Whirlwind

19

Duncanville, Texas

Remy Toxton watched greater Dallas blurr by her window as Mason Varno guided their pickup along the Lyndon B. Johnson Freeway to the emergency shelter in Duncanville.

Far enough away, she thought.

It was at least twenty miles west of the flea market and a good place to get the baby’s condition checked. It was important to do this before Remy took the next step toward exchanging him for the rest of her money, and getting closer to her dream life with Mason.

She looked down at Caleb Cooper sleeping on her lap.

She had thought it all through this morning over the McDonald’s breakfast Mason went out to get for them. A hospital or clinic might ask more questions and have security cameras, whereas a temporary shelter might be less formal and more understanding if tornado survivors didn’t have all the answers.

I just wish to hell that stupid mother in the news would shut up about looking for her baby. She wasn’t fit to care for this baby. I’m taking him to a better place.

They were ready to do this, she thought.

Mason had shaved his stubble, put on a new Cowboys’ ball cap, and a long-sleeved shirt to cover his tattoos.

Remy’s spiked red hair was now cropped short and dyed dark brown. She wore black-framed, knockoff Prada glasses, which she got at the flea market. She also wore a plain cotton top that covered her tattoo. They didn’t look anything like the couple who’d helped that stupid mother.

After making a series of merges, exits and turns, they’d reached the recreation center that served as the area’s emergency shelter.

“All set, babe?” Remy asked.

Mason nodded.

They entered the center with Mason carrying Caleb, looking every bit like young parents as they stopped at the first table, where three women were assisting people.

One of them was wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words World’s Greatest Grandma. She smiled over bifocals at Remy and Mason. “How can we help you folks?”

“We’d like to get medical attention for our baby,” Remy started. “His head got hurt in the storm.” Mason held Caleb so the woman could see the little bandage. “We just want to be sure he’s okay,” Remy said.

“Oh my, yes. Can’t take chances with little babies.” The woman pointed with a pen. “Go to the medical unit down there. See the sign?”

Remy and Mason nodded their thanks.

“Are you sure that’s all you need?”

“Well,” Remy said, thinking, “we may need some clothes for him, and we lost his car seat. But that’s asking too much.”

“Not at all, honey. We’ve got donations of children’s clothes and items over there. Take what you need. We’ve also got groceries and hot food down that way. If you need a place to sleep, let us know. We’ve got volunteers from everywhere to help. Red Cross, Salvation Army, churches, community groups. If you’re missing or looking for anybody, we’ve got people set up with Missing Person Emergency Search System down there to help you. If you’re property owners that were hit, you’ll need a permit to get into your home and see the damage so you can start insurance claims and apply for aid. We’ve got people who can help you with the process.”

“Thank you,” Mason said, “but we were traveling through from out of town and just wanted to get the baby checked.”

“Sure. Mary Jo?” The woman turned to a teenage girl with a T-shirt that read I’m Here to Help. “Mary Jo, can you please take these nice folks and their little angel over to medical?”

“For sure. Follow me.”

Mary Jo’s ponytail swayed in cheery contrast to the air of a recreation center filled with tornado victims as she led them to the medical unit. The six treatment stations had makeshift examination rooms with curtained walls. Each one was in use. Remy and Mason sat among the people in the two dozen folding chairs that constituted the waiting area. They were greeted by a woman in her twenties wearing a T-shirt and jeans and carrying clipboards.

“Hi, who are we helping?”

“Our baby got a scrape on his head in the storm.”

The woman looked at it.

“How old is he?”

“Three months,” Remy lied. If she said his real age, it would raise suspicion by matching the age of the missing baby in the news.

“Okay,” the woman said before passing Remy a clipboard and form. “Fill this out then return it to me. One of our medical team will call you so Dr. Butler can examine him. It won’t be long.”

Mason’s face grew taut looking at the form about names, Social Security Numbers, medical history, allergies. He glanced at Remy, who took her time completing every box with phony information. Fifteen minutes later, she handed the clipboard and form back to the young woman.

“That was smooth,” Mason said.

“This is going to work.”

Remy took stock of Caleb for several moments before she was gripped by the fear that she’d slipped up somewhere, had forgotten some important thing. She racked her brain but nothing came to mind.

“Spiller?” A woman in a flowered smock, her blond hair pulled up in a bun and with a stethoscope around her neck, glanced from the clipboard toward the waiting area. “Isaac Spiller?”

Remy raised her hand.

“That’s us.”

“Hi, I’m Charlene Butler. Let’s go to number three and I’ll take a look at him.”

Remy and Mason entered the curtained cubicle. Charlene directed them to lay Caleb down on the examination table and hold him while she tugged on surgical gloves.

“Let’s see… So he got a little bump in the storm.” She lifted her stethoscope from her neck and bent over Caleb to check him. “Are those little bloodstains from when it happened?”

It hit Remy like a sledgehammer to her stomach. The thing she’d overlooked. She’d forgotten to change the baby out of his bloodied romper. She knew she needed to get him clothes but had completely overlooked the fact he was still wearing his blue-and-white-striped romper with the tiny elephant. The last thing his mother had dressed him in. It was listed as a detail in the last news story Remy had read about Caleb.

“I’m sorry,” Remy said, “can you repeat that?”

Dr. Butler looked directly at Remy, then Mason for a moment, as if she were assessing them.

“I said, did either of you see what happened?” Charlene removed the bandage. “How did he get his little scrape?”

“No.” Remy shook her head, looking at Mason. “It was during the storm… We didn’t see anything hit him. I was holding him and afterward he was just bleeding a little.”

“Well, there’s no bruising. That’s good.”

As the doctor checked the baby’s vital signs, she continued asking questions.

“Since it happened has he seemed overly tired or cranky?”

“No.”

“Have his sleeping patterns changed at all?”

“No.”

Charlene removed the baby’s romper and diaper to continue.

“Has he been fussing at his ears as though irritated?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“What about eating? Has his appetite changed?”

“No. Well, I’m moving him to formula and solids.”

Charlene glanced at the form Remy had completed on the clipboard.

“At three months? Most people wait a bit longer. He’s big for three months.”

“He’s a good eater.”

“Are you breastfeeding?”

“No.”

“Mmm.”

Charlene cleaned his tiny wound and covered it with a new bandage. Then, after several more minutes, she finished up.

“He’s fine.” Her gloves gave elastic snaps as she peeled them off. “Just clean his cut regularly and replace the bandage often. You can put his romper back on.”

“Thank you.”

Charlene smiled, cooed at the baby then left the cubicle.

Remy took Caleb, now clad only in a diaper, into her arms, and touched her cheek to his. Then she grabbed the romper and led Mason out of the medical post. They didn’t speak as they worked their way across the rec center floor to the section with tables and rows of plastic tubs and boxes of donated children’s clothes.

Remy passed Caleb to Mason to hold. She then tossed the baby’s bloodied romper into a pile and began rifling boxes marked, Baby Boy 0-12 Months, building a selection of clothing, diapers, cramming it all into plastic bags. She dressed Caleb in a new green romper. It was a little big on him but it smelled freshly laundered. While she was choosing more clothes, Mason noticed a couple of baby car seats nearby and took the one that appeared the sturdiest, checking the harness system.

Mason then found the food table, grabbed several ham-and-cheese and egg-salad sandwiches that were wrapped in clear plastic. He also took cookies and doughnuts, cramming them into the bags of clothes.

They headed for the lot and their pickup truck, where Mason got out his tools and secured the car seat in the truck’s cab, inspecting the anchor and the tether, ensuring it was secure before Remy strapped Caleb in.

Mason started the truck. Remy fastened her own seat belt then threw her head back into her headrest, letting relief wash over her.

“We did it, Mason! He’s healthy and no one had a clue about us!”

“Damn straight-he’s sixty thousand dollars healthy!”

They drove away, realizing that now they were closer to achieving what they each truly wanted.

As Mason wheeled the pickup through the neighborhood, he pulled a sandwich from the bag and began devouring it. By the time they’d made it to the freeway on-ramp to head back to their motel, Mason had reached into the bag for a doughnut.

“The kid’s healthy, so let’s call her,” he said between bites. “Let’s set things up to get this done.”

Mason accelerated and they merged with expressway traffic.

“Remy? Are you going to call her?”

“Not just yet. One more thing.”

“What? What one more thing?” Mason turned to face her, disbelieving, when his cell phone vibrated.

Keeping an eye on the road and his mirrors he pulled out his phone to check the text he’d received.

U can run but U can’t hide mfkr.

It was from DOA. Jesus.

Then in a sickening heartbeat Mason suddenly realized that disappearing inches separated their pickup from the rolling wheels of a tractor trailer. At that very moment a flash of sunlight on chrome and a panicked bellow of an air horn sucked the breath from his lungs.

Mason lifted his foot from the gas to stomp the brake as his hand spasmed on the wheel to swerve.

Remy reached for the baby, screamed and shut her eyes, bracing for a collision.

At the last second Mason swerved, coming within a hairbreadth before averting a crash.

Remy sighed with relief.

This was the last straw for Mason. The close call detonated his rage-rage at Remy’s reluctance to get rid of the baby; rage at DOA’s text; rage at everything. Mason roared east on the freeway, his nerves rippling with each car he passed.

“Slow down!” Remy said.

He was catatonic with fury, driving hard.

“Mason, please!”

He drove without speaking as they exited the freeway into some community racing by them in the southeast.

“Mason, for God’s sake, what are you doing?”

He didn’t have a clear destination but rather a burning intention. They came to a deserted field, heaped with broken branches and debris from the storm. He parked the truck, grabbed the baby and got out.

“Mason!” Remy jumped out after him. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t take any more of this bullshit, Remy! I’m going to take care of things once and for all!”

Mason’s jawline pulsed as he marched through the debris with the baby. Remy ran after him, pounding his back and shoulders, tears streaming down her face.