No one left, p.16
No One Left, page 16
46
ISAIAH
The most recent reports Isaiah had gotten from Peter were probably the last piece of the puzzle his mother had needed. He knew his relationship with Peter was over. Had been for a while. Ever since Isaiah had started to use him.
He set down the reports and rubbed his eyes. Would she be proud? Why had Cathy really come to Isaiah? Because she wanted his help? Because she loved him? He wished it were that pure, but the truth was that she’d needed her son’s boyfriend to fill in the gaps in her case. That was why she had come to him.
She had never voiced any disapproval of Isaiah’s lifestyle, but they had kept it between the two of them, never telling his father. Maybe she’d thought it was just a phase. Maybe that was why she’d never taken Peter seriously.
Isaiah sighed, picked up the large envelope, slid the report inside, and addressed it to the attorney general. It was out of his hands now. He would try to repair his relationship with Peter, but it was probably too far gone. Isaiah felt it. He was sure Peter did, too, if not because of broken promises, then because of resentment.
Which was why Isaiah was so surprised when his phone rang at 10:45 p.m. Only Peter ever called at this hour. Maybe it wasn’t too late for them. Maybe they could fix this. Isaiah could apologize and really mean it. Explain, somehow, the love he had for his mother.
But Isaiah knew as soon as he picked up that something was wrong.
“Zay,” Peter said, breathless. It tugged on something inside of Isaiah. A loose knot. It had been so long since Peter had called him that.
“What is it?” Isaiah asked.
“I’m scared.”
“What’s happening?”
“Someone’s following me.”
“What?” Isaiah pushed forward on the couch. Leaned into the phone.
“A man is following me.”
“What kind of man?”
“I haven’t been able to get a look at his face. I thought I noticed him yesterday, but then he disappeared, and I realized I was being paranoid and have been paranoid for weeks now. But then he showed up again tonight. He was following my car. I took the long way home and stopped at two stores, and he followed me anyway.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Is he still there?” Isaiah asked.
“He’s parked down the street. I’m looking at his car right now. He hasn’t gotten out. He’s just sitting there.”
“Is he alone?”
“I think so. I don’t see anyone in the passenger’s seat.”
“Stay there. I’m coming over.”
“But, Zay . . .” Too late. He had hung up. Grabbed his jacket. He wished he wasn’t afraid to use a gun. Because he had his mother’s now. He could take it with him. But he didn’t.
Isaiah waited in his car, watching Peter’s doorstep, looking for the guy’s car with no clue what he was driving or what he looked like. Peter lived in the heart of the city, so it could be any one of the cars around him. Isaiah couldn’t exactly peek into every window.
He knew he should probably go in. Peter was expecting him. But his skin prickled. He felt like something was about to happen and that this was where he ought to be when it did. Watching.
Twenty minutes. Then thirty. And then, finally, when Isaiah was about to give up and go inside, something did happen. A man got out of a car on the opposite side of the street, crossed to Peter’s mailbox, and put something in it. The man looked around, crossed the street again, got into his car, and pulled away.
Isaiah willed himself to walk to the mailbox. To open it. To not think about bombs. To only think about Peter and what this man might want from him. What Isaiah had gotten him into. This was Isaiah’s responsibility.
When he felt a piece of paper in his hand—a note—he let out a shaky breath. He wanted to laugh at himself. Or cry. Instead, he pocketed the note and let himself into Peter’s house.
He heard the TV on, and even though Peter didn’t get up to greet him, as soon as Isaiah came through the door, he asked, “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been watching for him. He left something in your mailbox.”
Isaiah held the paper out to Peter, an offering, and with that, Peter did get up off the couch. His eyes narrowed in the light of the flashing television as he unfolded the paper.
“It’s just a telephone number,” Peter said.
“So call it.”
Peter said nothing. He stared at the number, so Isaiah snatched it back, walked to the telephone, and dialed. It rang and rang, and then, finally, an outgoing message played.
“You’ve reached Bobby Tate. Please leave a message with your name and number and I’ll return your call at my earliest convenience. Goodbye.”
Bobby Tate. Where had he heard that name before? Isaiah hung up just as the machine beeped.
47
JAMES
The liquor store was empty except for the clerk and Janice Stone. James sat in the parking lot with two stacks of files in the seat beside him. He watched Janice walk down the third aisle in that clipped manner of hers. She stopped, plucked a bottle from the shelf, and made her way to the counter.
James sighed and stepped out of the car. Locked the files in behind him. He leaned up against Janice’s bumper, crossed his arms, and waited.
When she saw him, her face paled. She was about to turn on her heels and, he assumed, go back into the liquor store. Maybe ask the clerk to call the cops.
“The orange lizard,” James said. “The child’s toy. You had it first.”
That stopped her. She narrowed her eyes but said nothing.
“And then, somehow, it ended up in the evidence locker at the New Mexico State Police headquarters in Albuquerque.”
Janice took a deep breath, and James might have seen her bottom lip quiver. It was hard to tell in the dim light of the strip mall parking lot.
“We also recovered a voicemail from George Morris’s answering machine,” he went on. “‘Judge Winters is becoming a problem.’ Your exact words.”
James uncrossed his arms and stood up straight.
“We can go back to your house now. Or to an all-night diner. Hell, wherever you’d like to chat, Janice. And we can talk about what George Morris was doin’ for you. What you might’ve done for him. Or, when you go back into that liquor store and call the cops on me, I can tell them all about your connections to the dead judge.”
Janice closed her eyes for a breath. “Come to my office. I’ll show you the way.”
“Don’t think about speedin’ off, now. I’m pretty damn good at keepin’ a tail.”
She stared hard at him. Maybe there was fury there. Good.
“I’m sure you are,” she said.
James kept the radio low, barely audible, as he followed Janice’s taillights back through the city streets to her empty office building.
When they arrived, James zipped up the coat that was too warm for the night, adjusted what was hidden underneath, and got out of the car. He kept a few feet between him and Janice. She didn’t look back at him until she held her office door open for him.
It was organized in there. Sparse. A photo of a young Janice and a man sat on the shelf behind her desk. The only other thing in the room was a black-and-white poster on the wall. A wide-eyed cat hung from a branch. It said, Hang in there, baby.
Janice pulled the bottle out of the brown paper bag and set it on the desk. She retrieved two glasses from the bottom drawer.
“Not much of a brandy drinker,” James said. “But I appreciate the gesture.”
She put one of the glasses back but still didn’t speak. Didn’t even look at James. He waited for her to get comfortable, but instead of sitting, she walked to the other side of the office, shuffled through a file cabinet, and plopped a thick folder in front of him. Then, she sat.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“That is the file on every single Indian in New Mexico who is doing for this organization what George is doing for me. So, before we get started, know that George is not unique.”
“Well, he is in one sense. He disappeared the day before Judge Winters was killed and is accused of murdering two people. Don’t know if we can say the same about any of these other . . . what would you call them? Scouts?”
Janice chuckled but without humor. “They’re doing important work. They’re finding children who need help.”
“Do you pay these scouts to find children for you?”
“It’s volunteer work. They feel they are called to do it.”
James wasn’t sure he believed that.
“So.” He leaned back. Propped his ankle on his knee. Adjusted his jacket. “George helps out at addict meetings. Gets to know people on the reservation. He calls you up, tells you about these parents. You call someone from one of your sister organizations. An employee from New Mexico Children’s Agency then goes to pay the family a visit. Sees signs of neglect at the home. Takes the child. Brings them to Children of God Home.”
“Nothing wrong with any of that. Like I said, those kids need our help.”
James nodded. “The way things are on the reservation. Would you say the situation is bleak for these children?”
“Would you?” Janice asked. “You’ve seen enough of it.”
James tried not to smirk. “I would say you care very much about helping Indian children. Especially considering your earlier employment at the boarding school.”
He could see he had alarmed her now. Her eyes grew a little wider. She swallowed. Maybe she thought she had buried that.
“I have a heart for them. These people,” Janice practically whispered. “They’ve been left to live in poverty and addiction, and they don’t know how to get themselves out. I’m helping to break the cycle.”
“And you do that by finding them new homes,” James clarified. “With adopted families.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Any of those adopted families also Indians?”
Janice cleared her throat. “Not usually. The adoption process is quite expensive and there’s very little we can do about that.”
“I see. Does Mr. Andrews really have room for all of these children? Do you ever find yourself working with foster families?”
“There are select foster families that NMCA, our partner organization, has identified as reliable. Other foster families we have worked with in the past have gone on to adopt the children in their care and have declared their homes full.”
“Any of those families Indians?”
Janice pursed her lips.
“The Navajo I work with, like George, have chosen to help in their own way. Like I’ve said, poverty and addiction are rampant on the reservation. Most homes are unfit for fostering.”
James thumbed through the files in front of him.
“I understand you care for these children. The Indian ones, specifically. Any idea why Mr. Andrews has tasked you with this job? Finding these scouts? Does he share your, ah,” James paused. “Your passion.”
Janice shrugged. Put her hands out, palms up.
“My job is to create relationships with individuals on nearby reservations who are open to this sort of work. I’ve no idea Mr. Andrews’s motivations.”
“Do these scouts all come from churches?” James asked.
“Many. They recognize, from scripture, the importance of a home with both a stable mother and a stable father.”
“George was certainly ripe for the pickin’, then.”
Janice took another sip of brandy and did not respond.
“When Linda died, George must’ve felt guilty,” James went on. “For no longer having a stable mother for Adriel. Was he trying to get rid of him? Was he lookin’ for a family to take Adriel?”
Janice’s eyebrows inched up her forehead. “At first,” she said, “it was understood that Adriel was not up for discussion. But then Adriel’s mother died. Overdosed was the word on the reservation and what I thought had happened until you informed me otherwise. I knew George would understand that Adriel needed a mother. I left him some messages to let him know the type of services a wealthy family could provide for the boy. I wanted him to know his options.”
She stood up again, walked to a different file cabinet, grabbed a stack of documents clipped together. She set those in front of James, too.
“George decided I was right. He couldn’t handle the child by himself. Which is why he signed these adoption papers. The morning Judge Winters was killed.”
James looked down at the papers. George’s signature was there. He kept his face steady. Why the hell hadn’t George told him about this?
“I assume,” Janice went on, “that he went on to kill the judge after he left my office, just as the police claim. He knew Judge Winters would be an obstacle. George thought his son deserved better. A nice family. Hope for a future. The judge would stand in his way.”
James held up the signed adoption papers. “But you haven’t given these to the police.”
“I’m not interested in punishing George for murdering Bartholomew Winters. God is the ultimate judge for us all. I’m interested in helping poor Adriel. He clearly needs someone stable to care for him. He is in danger. And all I want is to get the boy back and into a safe and loving home.”
“That’s why you sent that man. For Adriel. Adriel is the thing George has that’s yours.”
Janice Stone barely blinked. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Cathy is what doesn’t add up so neatly,” James said. “George hasn’t got one reason to kill the woman. It would’ve been foolish. He should’ve been long gone. Out of Albuquerque. He didn’t even know her.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Janice said. “He’s clearly unwell.”
“Indeed.” James waited a beat, then slapped his knees and leaned forward in his chair. “Well, Janice, this is what I know. When the state of New Mexico allocates money to children in the care of foster families or children’s homes, any child that is designated ‘special needs’ is given more money by both the state and the federal government.”
Janice’s frown deepened and James went on.
“This alone would make Adriel a valuable find. But there’s more. Adriel is also the member of an Indian tribe, which automatically checks off a separate special needs box. I can’t say I’ve got any clue as to how Mr. Andrews pulled that off, but I do know that it sheds some light on why he’s so intent on you working with these Indian scouts to identify Indian children for his organization. Hell, an Indian kid with a special need? You must’ve felt like you hit the jackpot, Janice. How long exactly have you had your eye on the boy?”
She sighed and her breath sounded shaky to James. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear.
“It wasn’t like that at all.”
“You can see how it might look that way to me,” James said. “Care to set the record straight?”
“I’ve told you. This is my calling. I sleep well at night because I know these children will go on to have better lives. I’m changing their lives, Mr. Pinter. The rest is noise to me.”
“Ever heard of the Indian Child Welfare Act?” James asked.
Janice closed her eyes for a brief moment. She looked tired.
“Of course. I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I wasn’t abreast these sorts of things.”
“One more thing,” James said, eyeing the files in front of him. “Would you mind if I ran these through the copier before I left? Our little secret.”
“Of course I mind. It’s my job to protect their identities.”
“Well then.” James stood. Put his hat back on. “I’ll be seein’ you around, Janice Stone.”
48
BARBARA
Barbara and Molly had made two stops before this one. The first was at a pet store right outside of Albuquerque for dog food and flea shampoo.
“I know it’ll be too dark to give him a bath tonight, but after school tomorrow, I want to. It’s getting too cold for sleeping outside.”
Barbara smiled and did not remind Molly that the dog had fur and an ability to find itself shelter. It had probably been sleeping outside its whole life. It didn’t look like an old dog, but it wasn’t a puppy, either.
The second stop had been to Barbara’s office. She knew the phone company had not yet responded to the court order, but she felt the need to check anyway. Instead, she found a voice message. Her heartbeat quickened. Had Adriel called again?
But when Barbara pushed the button, it was James’s voice that spoke to her.
“It’s me, Barb. I know you just left, but I forgot to ask,” he said. “Can you look into a judge for me? He’s on the reservation. Wayne gave me the name of a guy who does now what Tallsalt used to do. Robert John. I want to see what we can find out about him. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks, Barb.”
Now, Barbara watched Molly speak to the dog, scratch his ears. The dog’s mouth was open, his tongue lolling to the side. He looked so happy it made Barbara laugh.
Molly disappeared into the house for a few minutes and came back out with a bowl of the new dog food. She put it in front of him, and he didn’t even stand up to start eating it. Just put his muzzle right into that bowl. Barbara shook her head. These rez dogs were something else.
Molly clambered back into the car. “You sure you don’t mind if I use your washing machine tonight?”
“Honey, what’s mine is yours.”
Molly grinned and grabbed the files off the dash. They’d made copies at the Albuquerque library earlier that day before leaving James behind. “What are you gonna do with these?” she’d asked her dad.
James hadn’t been concerned about stealing from the children’s home. “They won’t miss them for an afternoon,” he’d said. “If anyone notices they’re gone, it’ll likely be a lower-level employee who would only suspect someone misplaced them. They won’t report it right away.”
