Most Wanted (8 page)

“We don't disclose that information, either. I will tell you that we are generally conservative in the number of vials we sell from a given donor.”

“Does Homestead have to notify those women if Donor 3319 is Jeffcoat? Will you notify
us
?”

Demipetto hesitated. “This is beyond my bailiwick, Mr. Nilsson. I doubt that we have a notification requirement with respect to a situation like this, where a donor is arrested for a crime.”

“Not just a crime, the serial killing of three women. Nurses, and he said he was going to be a medical student. Don't you think we have a right to know that? Don't you think we have a right to be informed?”

“Your rights are outlined by contract—”

“I'm not talking about law, I'm talking about what's the right thing to do. How do you feel about yourself, knowing that you're withholding an answer I have a moral right to know? That I deserve to know? It's the truth, and you don't own it!”

“Mr. Nilsson, please hold a moment.”

Marcus held on as the phone went dead, seeming not to remember Christine was in the bedroom. The phone clicked, signaling that Ms. Demipetto had come back on the line.

“Mr. Nilsson, I have to terminate this conversation. As you may know, Homestead is owned and operated by Fertility Assurance Associates, Inc., and I can have a representative call you tomorrow during office—”

“Don't hang up. I want to talk about this now. I don't want—”

“I'm sorry. I've been instructed to refer this to our corporate headquarters. I can assure you that we are following up on your concerns, and we will have someone contact you.”

“Did they tell you not to talk to me?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Nilsson. I must go. Thank you for your call, and I'll have someone get back to you tomorrow. Good-bye.”

Marcus hung up, pursing his lips. “I'm calling the doctor. I'm going to get to the bottom of this, once and for all.”

Christine nodded, numbly, her heart sinking, but Marcus was already scrolling through the contacts, finding a number, and pressing
CALL
.

“Hi, Dr. Davidow, this is Marcus Nilsson, with Christine on speaker.”

“Hi, Marcus, hi, Christine.”

“Hi,” Christine said, noting the difference in Dr. Davidow's voice from earlier this evening. Before, he had sounded warm, lively, and interested, but now he sounded tense, worried.

“Dr. Davidow, I know you spoke with Christine today about Donor 3319. I see his sample has been taken off the shelves. Do you know why?”

“I did speak with Lee Ann at Homestead tonight. I was just about to call you—”

“And what did she tell you?”

“She said they would take 3319 off the shelves, pending investigation. I told her that was the most prudent course of action, and they agreed, out of an abundance of caution.”

“So is our donor Zachary Jeffcoat?”

“I don't know, but the fact that 3319 was taken off the shelves does not mean that he's Jeffcoat. Homestead took it off pending their investigation—”

“Doc, is it him or not?” Marcus raised his voice, still controlled.

“They won't confirm or deny.”

“Level with me. They won't tell
you
? They're your subcontractor, for God's sake!”

Dr. Davidow cleared his throat. “I know this is hard to understand, but they can't disclose that information to me. They have a legal relationship to the donors and it's sacred to them.”

“Do you really not know, or you don't want to know?”

“I
don't
know. I did ask them, but they wouldn't confirm or deny.”

Christine slumped against the headboard, noticing that Murphy had crawled over to her, resting his head on her thigh. She put her hand on his soft, furry head, not knowing who was comforting whom.

“Dr. Davidow, did they do an investigation after they spoke with you but before they took him off the shelves?”

“I don't know that.”

“Did they take him off the shelf while you were speaking with them?”

“No. 3319 was available when we were on the phone, and we spoke for maybe fifteen minutes, about a half hour or so ago. I don't know when 3319 was taken off the shelves, but it was still available when I was speaking with them, so I'm sure it was in response to my call.”

“Doesn't that mean it's him?”

“No, it doesn't. It means they're going to investigate.”

“But how much investigation can it take? They have the guy's name on file. It takes three minutes to look at a file.”

“No, Marcus, I'm sure the files concerning the identity of the donors are protected, if not encrypted. Not everyone in the Homestead office may have access. The assistant director may not even have access. We don't know.”

“Okay,
that
I'll buy.” Marcus stopped pacing, then nodded.

“Look, I've never had this situation before, or anything like it. I care about you and Christine, and I think you should come in tomorrow and we can talk this over.”

“Are they going to call you back and tell you the results of their investigation?”

“No they're not. I asked them to and they declined.”

“But I have a right to know that information.” Marcus started pacing again. The dog swiveled his head around, watching him, too.

“It's not a question of whether you have that right. It's a question of what Homestead is obligated legally to tell you. Look, I just got off the phone with Michelle. I think you both should come have a session with her, at four o'clock.”

“I don't need a therapy session, I need an answer. My wife could be carrying the baby of a serial killer.”

Christine felt the words like a blow. Hearing Marcus say it aloud made it so real. Tears sprang to her eyes. It
was
real. It was
true
. And she was lost, all was lost. Her dream of motherhood, of parenthood, of their new family, was over. Her thoughts raced. She knew Marcus would never think of the baby as his, would never see himself as the father, and the baby's father was a killer, a murderer. But she was carrying the baby, it was still
her
baby, and she and the baby were all alone, on their own. She was
holding the bag
.

Marcus and Dr. Davidow kept talking on the phone, but their voices grew far away. Christine couldn't hear anything they were saying, she couldn't feel the dog's head under her palm. Marcus was turning toward her, his forehead buckling in alarm, but she couldn't speak. The bedroom fell away, the heavenly blue walls and soft lamplights vanished, and she felt herself slipping into blackness.

She didn't have another thought before she fainted dead away.

 

Chapter Seven

The entrance hall buzzed with last-day activity as Christine entered the school building. Teachers' aides hustled back and forth to the office with forms, workmen rolled handcarts of taped boxes toward trucks idling outside, and two kindergarten teachers, Linda Cohen and Melissa DiMarco, hurried to the office, looking over, grinning, when they spotted Christine.

“Christine,” Linda called out. “Your party was so fun! Stay in touch, okay?”

“Sure, thanks!” Christine kept up her smile, still trying to wrap her mind around what was going on. She had vomited this morning, but had told herself it was morning sickness. She only had to keep it together for one more day.

Melissa chimed in, “Best of luck! We'll miss you!”

“I'll miss you, too!” Christine beelined for her office door, but she had to pass the administrative office, where Pam and the staff were boxing files and taping bookshelves. Pam motioned to her to come in, but Christine pointed to her watch and kept walking. She reached her office, opened the door, and went inside.

“That you?” Lauren called out from the adjacent office, rising from her desk.

“Yes!” Christine called back, letting her tote bags, backpack, and purse drop onto the blue carpet. She glanced around, but she'd already packed up her office, so the place didn't look familiar at all, much less somewhere she'd worked for almost ten years. Her desk, of brown indeterminate wood, was generic without her photos of Marcus, Lady, and Murphy, and her white walls looked so empty without her American Library Association poster of Elvis Presley reading a book, captioned
READ
. Her bookshelves were covered with brown paper, and her bulletin board stripped to original cork, covered with thumbtack holes like public-school constellations. Christine had left posted only her Fountas & Pinnell Literacy Scale and her favorite inspirational poster, from Maya Angelou:
If you are always trying to be normal, you will never know how amazing you can be
.

“Honey, how
are
you?” Lauren rushed over and enveloped her in a morning hug fresh enough to smell like citrusy hair conditioner.

“I can't believe this is happening.” Christine let herself be held for a moment. “I just can't believe it.”

“Tell me. I was worried when you didn't call back.” Lauren let her go, her expression full of love and concern. Her curly hair was still wet from the shower, twisted up into a topknot, and she had on a gauzy smock with a bright pink T-shirt underneath.

“I'm sorry, I should have called. Believe it or not, I fainted.”

“Oh my God.” Lauren's hand flew to her mouth.

“I know, what a drama queen.” Christine brushed dirt off her seersucker shirtdress, which she knew would get filthy in five minutes, but she'd been too distracted this morning to find the right clothes. She'd showered but hadn't even bothered to blow-dry the back of her head.

“No, not at all! Here, sit down.” Lauren pulled out a blue plastic chair, which was undersized for students, but Christine sat down anyway, squeezing.

“Then I cried, then we talked and I cried some more, I was so exhausted I slept … the whole night.” Christine had been about to say
like a baby
, but caught herself.

“So why did they take it off the shelves? Is it really him?” Lauren's eyes flared with alarm.

“They took it off the shelves pending their investigation, whatever that means. We don't know anything more than you do. We're going to meet with Michelle and Davidow today, after school.”

“Good.”

“But Homestead won't tell Davidow, or us, if our donor is Jeffcoat, because it has contracts for confidentiality with our donor, and we signed a contract saying that we understood that.”

“Oh boy.” Lauren leaned against the desk, folding her arms. “So they don't have to tell you?”

“Right; legally nobody has to tell us anything.”

“Let's see what the investigation yields. We shouldn't freak until we know the results. How's Marcus? How is he handling this?”

“I conked out last night, but I don't think he slept at all. He was on the computer in his office when I woke up.” Christine glanced at the clock and realized she had an appointment with a student in fifteen minutes, the first in a day full of appointments, before the end of the year.

“Doing what?”

“I don't know, we didn't get time to talk about it this morning. I just noticed he was printing a lot of things, which he never does, and he was running late this morning, which he never is.”

“The poor guy.” Lauren's lower lip puckered, with sympathy.

“I know.” Christine leaned over, unzipped the first tote bag, and started unpacking the gift bags. She was giving each of her students a book, a squiggle pen, and a self-addressed postcard, so they could tell her their impressions of the book. It was lucky that she had bought the gifts and packed the bags last week, because she never would've had the energy last night.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I'll let you know what happens tonight.” Christine pulled out the gift bags and set them on the desk. She'd customized the gifts for each of her students, so Cal Watson, a second-grader with tracking problems who loved dogs, got a puppy-themed gift bag with a copy of
Fun Dog, Sun Dog.
Talieeta Choudhoury, a sixth-grader who had reading comprehension problems but was obsessed with pirates, got a copy of
Treasure Island
in a black gift bag; the book was a reach for Talieeta, but Christine had put an encouraging note inside, telling her to give it a shot. Gemma Oglethorpe, a first-grader who struggled with her sight words, got
Hot Rod Hamster
in a floral gift bag, because it was impossible to find a hamster-themed gift bag.

Lauren helped her unpack. “You are so sweet to do this. You must have spent a fortune.”

“It wasn't that bad.” Christine flashed back to her early teaching career, when she first realized how much of their own money teachers spent on their students. It had come as a surprise, but she never begrudged it and didn't know any teacher who did.

“So what are you thinking? How are you dealing?”

“Until yesterday, I was super happy. I thought I was carrying this adorable baby, and the truth is, I wasn't really focused on the donor. I forgot all about him. I think of this baby as our baby, Marcus's and mine.” Christine unpacked the bags, on autopilot. “Or at least, as my baby, but not because I made a ‘genetic contribution,' as they say. But just because it's
in
me.”

“Of course, that makes total sense.” Lauren gestured at Christine's belly. “I mean, you're pregnant. Duh.”

“But now all of a sudden, we're back where we were two months ago, talking about sperm donors and ‘genetic contributions,' and now it feels so strange, like everything is ruined.” Christine felt her eyes film but blinked them clear as she loaded the gift bags onto her empty desk.

“But it's not ruined, it's not ruined yet.”

“Honestly, yes it is. You don't even know what Marcus said to the doctor last night.” Christine stopped short, knowing that if she told Lauren what Marcus had said, Lauren would permanently hate him, in the way of all true BFFs.