Swimming Lessons (29 page)

When they arrived home, the lights were on. Brett hurried to her side of the car and helped her out. She was light-headed and chilled from loss of blood. Shivering in the summer heat, she leaned against him and walked in baby steps, feeling the thick pad like a diaper between her legs. Her back pain was crippling and she had desperate cramps. Pain was all she had left of her pregnancy.

Inside, Flo and Emmi were waiting for her with grief tugging at their smiles. Flo had made minestrone soup and Emmi laid out chunks of cheese and French bread but the scents only made her more nauseated. Cara accepted their kisses and murmured words of encouragement stiffly. Words of comfort rang so false in her ears. She managed to nod to everything they said until she could escape to her room with a backward wave. She rested her forehead against the closed door. The sorrow and pity in their eyes was more than she could bear.

The table lamp cast a narrow pool of light, giving the room an empty, lonely feel. Her fingers tapped her blanket. Lying in bed, her gaze swept the room—the walls, the bureaus, the open closet with rows of colored shirts, pants and terry robes on hooks. Feeling restless, she was searching for something she could not name. In the other room she heard the soft voices of Emmi and Flo and the gentle clink of silverware.

Cara could not shake the nagging sense that something was very wrong, something not connected with her miscarriage. She shifted in the bed, careful of her abdomen, to look at the clock on her bedside stand. The digital numbers were blocked by a glass of water.

“Brett?” she called. Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and called louder, “Brett?”

She heard his footfall on the hardwood floors then he opened the door to her room. His face was etched with concern.

“Yes? Do you want something?”

“I can’t see the clock.”

“Honey, don’t worry about the time.”

“Please. Something… Can you move the water glass?”

Her voice was rising with urgency and not wishing to upset her, he obligingly moved the water glass. The clock read 7:42 p.m.

“See? It’s late,” he told her. “You should try to sleep.”

She dragged herself up to rest on her elbows, clawing at the sheets. Her mind fought through pain, fatigue and grief to focus on the clock. It was late.
Late.

Then it hit her. A panic welled up inside of her and she made soft whimpering noises in her throat as she jerked her head to the left, then to the right, searching wildly.

“Cara, what’s the matter?” Brett’s voice was sharp with worry.

She dragged her hand through her hair, pulling it tight as her mind sharpened. “Oh, my God, Brett. Where’s Lovie?”

An hour later, Brett sat on the bed beside Cara, holding her hand. She was propped up against pillows in bed, her face white with pain and shock. Flo and Emmi
were pacing the floor, wringing their hands with worry lining their faces.

A policewoman in blue uniform stood in front of the bed and was writing in her notebook as she asked questions.

“You were supposed to meet this Darryl Duggans at Patriot’s Point, is that right?”

Cara nodded. “Yes. At four o’clock.”

“Where exactly?”

“At the boat dock. I reminded him of that when he came to pick up Lovie. Four o’clock at the boat dock.” She squeezed Brett’s hand. “But I didn’t make it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the policewoman said. “I understand that. I’m sorry.” Sergeant Kim had met Cara several times over the past five years on turtle calls. She was a big turtle lover and always came running whenever she was needed.

“When did you try to reach this Darryl?”

“Not until around eight tonight. With all that happened…” She put her hand to her lips. “I forgot,” she said, her voice breaking.

“You didn’t forget!” Flo sprang to her defense. “You had surgery, for heaven’s sake.”

“I didn’t pick her up,” she said with anguish. “I didn’t tell you or anyone else to fetch her. It was all arranged. I simply forgot.”

Brett spoke up, his voice firmly putting the questions back on track. “We tried to call Darryl at the number he gave us, but the number was disconnected. I gave you the number we had.”

“Yes, sir. It’s a cell phone number. The bill hadn’t been paid so it was cut off.”

“Great,” Brett said as a curse.

“Where could he have gone? Have you been able to reach anyone who knows him?” Cara asked.

“He has a mother,” Flo offered. “She lives in North Charleston, I believe.”

“We’re looking into that,” Sgt. Kim replied. “She claims she doesn’t know where he is, either. Says to tell her if we find him because he owes her money. Seems she’d recently lent him three hundred dollars.”

“Oh, God,” Cara said, clutching Brett’s hand. “He must have been planning to take her.”

“We don’t know that.”

“It’s a possibility we’re looking into,” the sergeant replied. “It’s a known fact that most abducted children are taken by a parent.”

The stunned silence was shattered by a doorbell and Flo sprinted from the room muttering, “At last!”

Voices sounded in the hall, Flo’s high with worry and another voice, deeper and resonant. A moment later, Ethan followed Flo into the bedroom. His face was taut and his dark eyes scanned the room. He nodded in acknowledgment to Cara and Brett.

“I’m Ethan Legare,” he said, reaching out to take the policewoman’s hand. “I work with Toy Sooner at the Aquarium. How can I help?”

“Thanks for coming, Ethan,” Brett said. “This is a terrible mess and we’re trying to piece things together. First off, we have to locate Toy but we can’t get through to her. No one answers at her hotel.”

“It’s a small, family run hotel. Tico style and very simple. It doesn’t have the same amenities a western hotel does.”

“Can you think of any way to get in touch with her?”

He handed Sgt. Kim the manila folder he was car
rying. “That’s all the information I have about the symposium she’s attending in Costa Rica. I had planned to go, but I changed my mind. All the contact information you need is in there.”

“Thanks,” the policeman replied, taking the folder.

“We’ve already called the hotel that the meeting is being held at,” Brett said. “And left a dozen messages for the symposium organizers. No one has called back.”

Ethan looked at his watch. “It’s late. The symposium will have ended for today.” He sighed. “And tomorrow is Sunday. I’m not sure anyone will be in the office.”

“We can’t just wait around for someone to answer the phone,” Emmi exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “We’ve got to reach her!”

“Can we call the police and ask them to locate her?” Flo asked.

Ethan shook his head. “There’s only a small force with a lot of territory to cover. Look, I know Costa Rica. I lived in Tamarindo where the meeting is. I’ll go get her.”

“No, I’ll go,” Brett said.

“The roads are impossible any time of year, but in the rainy season, you’ll never be able to navigate them at night. I know my way around. It’s better if I go.”

“It’s my responsibility…”

The two men’s eyes met in challenge.

“I love that child, too,” Ethan said, his voice implacable. “And Toy. Besides, your wife needs you here.
I’m going
.”

Brett put his hands on his hips with a sigh and nodded.

“I’ll catch the first plane out,” Ethan said and charged from the room.

The following morning, Darryl sat on the edge of the mattress trying to focus on the numbers on the telephone.
He was hung over and his brain felt like it was working through cotton candy. How much did he have to drink last night, he wondered?

It’d been a lousy gig in a small mountain town bar and from the catcalls and hollers, the patrons thought they were a pretty lousy band, too. He could usually please a crowd with his music. But last night he got stuck playing with some old-timer, local piano player who preferred classic country to country rock and a drugged out drummer who didn’t know the difference.

On the wobbly wooden table was a stack of greasy bills, his cut of three hundred dollars for the evening. Minus his bar bill, of course. He counted through the bills and frowned. Man, it was hardly worth the trip up to North Carolina.

“Daddy, can I watch cartoons?”

He turned his head and saw Little Lovie standing in front of the old television. She was still dressed in her blue gingham dress but now it was wrinkled and soiled in the front with mustard and ketchup stains from last night’s hamburger. Her feet were bare and her hair was disheveled from sleep. She stood holding the remote with two hands, her little fingers madly pushing buttons. But nothing was happening on the screen.

Shit, he thought to himself, dropping his foggy head in his hands. He’d clean forgotten about her. What kind of a fool was he to drag a child all the way up here just so he’d not miss that sorry ass gig? Toy always told him he didn’t think things through and this time she sure was right. Sometimes he was his own worst enemy. He’d planned to head straight on to Nashville after the gig. Now he’d have to haul ass all the way back to Charleston to deliver the kid to Cara before he could take off for Tennessee.

His mouth soured at the thought of Cara Whatever-her-last-name-was and the tongue-lashing she’d no doubt deliver. Well, where the hell was Mrs. High and Mighty yesterday when she was supposed to be picking up Little Lovie, that’s what he wanted to know? She’d been such a harpy about his being on time—and he was. He’d waited at the boat dock in the hot sun for over an hour, pacing back and forth buying Lovie candy after candy till he thought she was going to puke. His damned cell phone was cut off so he had to ask around for change. Then “good luck” trying to find a pay phone these days. He finally found one near the big aircraft carrier and dialed the number she’d given him.

But she didn’t answer. None of the numbers did. And after that big deal she made about giving him that list and telling him how he should call if anything happened. Then Lovie had commenced whining that she was sweaty and her stomach felt sick.

That’s when he got nervous—and mad. It was after five o’clock and he had a gig in North Carolina at nine. Did Cara think he was rolling in dough and could just skip out on a job? The more he thought about it, the madder he got till he decided to just let Miss High and Mighty sit and stew. Let her feel what it was like to have to wait on him for a change. So he’d thumbed his nose at Cara—and the whole bunch of them turtle ladies—and took his daughter with him to his gig in North Carolina.

He’d meant to drive her home after the gig was done but the poor kid fell asleep in a booth at the bar. Besides, he was pretty wiped out afterward. Four long hours of driving back to Charleston was more than he could deal with. So he’d checked into a cheap motel down the road a piece to crash.

He looked at the clock and saw that it was already 9:00 a.m. Rubbing his stomach, he burped, loud and rumbling.

“You’re supposed to say excuse me,” Lovie said.

“Excuse me,” he complied.

“Daddy, I can’t make this turn on.”

He dragged himself to his feet and padded over to take the remote. With a click the television flicked on. Lovie did a little two footed jig. He chuckled and began flicking through the stations.

“That one!” she called out when a cartoon appeared. “I want that one.”

“Okay. Hey, you getting hungry?”

She shook her head no.

Good, he thought to himself. He couldn’t face food yet but he’d kill for coffee. “Listen, I’ve got to call and talk to your people. After that, we’re gonna clean up and get some breakfast, then head back home. Okay?”

Lovie only nodded, caught up in the cartoons.

What a dump, he thought, letting his gaze take in the cheap carpeting, the greasy paneling and the bare furnishings. He’d stayed in worse, but he’d stayed in lots better, too. It was no place to bring a sweet child like her. He sat back on the mattress and pulled the phone closer to him. Then he smoothed out the folded paper with all the numbers written out in neat handwriting. Rubbing his eyes, he squinted at the numbers, wishing to God he had a cup of coffee.

After two rings, a man answered the phone. “Yes?” The voice was huffy, like he’d run to answer the phone.

“Uh, yeah. Who is this?”

“Brett Beauchamps. Who is this?” A pause. “Is this
Darryl?
”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s Lovie?” he shouted into the phone. “Where the hell did you take her?”

Darryl opened his mouth to speak but he didn’t have time to utter a sound.

“Do you think you can get away with this?” Brett launched into a tirade. “We’ve got the police looking for you so you might as well give it up right now and bring her back. You’ll get off easy if you do.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, man?”

“Child abduction is a federal offense. You don’t have joint custody, not even visitation rights.”

“I didn’t…”

“We know about that warrant for your arrest in California. You’re in deep, buddy. So make it easy on yourself and just bring her home.”

Darryl felt an overwhelming sense of dread as he stared vacantly at the wood striations in the greasy paneling.

“If you touch a hair on her head, just one hair I swear…” Brett paused. “I’ll come after you. Do you hear me? Huh? Do you…”

Darryl set the phone back in the receiver, feeling like he was moving in slow motion. His stomach heaved and he thought he was going to hurl. Tightening his lips, he dropped his head in his hands.

What the fuck was going on? he wondered. Was the whole world going crazy? He was just gone for one night, for crying out loud. With his own kid! What did they mean abduction?

It felt like the blood was draining from his head and he flopped back on the mattress. It was thin and lumpy and smelled of must and cigarettes. He tried to think over the drumming of blood in his head, tried to replay
the phone call in his mind—
abduction…felony…police
… They knew about the warrant out for his arrest? Hell, he hadn’t known she was under age!

Darryl tightened his hands into fists. Shit. He couldn’t go back to Charleston now. They thought he’d kidnapped his own kid. They were convinced of it and for sure wouldn’t give him a chance to explain. And there was that California thing. They’d arrest him on sight. How did he get himself into this mess? He lifted his fist and hit the mattress. Then hit it again and again, all the while his brain silently screamed,
goddamn, goddamn, goddamn.