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.“Where’s Kyle?” I asked.It seemed vital that I know.Was he creeping around behind me? Had he gone for help? Would he appear in the doorway, ready to cut me off if I tried to make a run for it?The Parkie shook his head again.“You just stay there,” he ordered.I turned and bolted for the door.His footsteps followed; I reached out and grabbed a rake, tossing it behind me as I ran.It clattered in back of me, and I heard a curse that told me my pursuer had run into it.I reached the door and slid through, then gave a huge shove, trying to close the door enough so that he would find it harder to squeeze through.Then I dashed in the direction I hoped would take me to the road, where I could flag down a car and find a phone, call for help.I hadn’t the slightest idea where I was going.All the trees and reeds looked alike.I ran down a large path that seemed well trodden, and I hoped it led to the road.It didn’t.I stumbled over a tree root and caught myself, grabbing for rough bark that scraped my palm.I shoved my foot back into the Italian loafers that had seemed like sensible shoes back in Brooklyn but hadn’t been made for slogging through swampland or hopping over roots.There was a walkway made of flat planks ahead, allowing the birdwatcher to cross the watery inlet without getting his or her feet wet.It probably led deeper into the swamp, where birds’ nests were hidden among the tall reeds.It was unlikely that it led to the road, to the mall, to civilization.If I went forward, I headed into swamp, away from help.But I also headed away from Kyle, away from the Parkie he’d recruited to his cause.Did Parkies carry guns? I hastily ran through my jumbled memory banks, searching for the New York statute defining the term peace officer, but to no avail.I took a quick glance backward.Was that reed swaying a sign that someone was hidden behind the green curtain? Was the sound I heard merely the breeze playing with the branches, rattling the tall grasses—or was someone moving through the swamp, hot on my trail?I had no idea.All I knew for certain was that if I stood still, someone would come crashing out of the foliage eventually.Movement seemed like a good idea.Movement made me feel as though I had a semblance of control over the situation, over my own fate and that of Baby Adam.When I reached the planked walkway, my shoes made hollow thudding sounds.I stopped dead, then moved forward more slowly, walking on the balls of my feet and trying to keep the heels from striking the wooden slats.It slowed my progress, but it felt worth it.Creeping along silently was better than advertising my presence with bouncy steps.Mercifully, Adam had stopped crying.I looked down at his fuzzy head, blue-purple veins like rivulets on the bald scalp.Then I glanced at the water flowing under the plank bridge, at the tall reeds overhead, picturing a baby in a basket floating along the swamp water, picturing Moses among the bulrushes.God had looked out for baby Moses; I hoped He’d do the same for little Adam.If I kept going in this direction, would I reach the other side of the wildlife preserve? Would I come out on Victory Boulevard? I could flag down a car there, maybe locate a telephone.Get help.That thought cheered me.I picked up speed once I stepped off the planking and put my feet back on hard-packed dirt.The path narrowed; I brushed past reeds and bushes, shielding Adam’s bobbing head with my left hand and using my right to push green stuff out of the way.I jumped lightly over a puddle, then came to a stop as I realized there was no more path.Reeds grew up all around me; there was no clear way through them.I pushed aside a bunch and peered through the green curtain, but the growth was equally dense in every direction except backward.There was no more path.Should I keep going, bushwhacking my way through the tall growth? Or should I turn back, hoping for another way out of the wildlife preserve?Adam gave a tiny little cry.I looked down at him.Huge, unfocused blue eyes tried to fix themselves on my face and failed.His head bobbed and he cried out again.It seemed a cry of pleasure rather than pain, but it was impossible to know for sure.An incredibly tiny hand reached out from the snuggly and grabbed at the air.He opened and closed his fingers and squealed again.“Shut up, kid,” I murmured.“Let’s not advertise, shall we?”“Too late,” a laconic voice said.I jumped a foot, then turned in dismay.Kyle Cheney stood five feet away from me, a silver gun glinting in his hand.“You don’t want to hurt the baby,” I said quickly.Hoping it was true.“No,” he said.“I don’t.” But before I could breathe a sigh of relief, he added, his tone regretful, “I don’t want to, but I will.”“You didn’t before,” I pointed out.I was shaking so hard I grabbed at a reed to lean on; a bad choice, since it bent over and nearly landed me in the swamp.A part of my mind was totally awed by the way I seemed able to carry on a normal conversation while trying very hard not to look at the gun pointed at my midsection; the other part of my mind knew I’d taken leave of my senses.That I was babbling in hopes that if I kept my mouth moving, I’d stay alive.He gave the accusation some thought.“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he said at last.“But Amber wouldn’t leave me alone.She kept saying all she had to do was go to court and she could take Erin away from us.”“So you gave her money,” I finished the thought.“You must love your daughter very much.”Kyle’s face wore a pinched look I suspected wasn’t just the result of his recent troubles.He looked like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown, a man who took far too many things far too seriously.“I do,” he said.“And so does Donna.” He squinted into the bright overcast sun.“We lost so many babies,” he went on, speaking as much to himself as to me.“So many dead babies.”“Miscarriages?” I asked.“Is that why you adopted?” I had to keep him talking, had to keep him from coming any closer.He could still shoot at five feet away, but the more distance I kept between us, the better my chances of survival were.And maybe, just maybe, if he focused on his love for his own child, he’d see that he couldn’t insure her happiness by killing someone else’s baby.“Two stillborn, four miscarriages,” he recited.“And one baby that lived for six days.Six days, twelve hours, and forty-one minutes.” He swallowed; his oversized Adam’s apple bobbed like a piece of food caught in his throat.“That one was Kyle, Junior,” he added.His eyes swerved away.“I really think Donna would have killed herself if we’d lost another one,” he said.His voice was thin, strained, repressed, as if it had been years since he let his lungs fill to capacity.“She tried once, with pills.So when Betsy said Doc could get us a baby—” He broke off and swallowed again.“It was a miracle.She was a miracle.”I recalled the sun glinting off her copper hair, hair that was going to go brown and wind up the color of maple syrup, like her mother’s.“She’s a great kid,” I agreed.“I can see where Amber’s threat to take her away from you would make you crazy.”Poor choice of words.“I wasn’t crazy,” he snapped [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]