Cry Baby

  CRY BABY

  What’s the life of your child worth?

  David Jackson

  This one’s for Eden,

  who keeps me smiling.

  Also by David Jackson

  Pariah

  The Helper

  Marked

  Tuesday, January 4

  10.21 PM

  She awakens because the voice in her head commands her to.

  ‘Wake up, Erin. Come on, now. Time to get up.’

  Her eyes flicker open, blink a few times. It’s like trying to see through gauze.

  Light. It’s light in here. Daytime? No – it’s an insipid, artificial light.

  She realizes she’s staring at the ceiling, even though it appears to be miles away. Her room feels stretched up into space. Is this her room? She turns her head slightly, but it takes an effort. As though her spine has fossilized and rotating her neck could snap it. She sees items of furniture – a dresser, a closet, a nightstand. Their edges are blurred and they seem to quiver, but they look familiar to her.

  Why do they move like that? What happened to me?

  ‘Erin? Are you awake?’

  That voice. Where is it coming from? Am I not really awake? Am I stuck in a dream?

  And then it’s as if she gets sucked into a black hole. Something opens up in the pit of her stomach and she feels as though the rest of her body is being pulled into it. The room swirls. A pounding starts in her skull. She wants to vomit and scream at the same time.

  Because she remembers.

  It hits her like a shell blast. Sends a shock wave through her body that seems to lift her into the air and drop her onto the bed again.

  Adrenaline floods her system, wrenching her out of her stupor. She turns her head to explore the other side of the room. She knows what she wants to see, but dreads that it will not be so.

  Georgia. My precious little Georgia.

  The crib has wooden slats down the side, but the light in here is too dim, damn it, and she can’t see beyond them with this diluted sight of hers. There’s no sound either, but Georgia could be asleep, please let her be sleeping. Erin throws her feet over the side of the bed and places them on the floor. She is surprised at first to see that she’s wearing shoes, has all her clothes on in fact, but the terrible memories tell her why, and they tell her to expect the worst, and now she is starting to cry even before she has seen, because she knows, she knows what she will find. She pushes herself off the bed with arms that feel as though they’re made of cotton, and when she gets to her feet the floor seems to lurch, to the left and then to the right, like she’s on a ship being tossed in a storm. But she has to make it over to the crib, has to check that her darling is all right, and as she stumbles across the room she blinks furiously, tries to bat away the tears and the mist that keeps obscuring her vision, and she finally makes it to the crib, steadying herself on its rail as she stares down and reaches in and touches…

  … nothingness.

  The covers are undisturbed. Heart-wrenchingly crisp and crease-free.

  ‘GEORGIA!’

  She screams the name, as if expecting her baby to come running, or at least call back, even though she is only six months old. But there is no logic in Erin’s mind now. The fogginess is dissipating only to be replaced by blind panic.

  ‘Erin! Listen to me!’

  Still the voice. She cannot work out where it’s coming from, but right now she doesn’t care. She cares about only one thing, one person. Nothing else matters. Nothing in the universe is more important.

  Whimpering, she turns on the spot, scanning the room, struggling to concoct explanations. Trying to make herself believe that her daughter somehow escaped from the crib and is hiding somewhere nearby, even though Erin knows it’s impossible, even though she knows what happened to her baby but doesn’t want to acknowledge it.

  Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? I know what happened to her. I know it, I know it, I know it. But please don’t let it be true. Please!

  And so she throws open the door and bursts into the living room, her eyes desperately searching, and she sees the stroller over by the apartment door and she weaves her way over to it, her legs turning to jelly and the tears running down her face, because again she knows what she will find. And as she spins the stroller around to face her and peers into its hollowness, a yelp of pain escapes her lips.

  ‘Erin! Stop this. Listen to me!’

  She screams angrily to drown out the voice, then runs into the kitchen. It’s a tiny area, and she can see immediately that it’s empty. She tries the bathroom next. Yanks aside the shower curtain just to be sure, because you never know. With what has gone on, you just never know.

  Back into the living room. One more room to try. The second bedroom. Where she keeps all the baby stuff because there is no space in her own bedroom. Here is where there are cuddly toys and diapers and a diaper disposer and a changing mat and clothes, lots of clothes, and all kinds of lotions and potions and powders and medicines…

  … but no Georgia.

  She is not here. She is not in this apartment. Which Erin has suspected all along. This is no dream. This is real. Her world has been taken from her, and she doesn’t know what to do about it. How do you find a baby? Where the fuck do you start to look for your baby?

  Her legs give way and she falls to the floor. In the second bedroom, surrounded by all the baby things, she drops to the carpet and lets out her grief and anger in long drawn-out wails.

  ‘Erin! Can you hear me?’

  This damned voice. Why am I still hearing it? What are you doing to me?

  Erin claps her hands to her ears.

  And then she feels it.

  The earpiece. In her right ear. If she had not been panicking, if she had not been recovering from her drug-induced state, she would have realized it was there all along.

  She unplugs it. Stares at it. Tries to understand. Who put it there? And why?

  The man who took my baby?

  Images flash in her head. Of coming home from the drugstore at about seven o’clock this evening. She’d bought some diaper rash cream for Georgia, plus a new bib. She’d paused at the apartment door, dug around in her purse for her keys. She eventually found them, unlocked the door, pushed it wide open. Started to wheel the stroller into the apartment.

  She heard nothing. Her attacker came at her from behind. Was on her in an instant. He must have been hiding in the shadows of the hallway, just waiting for her. Yes, she remembers now. The smell. The chemical smell of the cloth that was clamped tightly over her mouth and nose. So tightly she thought she would asphyxiate. She had to breathe, couldn’t stop herself. Had to take a deep breath, suck in some oxygen. And with it those chemicals. She felt them burning in her throat, and she remembers her consciousness dissolving, the long fall into blackness.

  That was, what, more than two hours ago? Two hours in which the attacker could have taken anything. Money, the television, whatever.

  But he chose my baby. Why did he have to take my baby?

  She stares at the earpiece. Knows that she has to replace it. It might be Georgia’s only chance.

  She brings it slowly, tentatively, back to her ear. Hears a tinny voice as it approaches. When she inserts it fully the voice gains volume and bass, and she catches the end of a sentence:

  ‘… in the apartment.’

  She opens her mouth, wanting to speak, but realizes how ridiculous that would be.

  Talk to me again, she thinks. Please, tell me something about Georgia.

  ‘Erin, did you hear what I just said?’

  Her lips part again. Why is he asking me a question? How am I supposed to communicate with him?

  ‘It’s all right, Erin. You can speak. I’ll be able to hear you.’

/>   ‘Wh-what?’ she says. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Erin.’

  Her eyes dart. How can he hear me?

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where I am, Erin. You just need to calm down and listen to me.’

  ‘You’ve… you’ve bugged my apartment.’

  ‘No. Only you, Erin.’

  She doesn’t understand. He’s not making sense. Why is he messing with my mind like this?

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Stand up, Erin. Go back into the living room and sit down. You need to relax. You need to get your head together again.’

  Stand up? Go into the living room? How does he know I’m not standing up? How does he know what room I’m in right now?

  ‘You can see me? You’re watching me?’

  ‘Just do as I say, Erin. Into the living room. Take a seat on that comfy leather sofa of yours.’

  Her face creases up. She wants to cry again. He knows so much. She feels so invaded, so defiled. What else does he want from her?

  ‘My baby. Do you have my baby?’

  ‘All in good time, Erin. All in good time. Just do what I tell you, and everything will be fine.’

  She scrambles to her feet. Her head is still muzzy and she feels nauseous, but she does what he asked of her. She heads back into the living room, pauses in front of the sofa.

  ‘Sit on it, Erin. Go ahead. It’s not a trap. I just want to explain things to you.’

  Jesus. He can see me in here too.

  She turns a full three-sixty, examining the walls for cameras. Where are they?

  ‘Erin, will you just sit down? Please.’

  She lowers herself onto the sofa.

  ‘Okay, I’m sitting.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘How do you know? How can you hear and see me?’

  ‘I can hear you, but I can’t see you. I see only what you see.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Look down, Erin. At your coat.’

  She obeys his instruction. Looks down. She’s wearing her short woolen coat, above a long black skirt and brown boots. The coat is buttoned up, just as it was when she arrived home.

  But something is different. She sees it instantly.

  A large brooch. Intricate gold-colored metalwork holding a blue gemstone at its center. She twists it toward her to take a better look.

  ‘Hello, Erin.’

  The greeting puzzles her. ‘What are you—’

  ‘That’s a sad face. Your makeup is running down your cheeks.’

  It hits her then. She understands.

  ‘No. No…’

  ‘Yes, Erin. The brooch. It contains a miniaturized camera and microphone. That’s how I hear you. That’s how I see what you see. Open up your coat.’

  For a moment she cannot move. Is it true? Are such things possible?

  ‘Go ahead. Unbutton your coat.’

  Slowly, she unfastens each button. She pulls the coat open. She sees the wire that comes from the back of the brooch, through the material of her coat and into the inside pocket.

  ‘What do you see, Erin?’

  ‘A… a wire.’

  ‘Look in your pocket. See where the wire goes.’

  She reaches into the pocket. Her fingers touch something hard. She takes hold of it and pulls it out. It’s a black plastic box, attached to the other end of the wire.

  ‘The box. What is it?’

  ‘A radio transmitter, plus a battery pack. Now put it back in your pocket, Erin.’

  She stares at the box of tricks. What is going on here? Why would anyone go to such lengths?

  ‘Erin, did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Yes. I mean… No. I don’t want this. I don’t want you spying on me. Why should I—’

  ‘You want your baby back, don’t you?’

  Georgia. He’s admitting it. He has my Georgia.

  ‘You took her.’

  ‘Yes. I took her. She’s cute. Little dimples when she smiles. Just like her mom.’

  Erin’s face contorts again. Don’t cry. Stay in control. Find out what he wants.

  ‘Why? Why did you steal her from me? She’s only six months old. She needs me.’

  ‘She’s fine. I’ve got formula. I’ve got diapers. Everything she needs. Besides, I don’t plan to keep her very long.’

  A surge of dread pulses through Erin. ‘What do you mean? What are you going to do with her?’

  ‘Relax. I’m going to give her back to you. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want Georgia back with you, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Please. Just bring her back to me. I’ll give you anything you want.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Yes, anything. If I’ve got it, you can have it. Just name it.’

  She hears a low chuckle. It’s carries the echo of evil thoughts. But she doesn’t regret what she said. She will truly offer him anything. Her own body if that’s what it takes.

  ‘I don’t want anything you own, Erin. I just want you to do something for me.’

  It will be something sordid. Something degrading. But she doesn’t care.

  ‘I’ll do it. If you promise me I can have my baby back. You can watch me on your camera. I’ll do it for you.’

  ‘You haven’t heard what it is yet.’

  ‘Then tell me. I’ll do whatever you want. Tell me what it is you’d like me to do.’

  There’s a pause. It’s probably only a couple of seconds, but it presages what is to come with ominous force.

  ‘I want you to kill someone.’

  10.23 PM

  Lord and master of all he surveys. That’s how Marcus Wilson sees it. Small though it is, this is his dominion. He is in charge.

  His solid wooden desk is expansive and elevated above the rest of this room. The sides of the desk are completely enclosed in wood paneling. He could easily imagine that he is the captain on the bridge of an old sailing ship, scanning the horizon as his men toil to push this vessel through the choppy waters.

  And those seas can get real rough, all right. They can seethe and foam and rage. But Wilson isn’t fazed. He’s in control. He knows exactly how to see this ship through any storm. He is its captain.

  Well, actually he’s a sergeant. But that’s enough. These stripes on his arm and this position behind the huge desk mean that he is in charge of this part of the Eighth Precinct station house, yes sir. And it’s an important job, too. A vital job. He acts as the first point of contact with people who come in off the street, and so the way he handles those people can affect their dealings with the police for good or for bad. Sometimes that means being compassionate. Sometimes it means being unyielding. Sometimes it means kicking ass. Every situation is different, and in a city like this you never know what’s going to come through those doors next. Each time he says to himself that he’s seen it all, a new and surprising scenario develops right in front of his desk. It’s one of the things Marcus Wilson loves about this job.

  Take tonight, for example. Just an hour ago, a homeless guy came in to ask if he could curl up and sleep right next to the desk, because it was the only place he felt safe. After that, in came a woman who asked for a permanent police patrol of her building because every night someone would attach some kind of vacuum device to the wall of her apartment and start sucking all the air out of it. And then, only five minutes ago, there was the woman who wanted to know if the cops could arrest her cat for breaking the curfew she had imposed on it.

  Wilson dealt with them all. Calmly, professionally, he responded to their requests in ways that left them with the lasting impression that yes, the boys and girls in blue really do care. We don’t all adhere to stereotype, thinks Wilson. We don’t all eat donuts and drink coffee and hit people with sticks and shoot unarmed civilians and take bribes and chew gum. Some of us believe in those three words written on the sides of the patrol cars. Courtesy, professionalism, respect. That’s what it’s all about.

 
; And that’s precisely what he’ll apply when dealing with this latest arrival at the station house.

  The man is short. From Wilson’s lofty vantage point, everyone else in this room looks small, but this guy looks to be on the more unfortunate side of the five foot six mark. Wilson would put the man’s age at about thirty-five, give or take. He’s pale and blinks a lot – as though he’s averse to bright light. He wears a gray hooded sweatshirt, zipped right up to the neck, and unbleached denim jeans. Curiously, the laces on his green sneakers don’t go through the holes; instead, they have been wrapped around the shoes, passing under the soles several times before being knotted tightly on top. As he approaches the desk, his hand keeps shooting up and scratching behind his ear in an exaggerated manner, the way a rabbit or a cat might scratch with its back foot.

  Here we go, thinks Wilson. Another strange one. The characters I get through here, I could write a book.

  The man comes right up to the desk, but he keeps his gaze low. Only once or twice does he allow it to flicker upward to take in the view of Wilson.

  ‘Aw, Jeez,’ says the man, and then he veers away again. Keeps walking right over to the other side of the room, then down the length of the far wall, muttering to himself and scratching behind his ear.

  That’s okay, thinks Wilson. I’m an imposing sight. I can be frightening to some people.

  Wilson is a big man, with a wide head. He thinks he looks like an oversized Yaphet Kotto. When his face is set, he can look pretty mean. But he also knows that when he affixes the right smile, he can look like a big soft teddy-bear. Kids love him when he does that smile. Maybe it’s time to do one now.

  The man comes back again, still muttering. Eyes fixed on the floor.

  ‘Aw, Jeez. Jesus-Cheeses. This is bad, this is bad, this is bad. I can’t do this.’

  The man turns away again. Starts to shuffle off.

  Wilson sighs. ‘Sir? Excuse me. SIR!’

  The man stops in his tracks, his back still to Wilson.

  ‘I’m in trouble now. Big trouble. Yessiree. Big, big trouble with the big, big sergeant. Oh my.’