Even Steven (7 page)

She heard Bobby move in close, and she heard a muffled scraping sound through the speakers as the microphone looked for the perfect angle from which to observe her son, but as the doctor finally settled the instrument into place, she clamped her eyes even tighter, silently mortgaging her soul to any power in the universe that could produce for her the familiar whoosh, whoosh of Steven's heartbeat.

"What do you see?" Bobby asked, his voice cracking from the blossoming fear.

Dr. Samson repositioned the microphone and filled the room with still more silence.

"He's okay, right?"

Susan opened her eyes to see her steady rock of a husband quivering at the end of the table, his mouth forcing a smile, while every other part of his face twisted into a mask of grief. She reached out for his hand, but he recoiled, overwhelmed by his realization of the truth.

The doctor put the little microphone back on the stand and turned off the machine. For a long time, he didn't say anything, instead staring at his hands and collecting his thoughts. When he looked up, his words were unnecessary. His face said it all.

I m afraid the news is as bad as it gets." Bobby turned ashen, and he helped himself to a corner of Susan's exam table. "The baby seems to have died." Dr. Samson appeared to be pushing himself through the words, making them come out of a throat that wanted to say anything else in the world.

"What happened?" Bobby gasped. "How could that be?" The doctor pursed his lips and furrowed deep wrinkles into his forehead as he wrestled with the answer. "There are a thousand things that might have gone wrong. It could be a congenital defect we missed, or it could be a virus, or it could be just about anything. I'm afraid we won't know until after he's born."

"No," Bobby groaned. "This can't be happening. You have to be wrong." A crimson flush worked its way through the pallor of his cheeks. "How do you know that you're not wrong?"

Dr. Samson blushed as he opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it when he thought better of it. "This is terrible news for both of you, I know. I wish -"

"What did you do?" Bobby asked, moving in close to the doctor. "What did you do wrong?"

Susan gasped and reached out for her husband. "Bobby, please ..."

"What did you do?" His tone dripped accusation, and his posture said that he wanted to exchange blows with the man.

Dr. Samson didn't even flinch. "It's not like that, Mr. Martin. There's nothing anyone did or didn't do. Casting blame accomplishes nothing."

To Susan, Bobby said, "Did he give you any drugs, honey? Any new medications?"

"Not a thing. Not a thing."

Bobby looked unsatisfied. These things didn't just happen. His son didn't just die. For Christ's sake, somebody had to be held accountable here. Susan had never seen him like this, and the image of her trembling husband frightened her. Ever the source of calmness in their lives, she wasn't ready for him to lose control.

But then, just as suddenly as the anger had flared, he seemed to find the handle for it, and he wrestled himself back under control. His jaw locked, his eyes hardened, and he grasped Susan's hand hard enough to crush it.

For her part, Susan remembered entering a space in her mind where she'd never been before, an emotional closet of sorts, where she could shelter her sanity from the rush of pain that welled up inside. She remembered feeling as if she were floating as she listened to the doctor explain why she needed to carry Steven's remains in her tummy for another couple of weeks, while her own body adjusted to the changes in chemistry that were on their way. She didn't understand the logic of it then, and she still didn't, even today. All she knew was that her son - once such a source of pleasure and anticipation - now rolled around dead inside her, his real and imaginary movements disgusting, sickening parody of those smiling babies on the doctor's wall.

As she lay in bed those nights, she would dream of young Steven,

afloat in his amniotic cocoon, eyes open, tongue lolling off to the side, like some prop from a horror movie. She'd wake up drenched with sweat and once didn't quite make it to the bathroom before she vomited up what little dinner she'd been able to force down.

They'd wanted her to wait for two weeks, but after nine days, Bobby called the doctor in a panic. "She's not going to make it," he'd said to the answering service at four o'clock one morning. "This thing is killing her from the inside. Please, you have to do something."

The very next morning, they took Steven from her. They gave her the shot to induce labor at about ten-thirty, and by two o'clock, he was on his way out. Susan insisted that she remain awake throughout the ordeal, and Bobby sat in a chair by her side, coaxing her along, just as they had learned in class. She breathed and she rested and she sucked on her ice chips, and as the intensity of the contractions peaked, she imagined things the way they were supposed to be, with family and friends waiting out in the lobby, and the room decorated with flowers and balloons. In her wide-awake dream, everyone smiled, and they cheered when Steven emerged and surprised them all with a boisterous wail.

Instead, her son passed from her womb into a silent room, where the lights had been dimmed out of respect for the dead. In those last moments of her labor, Susan watched Bobby. She saw his face cloud and his eyes redden, even as his mouth remained firmly set. He would not break down, he'd told her. He would be strong, and they would somehow put their lives back together when all of this was done.

But as Steven emerged, and the last of their unreasonable grasps at hope evaporated, so did her husband's resolve. He opened his mouth as if to cry out, but instead took a deep breath and covered his silent cream with his hand. Tears tracked down his cheeks, but he quickly wiped them away, and as he looked down at Susan to see if he'd been caught, she was quick to look away.

"I have him here, Susan," the doctor said. "Would you like to see him?"

The horrific images she'd conjured in her mind loomed huge, and she wanted desperately to say no. Who in the world wants to look at a dead child? Who would even dream of saying yes to such a request?

But that's exactly what she said.

Again, she watched Bobby for a sense of just how bad it would be, but as his features relaxed, so did she, though it still took her a long moment to turn her gaze toward her son.

He was the image of his father, with those thin lips and his wavy, dark hair. He wasn't green and purple and bloated as he'd always been in her dreams, but instead looked like any other baby. Just so still. And silent. He even felt warm to her touch.

The atmosphere in the operating room thickened as the Martins said hello, and then good-bye, to their infant son. It was as if no one knew for sure what to do, waiting for some sign from the parents.

"How could this happen?" Bobby whispered. "He's so beautiful."

Dr. Samson cleared his throat to draw their attention and immediately looked apologetic. "Listen, Susan, and Bobby. I don't know if this hurts or helps, but I know what went wrong."

The couple said nothing, but spoke a thousand words in a shared glance.

The doctor cleared his throat again. "He, uh, well, it seems he tied a knot in his umbilical cord." Somehow, the explanation seemed intrusive at that moment, and Dr. Samson looked to the nurses in the room for affirmation that he was doing the right thing by sharing this. "I just wanted you to know that you did nothing wrong. Perhaps it will help to remember that he died playing."

Died playing. Susan loved that phrase, and she loved the image that it conjured. The son she knew so well, despite having never seen him, was a troublemaker, and secretly, that was the type of son she'd always wanted. A little boy who would test his boundaries and her patience every single day. A real boy. All boy.

Whose voice she'd never hear. Who'd never throw a temper tantrum, never score a soccer goal, and never cry in her arms over a 1ost love. The sadness came with the force of a collapsing wall, crushing her soul, and leaving her gasping for breath. How could Steven be dead when he was here in her arms? How could they tell her that this fine, handsome, beautiful little boy would never kiss her good-night?

The unfairness of it all was unspeakable, and that's when the sobbing started. She had the sense that the air in the room had turned horribly stale, and as she fought for her breath, she was dimly aware of someone taking Steven away from her, even as she fought to hang on to him. Maybe if she offered to suckle him, he would quit this horrible, naughty game he was playing, and she heard a distant groaning sound from Bobby as she exposed her breast to her son and she tried to get him to eat.

"Oh, please, God, Susan, don't do that. Not that. Please."

That's it, Stevie, that's it. Just a little before your nap.

But no one would listen. She screamed at them, shrieked at them, yet no one would listen. They took him from her then hurried him off into another room as a nurse moved quickly to inject something into her IV line that made the pain dim and then finally go away.

It came back, though. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, the pain lived on, its edges just as sharp and jagged as they'd been six weeks ago. Susan prayed for the day that it would dim, if only just a little bit, or if only for a few minutes. She knew from her shrink and from her own reading that six weeks was nothing on the grief timetable, little more than an eye-blink, but she didn't know how much more of it she could take. Sometimes it seemed that the very next minute would edge her into lunacy.

Those were the times when Bobby miraculously appeared for her, his strength restored, his optimism unblemished. God, how she loved him.

She found herself watching the back of his head as he piloted the truck through the night, studying the strong set of his chin, his unshakable concentration on the road. When he shifted his position in his seat, he moved slowly and deliberately, no doubt assuming that she was asleep and not wanting to disturb her.

Watching him this way brought a glimmer of warmth. All of this really would pass, she told herself, and if she emerged whole on the other side, it would be because Bobby had never let go of her hand. She used these thoughts to edge the other horrors out of her mind as she leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes.

An hour later, as the Explorer swung the turn into the long, wooded driveway, Susan was sound asleep, the fingers of her right hand tangled in the boy's filthy mop of hair. In her dream, Steven was with her again, his head on her lap and listening intently as they read together from Winnie the Pooh.

RUSSELL COATES CINCHED the seat belt even tighter and willed himself not to look out the window. He focused instead on the altimeter, where the needle rested just above five hundred feet, and he did the math. The mountains themselves had to be at least three or four hundred feet, and then you add tall trees on top of that, and by his calculations, they were already dead. Maybe the window wasn't so bad after all.

"Are you okay, Agent Coates?" the pilot asked over the intercom.

He did his best to smile. "Peachy."

"I've been doing this for years, sir. Since Vietnam, in fact, so you can relax."

All that meant was he was as old as Russell and all the more likely to have a heart attack and pitch this rattletrap eggbeater into the trees; there to be found and eaten by the descendants of the Deliverance

gang.

There's the crime scene down there." The pilot pointed through the windows at their feet. In another few weeks, once the leaves had bloomed, the cluster of cops on the ground would have been invisible. Now, we can lower you on a winch, or -"

You're out of your mind."

'The alternative is a long walk, sir."

Always my preference over a long fall. Just land this thing and let me out, okay?" Russell wasn't sure what part of his statement was so funny, but the pilot thought it was hysterical.

Russell's headset crackled. "State police chopper, this is the FBI ground unit below you. Is Agent Coates on board with you?"

Russell recognized the voice of Tim Burrows, his ASAC out of the Charleston field office, and he beat the pilot to the mike button. "I'm here, Tim. We're just looking for a place to park. Hold what you've got and I'll be on scene in a half hour, tops."

As police agencies go, the Charleston, West Virginia, Field Office of the FBI was not exactly Murder Central. They did their share, of course, but most murder investigations fell within the jurisdiction of local police forces, with additional support from state agencies. Because this particular killing had occurred in Catoctin National Forest, however - on federal property - it was a federal issue. Moreover, because it had occurred on Russell Coates's first day back from a Bahamian cruise, it had become the Bureaus version of a welcome-home fruit basket.

A hiker had discovered the body earlier this morning and made an anonymous phone call to the nearest ranger station. They, in turn, had called the local police, who notified the FBI. Somewhere in that daisy chain of telephone calls, someone thought to roust Russell out of bed on what should have been his last day of vacation to catch a state police chopper out to the middle of nowhere. Technically, he could have said no thanks, but such were the words that could get an agent stranded in West Virginia for life. As it was, he didn't know whom he'd pissed off to get himself landed out here, but a day didn't go by that he didn't fantasize about being someplace else.