Elixir. Part 39

"Hold it, but I'm overdue in payments on that too. You know how it is." He flapped a fifty in the kid's face. "I know it's against company policy, but it's all I've got, and it's real." He held the bill up to the light to point out the water mark and the hidden thread. "See? can't duplicate that."

The kid inspected the fifty, then looked at Roger, wondering if that beaming smile was the front of a fast-talking counterfeiter.

"And, I'll tell you what. For being such a good guy, you can keep the change."

"You serious?"

"You betcha."

The kid inspected the bill in the light again, thinking about the twenty-six dollar tip, weighing that against the manager finding a fifty in the till. The tip won.

"Thanks, mister," he said. And Roger was out the door before he could change his mind.

For the next couple miles his insides felt like gelatin. He was losing his grip, he told himself. That was a double slip-up-pulling the wrong card, and not keeping up with account balances. He should have been more careful.

What made it worse was that Roger Glover had now gone the way of Chris Bacon-right to the top of the wanted lists. So had Harry Stork. He was down to three different cards-under three different aliases, different addresses, different birthdates. Christ! He was beginning to wonder who the h.e.l.l he really was. Peter Cohen? James Hensel? Frank D'Amato?

He rode into the graying light feeling schizophrenic.

A few hours later, they stopped at a truck stop where Brett bought them breakfast. They ate in the car then took turns using the rest rooms. Roger was dying for a hot shower. They all were.

At about ten, Laura called Jenny to double-check directions. Laura could hear the relief in Jenny's voice that they were only a few hours away.

But when she said they were bringing Brett, Jenny's reaction turned bizarre.

"Oh, no. That won't do. No visitors. We can't have visitors."

Laura didn't want to spell out the importance of their meeting, not with Brett in earshot. "What's the problem? You said we can stay for the night."

There was a pause as Jenny muttered something inaudible. Then she seemed to find herself. "Some other time. Abigail is sick in bed, and the doctors said no visitors because her resistance is low to infection."

"What's wrong with her?"

"Ooops. I have to go," Jenny declared and hung up.

So Brett wouldn't suspect anything, Laura continued to fake conversation. "I see, well I'll drop by myself then. I hope she gets better soon. We should be there about three. Bye-bye."

Roger looked at Laura for an explanation.

"Abigail's sick."

"So where we going to stay?"

"I don't know."

Around two-thirty they reached the driveway of number 247 Farmington Road, Prairie, Indiana.

Roger drove by, then circled back looking for signs of police. The nearest house, about a quarter mile away, looked dead. But that didn't satisfy Roger. He found a back road behind Jenny's place to check for signs of a stakeout. There were none. It was farming country consisting of open fields of low-growing corn and wheat, and devoid of human life.

Roger pulled into the driveway. From a distance it looked like a Jenny place-a neat little farmhouse in pink and green located at the end of a long drive set back in some trees from the main road and miles from the festering social diseases of big-city America.

But up close, shutters were broken, shingles were missing, half the chimney had lost bricks, and the paint had faded to a yellowy flesh color and was peeling badly. The place looked diseased. The lawn hadn't been cut in weeks. Yet, beside the garage was a small power mower-one that looked manageable by Jenny or a teenage girl.

The plan was for Laura to find out what the story was with Jenny while Roger drove Brett to a store for provisions. If there was a problem, they had a police scanner and cell phones. Jenny was irrational, but not enough to blow the whistle on her own private savior.

Roger pulled up to the front door. All the shades were drawn. No sign of Jenny. No sign of life.

Laura got out and went to the door. A small handwritten note on the bell said OUT OF ORDER. Another said NO SOLICITORS.

Taped to the door was an envelope on which in small fastidious script was the name "Wendy."

Furious that Jenny had posted her name, Laura tore open the envelope. Inside was a note in tiny meticulous handwriting done in pink: "Please leave orchids in mailbox. Good Luck."

That was it? Laura thought. Drive sixteen b.l.o.o.d.y hours with every law enforcement agency on their a.s.s, and what Jenny wanted was for them to drop the stuff off then beat it. Find a motel someplace or hole up in a cornfield. No way! If Jenny was dumb enough to plaster her name up, what else would she pull?

Laura banged on the door.

Nothing.

And standing in the open like this only heightened her anxiety. She waved for Roger and Brett to wait in the car, then went around back.

The kitchen door was also locked. But one window was open and the screen was up a few inches so she could get her fingers under it.

Laura slid up the window. Then she went around front and waved Roger and Brett off. Around back again, she climbed inside.

The immediate impression was how dark and lifeless the place was-like a house whose occupants were away on vacation.

Although the curtains were drawn, the small kitchen appeared tidy. It was done in white and pink. Magazine pictures of kittens were magneted to the refrigerator. Also some baby photos.

On the table sat a bowl of overripe fruit with some tiny black flies buzzing around it. Beside the bowl was a small pile of mail. On the top sat an electric bill addressed to Jennifer Phoenix, 247 Farmington Road. Under that were other bills and some toy catalogs all made out to Jennifer Phoenix.

Jennifer Phoenix?

Laura was shocked. Jenny had changed her name and never told them. How many years had it been? And why?

Feeling a hum of uneasiness, Laura moved to the dim front foyer to call upstairs when she glanced into the living room. Her heart nearly stopped.

It was decorated for Christmas.

By the fireplace sat a large artificial tree fully decked with bulbs, icicles, and lights. Opened presents lay in boxes on the floor. By the fireplace sat a large pink doll-house, its rooms neatly laid out in miniature furniture and figures. It was a vague replica of Jenny's own house. The fireplace mantle was decorated in colored candles and artificial pine and big red Santas. Over the mantle hung a pastel portrait of Abigail as a young child.

Across the foyer, the dining room was decorated for a birthday party, but it must have been from a while ago because some of the colored streamers criss-crossing the ceiling had come loose and most of the balloons had deflated. A partially-eaten cake sat in the middle of the table around which were several chairs, all but two occupied by large stuffed bunnies, bears, and kangaroos.

A sick chill rippled through Laura.

From the second floor she heard a faint sound. A tinkling, barely audible.

She moved toward the stairs and froze. She had heard it before. The same high metallic plinkings, almost like windchimes.

Music. Background sounds in their last telephone conversation. "Frere Jacques." The tune was "Frere Jacques."

An irrational sense of dread gripped her as she began to climb the stairs. The music box Jenny had bought in Boston years ago.

"Her first Christmas present."

A few more steps, and she could hear Jenny singing softly.

"...Morning bells are ringing. Morning bells are ringing. Ding, Dang, Dong. Ding, Dang, Dong."

She reached the door.

Inside Jenny said: "Now in French..."

"'Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques, Dormez vous? Dormez vous?...'"

The door was decaled in cartoon animals. A porcelain plaque in big happy letters said ABIGAIL'S ROOM.

A second voice sent a shard of ice through Laura's heart. A voice small and thin and singing along with Jenny.

Laura swung open the door.

"'...Sonnez les matines. Sonnez les matines. Din, Don, Din. Din, Don, Din.'"

Jenny looked up, her face in a radiant smile. She was sitting in a rocking chair holding a small child.

In a telescoped moment of awareness, Laura registered the silky blond hair, the brown liquid eyes, the ruddy porcelain cheeks. The pink flowered dress from the photos.

"We're singing in French," Abigail proudly announced.

Horror surged through Laura. The room was a mausoleum of little girlhood: Bunny wallpaper, pink lace curtains, stuffed animals, dolls, a big pink toddler bed, pillows mounded with stuffed kittens and Raggedy Anns. A white decaled bureau with ballerina figurines and the big red music box that filled the room with its soulless ditty.

"Ooooo, look," Jenny sang out. "It's Auntie Wendy. How nice. And she brought you your medicine."

"Jenny!" Laura gasped.

"Oh, of course: And this is Abigail. I forgot how long it's been." Jenny beamed.

"Hi, Auntie Wendy. You look like your picture," the child said. She opened a small photo alb.u.m from the shelf. "Your hair is different, but it's very flattering. I like it better." Her p.r.o.nunciation was perfect.

"We have lots of pictures," Jenny piped in proudly.

"Do you know how to speak French?" Abigail asked.

Laura's mind scrambled to land on something that made sense: The girl was somebody else, not Jenny's daughter.

No, Jenny had adopted another child but had not told her for some reason.

No, it was Abigail, but she had some growth disorder-some awful disease that had stunted her limbs.

"Well, do you?"

Laura made an inarticulate sound and shook her head.

"Well, I do." And she rattled off a string of words, none of which registered. "And Spanish." And she said something in Spanish. "I haven't learned to read yet, but Mommy says that's for older children. Don't you think I'm old enough to read?"

"Now, let's not be silly," Jenny said. "You're always in such a hurry to do this and that."

There was nothing in Jenny's manner that betrayed the appearance that she was anything other than a sane, willful, and rational woman going through the motions of indulging her toddler daughter.

"You must forgive me," Jenny said. "We're not used to company, so we don't have extra chairs."

Laura's eyes fell to the table beside the bed and bit down on a scream. On it sat a syringe and an empty ampule of Elixir. Roger had said some were missing but had blamed it on faulty memory.

"Jenny, what did you do?" Laura whispered.

But Jenny paid no attention. "Just as well," she sang out. "We were just getting ready for our nap, weren't we?"

Her voice had the musical lilt of a woman at ease with her life.

Laura looked for signs that she was playacting for the child's sake, that beneath the conditioned facade of a mother's loving patience lay some awareness. That Jenny knew what she had done to her daughter.

There were none.

"Can't I stay up, Mommy? Please?"

Nothing was as it seemed. Jenny was out of her mind. Her daughter was a sixteen-year-old in a toddler's body. Roger was frozen at a half his age.

For a moment Laura felt as if her own mind would go, that without warning she would hear a sickening snap and all the freakshow horrors would be perfectly normal.

"It's already past your bedtime, Little Miss."

"But I want to stay up. I never get company."

"You have lots of company." Jenny waved at all the stuffed animals.

"I mean real company."

Abigail looked at the wall clock. "Oh, Mommy, it's time for my medicine."

The clock was a big plastic pocket.w.a.tch like what the White Rabbit toted to Wonderland. Except the numbers were reversed and the second hand was running backward.

Good G.o.d! The child had memorized positions of the hands without a clue.

"Now give Auntie Wendy a big kiss good night." Adoringly Jenny watched the child climb off her lap.