The Baby's Bodyguard

It took him a second to realize she was talking about her baby. He said, “Oh. Good.”

As the cold night blew right into the room through the gaping hole, Jack took time to go outside to Hannah’s grandfather’s shop where Mimi assured him he’d find a roll of plastic and a staple gun. It was killing him not to investigate the note first, but he guessed with a baby in the house, certain protocols had to be observed.

At last things were secure. Hannah insisted on unwrapping the note herself, announcing she was certain she was the intended recipient. As the plastic gloves were two sizes too small for his hands, he didn’t object. He and Mimi crowded around the table where Hannah had settled with the rock.

The paper turned out to be ordinary notebook paper, words cut from a magazine and glued on. It was the message that was startling.

“The bomb wasn’t the work of kids. Stop what you’re doing—or else.”

Swiveling to look at Hannah, Jack and Mimi both said, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Hannah said. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice reflecting the strain of the past hour.

“First the car, then this,” Mimi said.

“This could have hurt someone,” Hannah said. “It could have hurt Aubrielle. Why? I haven’t done anything to anyone.”

“Someone thinks you have,” Jack said.

“Who?”

There was no answer to that and the three of them stared at the note a while longer until Jack added, “How did this person know you think the car bomb was the work of kids?”

“Because that’s what the police told Hannah in the middle of a public parking lot,” Mimi said with a dismissive note in her voice. “Everyone in Allota knows what everyone else knows, more or less.” Pushing herself to her feet, she added, “Listen, you two, I’m starving and my lovely stir-fry is now beyond redemption. We’ll all think better if we eat something. I’m going into town to pick up some Chinese at Shanghai Lo.” She grabbed her keys and handbag off a hook. “Everybody like beef and broccoli? Maybe some wonton soup?”

Jack said, “Fine.” Hannah didn’t seem to hear her grandmother.

Once the older woman was gone, Hannah rubbed her forehead and began pacing the living room. She finally faced Jack. “I have to take a shower and get the rest of the glass out of my hair before the baby wakes up again. Would you mind listening for her? Then you can be on your way.”

He’d rather get into the shower with Hannah. “Sure, I can listen for her.”

Forehead creasing, she said, “Don’t pick her up, though, just bang on the bathroom door.”

“I won’t touch her,” he said with a dry edge to his voice.

When he heard the water running, he did his best not to let his imagination run away with him. He’d taken one shower with Hannah, one very long, languid shower in the middle of a tropical night. He’d lifted her against the aqua tile and she’d wrapped her legs around him. Water had drummed on their heads; he could still see beads of it rolling down her throat and across her breasts. The heat burning between them had rivaled the one hundred percent humidity outside. That particular memory had been his constant companion the first few weeks of captivity.

He heard little mewling sounds and took a deep breath, letting useless memories float away. Time to go see if David’s kid was awake or if he was hearing things.

The only room with a light on turned out to be the pinkest place he’d ever seen. He was almost afraid to enter, but he heard the sound again. Switching on a lamp, he all but tiptoed across the carpet and looked down into the crib.

The baby was so tiny! He stared at her for several moments, transfixed at her absolute vulnerability. He could even see the blue veins under her skin. Her head was covered with a brown fuzz.

She didn’t seem to be actually awake; she was just jerking and making little sounds, screwing her face up and then smiling at nothing, bubbles on her lips. It was the closest he’d ever been to a baby.

David’s baby. Damn.

He’d known David in the Marines. David had been a helicopter pilot, he’d been a sniper, and for a while they’d flown a few missions together. Eventually they lost touch but by then, Jack had seen tendencies in David he hadn’t much liked. A certain disdain for the truth, a predilection for shortcuts that sometimes ended up costing other men dearly, an every-man-for-himself kind of mentality that included money under the table when the opportunity arose.

In a way, maybe it was better David had died. Jack could no more imagine the David he knew being a decent father than he could imagine it of himself. Then again, as he’d recently learned, if a man lived long enough, he had a chance to redeem himself.

Had David done that? With Hannah, he’d earned the trust of a pretty remarkable woman, so maybe he had.

“Is she awake?” Hannah asked from the doorway.

Startled, he turned with a guilty smile. He’d been about to run a finger along Aubrielle’s cheek, curious to know if she was as soft as she looked.

“I think she’s waking up,” he said, and backed away from the crib as though the baby was a ticking bomb about to detonate. Hannah glided past him on the way to her child, the scent of flowers lingering in her wake. She’d changed into black slacks and a black sweater that offset her porcelain skin. Her reddish hair was wet and unexpectedly wavy. She looked fresh and sexy. He had to remind himself to take a breath.

“I know you must have a lot to do,” she said as she reached into the crib and picked up her daughter. She turned to face him and said, “Thanks for the help tonight.”

“Cut it out,” he said.

“Jack—”

“We’re going to talk. I’m not going anywhere until we do.”

She sighed heavily. “I have to nurse the baby. You could wait in the living room—”

“No, you do what you have to do. I’ll turn my back if you want, but we’re going to talk now.” He turned his back and crossed his arms.

After a few seconds of rustling sounds and the creak of rockers, she said, “I’m not going to talk to your back, Jack. Go ahead and turn around.”

He did, leaning against the doorjamb. Hannah was modestly draped in a pink blanket. All Jack could see of Aubrielle was one tiny foot and an equally tiny hand. Determined to set things straight, he said, “You need help, Hannah.”

“No.”

“Whatever is going on is over your head.”

“If you mean I don’t understand why anyone would want to hurt me, yes, you’re right.”

“You know what I find kind of puzzling?”

She looked at him as though worried what he’d say next. “What?”

“You didn’t call the cops about the window.”

“What could they do?”

“Investigate. Take the note and try to trace—”

“White paper and cut-out words? A rock?”

“Ever heard of fingerprints? Tire tracks out on the drive? Neighbors who saw something?”