That baby in all those photographs wasn’t really Amanda’s? And Jamie’s baby is Amanda’s grandchild?
“Okay, Joe, I want you to tell me why you called this little meeting so I can get home to my husband.”

“I need a copy of the contract that Jamie signed. And I need your boss to act as an intermediary between Jamie and the Hartmanns. And as soon as she and her baby have undergone DNA testing and we have irrefutable proof that she is indeed the mother of the baby, I want Abernathy to inform Gus Hartmann that this has been done. Then the burden will be on Amanda’s husband to prove that he is the father of the child. Since that would be impossible, the contract that Jamie entered into with Amanda Hartmann and Toby Travis would be invalid. I plan to obtain a court decree saying just that. And I want Gus to know that if anything happens to Jamie or if her baby is kidnapped, the contract along with the DNA tests and the court decree will be made public along with Jamie’s sworn testimony as to the circumstances surrounding the kidnapping of the baby girl in Oklahoma City.”

Lenora shook her head. “The only thing Bentley did was locate a suitable candidate and draw up the contract. Bentley had no idea what Amanda had in mind.”

“I realize that,” Joe said, running a hand over his bald pate. “But Bentley Abernathy is the Hartmann family attorney. He has access to Gus, and I don’t.”

Lenora leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. “I know without asking that my boss would do just about anything not to get involved in this mess. And after what you’ve told me, I’d be afraid to let him or anyone else know that I’ve been in contact with you.”

“Then I have no recourse except to go the criminal route,” Joe said, sitting up straighter and squaring his shoulders. “I will file a complaint against Amanda Hartmann and her brother for holding Jamie Long against her will and conspiring to steal her baby. Furthermore, I will see that the media receives copies of this complaint and is notified well in advance of the time and place of the filing.”

“The place of the filing would be the Marshall County Courthouse,” Lenora pointed out. “Don’t think that you’re going to get a fair hearing out there. In fact, I predict that any filing you make against the Hartmanns in that courthouse would be summarily dismissed. In Marshall County, Gus Hartmann is God.”

Lenora reached across the table and put her hand on Joe’s arm. “You are playing with fire, young man,” she said softly.
Poor Joe,
she thought. He was not only earnest, he was in love.

“I know, but what else can I do?” Joe asked. “Jamie can’t spend the rest of her life hiding from him.”

“You have a life, too. Don’t waste it on a lost cause.”

Young Joe’s eyes widened. “You think I should just let Gus Hartmann have Jamie murdered and hand her baby over to Amanda?”

“I’m saying that no matter what you do, this thing probably will not end well. Even if Jamie gave up the baby, I’m not sure that her troubles would be over. In fact,” she said, tapping the newspaper clipping with her finger, “if this business in Oklahoma City truly was a failed attempt to kidnap Jamie’s baby and murder her, your troubles aren’t ever going to be over. Look, Joe, I see fear in Bentley’s eyes when he talks to Gus Hartmann on the phone. All the work Bentley has done for Gus over the years has been within the letter of the law, but I think Bentley has figured out more about Gus Hartmann’s business and life than is healthy and it scares him shitless. It scares
me
shitless. I wish I hadn’t come here tonight. But I’m going to walk out of here and forget everything you told me.”

She stood. “I wish you well, Joe. The only advice I have for you and Jamie is to change your names, leave the country, and watch your backsides.
And
hope that Gus Hartmann has a fatal heart attack sometime
real
soon.”

He grabbed her hand. “What about the contract?”

“It’s gone,” she admitted, pulling her hand away. “I decided I’d look it over before I came here tonight. It’s been erased from my computer, and there are no copies in the hard files. I don’t know if Bentley did it or someone else, and I don’t want to know. And I don’t want to ever see or hear from you again.”

J
OE WATCHED AS
Lenora picked up her purse, scooted out of the booth, and stood. Once again men at the bar turned on their stools to stare as the stylish, shapely black woman walked by.

He sat there for a time, stunned by what Lenora had said. And by her fear. His hope of finding a sane way to deal with the threat against Jamie was evaporating.

It was his threat now, too. He had no doubt about that. At this very minute there were people looking for both of them. And that knowledge made him more afraid than he had ever been in his life. Even so, there was an inviolate corner of his being that believed that if he and Jamie could keep their wits intact, they would find a way to prevail, that right would win over wrong.

Maybe they should follow Lenora’s advice and leave the country. But to pull that off they would need new identities and passports. That wasn’t something he could make happen overnight. At some point he would have to get more money. He had invested most of the money that he’d inherited from his aunt Lacy, and he wasn’t sure how quickly he could access those funds. But what if Gus Hartmann had made it all vanish the way he’d made Jamie’s bank account vanish? What if the only money they had was the cash he’d left with Jamie and what was in his billfold?

He left enough money on the table to cover the bar tab and tip then headed for the door. The men who had stared at Lenora paid no attention to his departure. Except for one man. The guy seated at the end of the bar was watching him in the mirror. Joe could tell by the tilt of his chin. The man had the bulked-up muscles of a dedicated weight lifter and was wearing black jeans and a blue shirt.

Out front, Joe looked up and down the parking lot, taking note of the vehicles parked there, then got on his bike and drove around aimlessly for a while. When he spotted the black Ford pickup in his rearview mirror, Joe abruptly turned into a service station and lingered for a time, using the restroom, filling the Harley’s half-full tank, sipping a cup of coffee that tasted as though it had been brewed this morning. When he left the service station, he drove a few miles then without using his turn signal, turned into a convenience-store parking lot and stopped by a drive-up pay phone. As the black truck turned into a McDonald’s across the street, Joe took off down the side street.

The phone lines at Bentley Abernathy’s law office had been tapped, Joe realized. Someone had listened to his phone conversation with Lenora. And the driver of the black truck had been waiting for him at the Holiday Inn.

Fortunately he had lived in Austin for the seven years it took for him to complete his undergraduate and law degrees and knew the city well. He spent a couple of hours randomly driving through a maze of back streets, waiting until he was absolutely certain that no one could possibly be following him. But just to make sure, he headed for I-35, traveling north for a time, then made a U-turn and headed back into central Austin, where he abandoned the interstate altogether and headed across town to Highway 71. He pulled in at the first truck stop.

He parked in the shadows behind the building and carefully wiped the dust off his Harley. Then, leaving the key in the ignition, he retrieved his backpack, gave the bike a good-bye pat, and headed into the sea of parked rigs.

It took him a while to find a ride. The driver was heading for Galveston with a load of wrecked vehicles that had been smashed and stacked on the flatbed like decks of cards. Leon was his name. An older guy with bad teeth. He’d been driving twelve hours straight and needed someone to keep him awake. That was Joe’s job. “I prefer sports talk,” Leon said. “No politics unless you’re a Democrat.”

Once they were on the highway, Leon said, “Start talking, kid.”

In spite of a punch-drunk state brought about by his own sleep deprivation, Joe somehow managed to conduct a mumbling discourse that went from baseball to the historical development of the Democratic Party to the role that team sports played in character development.

After spending a long, lonely day and sleepless night without Joe, the walls were beginning to push in on Jamie. She gave Billy a bath and looked through the newspapers. When she reached the religion section, she read and reread an article printed there, then carefully tore it out of the newspaper and put it into the side pocket of her backpack along with the roll of bills Joe had put there.

Even antsier than before, she washed her hair and did some push-ups. Finally she put Billy in his sling, shouldered the backpack, and headed out the back door. She locked the door behind her and tucked the key in the backpack.

It was a beautiful day with only a soft breeze to ruffle her hair. The gulls circled overhead and the sandpipers raced along the beach. Far out at sea, she could see a large tanker. Closer in there were smaller craft—pleasure and fishing boats.

She walked for a couple of miles. The only people she saw were an older man and a young boy digging for clams. She waved and continued on her walk. On her way back, they were still there. A happy sight. She imagined bringing Billy back here someday to dig for clams and throw pieces of bread in the air for the gulls to catch.

Billy was beginning to protest his confinement, so she took him out of the sling and, holding him so that he faced outward, cut inland a couple of hundred yards for a change of scenery and wound through the dunes, occasionally spotting a hermit crab scampering about. At one point, she knelt in the sand to take a better look at one of the ugly little creatures that confiscate the shells of sea snails for their portable homes. “See there, Billy,” she said. “He carries his house around with him. That’s what we’re going to do when Joe gets back.”

While she was kneeling there, she saw something moving just beyond the stand of beach grass. Holding Billy like a sack of potatoes on her hip, she crept forward a bit and parted the grass just enough to see two men heading toward the cabin. The men were young, athletic-looking, and dressed alike in jeans, navy blue T-shirts, and matching baseball caps. She might have mistaken them for two regular guys out for a walk on the beach except that they were hunched over and keeping to the depressions between the dunes as they approached the cabin.

It was happening again. They had tracked her down.

Immediately she dropped lower and scooted in among the clumps of grass, where she lay on her side clutching Billy against her chest. His little body was tense. She could tell that he was about to cry. Hurriedly, she curled her body around him, pulled up her T-shirt, and unhooked the flap on her bra. Just as Billy was about to voice his displeasure, she got a nipple into his mouth.

She heard the screen door slam as other men came running toward the cabin. “Fan out,” she heard a voice call. With her arms around Billy, she used her feet to scoot deeper into the stand of grass as men headed up and down the beach. Others were running toward the other cabins and pounding on doors. She worked hard to control the panic that filled her chest and pushed on her rib cage, making it hard to breathe. She dug in the sand with her free hand, making a trench to lie in. When it was finished, she rolled into it and bent the tall grass so that it arched over her and Billy.

Harvey Morgan was half watching a baseball game and making a second perusal through the morning papers when the doorbell rang. Since he wasn’t expecting anyone, he assumed it was either a kid selling something to raise money for his or her school, scout troop, or church, or a pair of bike-riding Mormon missionaries fresh from the barbershop. Harvey always bought something from the kids. The missionaries got a less friendly response.

The unshaven man standing on his front porch wasn’t a kid, and he certainly wasn’t a Mormon.

“Mr. Morgan, it’s Joe Brammer,” the man said, removing his hat.

“Joe?”
Harvey queried, looking over the top of his reading glasses. “Where’s your hair? You look like hell.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I need to talk to you. It’s very important.”

Harvey pushed open the screen door and stepped to one side while the young man entered, then led the way to the room he and Betty had built onto the back of their house that most people would call a family room, but since he and Betty didn’t have kids they referred to it as the back room. Marvin, the elderly beagle, looked up from the sofa when they entered the room and thumped his tail a few times.

“I remember you,” Joe said, bending to scratch the dog’s chin. “Glad to see that you’re still around.”

Harvey picked up the remote and switched off the television. “Sit down,” he told Joe as he gestured toward the unoccupied end of the sofa. Then he settled himself back into his well-worn easy chair, where he now spent too damned much of his time. He and Marvin were going to turn to stone pretty soon if they didn’t start moving around more.

Harvey watched while Joe continued to pet the dog as he glanced around the room, which—except for being dusty and cluttered with stacks of newspapers—was pretty much the same as it had been when Betty used to give the boy milk and cookies after he finished working in the yard. Or sometimes Joe had simply showed up at the door wanting to return a book or looking for a chess game. Harvey had taught the boy to play. Joe was a reasonably good player but not exceptional. Mostly, though, Joe had wanted to discuss whatever book he was returning, which was always from Harvey’s collection of what Joe called spy books. These books included histories, theoretical treatises, exposés, biographies and autobiographies, and novels detailing careers in and the business of intelligence gathering. And the boy would ask countless questions concerning Harvey’s own years at the CIA. Harvey’s area had been profiling. After years as a double agent, he had become one of the early practitioners in the field and had compiled profiles on world leaders, dictators, political figures, military leaders, and sometimes other spies. Only when he had a heart attack and was forced to retire at age fifty-two did what was left of his family learn the true nature of his government service. He moved back to Houston to be near his ailing mother, renew old friendships, and figure out if there was life after danger and cigarettes. The wife of a friend from his high school days convinced him to accompany them to a school reunion and made sure he met up with his former high school sweetheart, who had been widowed a number of years earlier. He and Betty had had twenty wonderful years together, especially after she retired from her teaching job and they began trekking about the country in their RV. Now he felt lost without her. He even thought about taking up smoking again.

“Mom saw Mrs. Morgan’s obituary in the newspaper,” Joe said. “I’m really sorry. She was a great lady and the best teacher I ever had.”

Harvey nodded. “Your mother wrote a nice note. She mentioned that you had finished law school and were spending some time abroad.”

Harvey recalled how Betty had commented on more than one occasion that if she’d ever had a son, she would have liked him to be just like Joe Brammer. Harvey had agreed with her. Joe was a good kid.

“Okay, son, you need to tell me why you showed up at my front door unannounced, on foot, and unshaven except for your head.”

“I’m afraid that I’m involved in an extremely unusual situation,” Joe explained. “I can assure you that I haven’t done anything illegal or even unethical, but my girlfriend and I are being hunted down by some sort of government agents whom I believe answer to someone high up in the national government. I’m sure the agents involved think they are tracking some sort of international terrorists or a spy who stole national secrets, when what is really at issue is a gross misuse of power over something quite personal and has nothing to do with the law or international intrigue or any sort of threat to the United States government or its elected leaders.”

Harvey nodded. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said. “So, tell me, just what is it that you want from me?”

Joe sat up straighter. “Transportation,” he said. “Do you still have the camper?”

“It’s a ‘recreational vehicle,’” Harvey corrected. “And yes, I still have it. I’ve only used it once since Betty died, though. Traveling around the country isn’t the same without her.”

“I need the RV,” Joe said. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yes, sir. I would like to sign some sort of lease, but I’d rather not leave a paper trail. If I live through this, you’ll get it back. If not, I’m sure my parents will reimburse you out of the money I inherited from my great-aunt, unless it has mysteriously disappeared, which is what happened to my girlfriend’s bank account.”

“So you want to just get in and drive away without me telling anyone that I’ve seen you or that I no longer have an RV in my garage?” Harvey asked.

“Yes, sir. Not even my parents, should you happen to run into them. I know they’re worried about me, but their phone lines are tapped and their house is being watched. I don’t dare call them or go over there, and I really need for you not to mention to them or anyone else that I’ve been here.”

“I’ll make you a deal, son,” Harvey said. “You tell me about your troubles, and I’ll let you take the RV.”

Joe shook his head. “I can’t let you get involved. You can always say that I stole the RV, but if these people thought that you knew what was going on…” He paused, apparently not wanting or unable to put into words the seriousness of the risk.

“Joe, there was a time in my life when I carried around a little pill to put under my tongue if my cover was blown. Now the love of my life is dead. I don’t have any children. I’m bored as hell. And I just might be able to help you. It might be the last opportunity I have to be significantly useful to another human being, so I’ll get you a beer and I want you to start talking.”

Joe closed his eyes and slumped against the back of the sofa. Marvin actually roused himself enough to scoot closer and push his head under Joe’s hand. Absently Joe began stroking him. Harvey could well imagine what was going on in the boy’s head. Here he was in the presence of someone who would be a knowledgeable listener and just might have some insights as to how he might extract himself from the situation in which he found himself. But anyone who helped him might also face the same danger that he faced.