The operator interrupted my silence. “Talk to me, Mr. Pockets.”

  “He’s out.”

  “Is the cord clear? Not wrapped around his neck?”

  “Still clear.”

  “Is he breathing?”

  I placed my ear to his mouth. “No.”

  “Place your mouth over his nose and mouth and breathe gently.”

  I did.

  “Anything?”

  “No.”

  “Again. This time harder.”

  I did. A second time.

  “Anything?”

  “No.”

  “Third time’s always a charm. Let’s go, Mr. Pockets.”

  I filled my chest, exhaled, and filled his.

  After the longest second of my life, he responded with the loudest and most beautiful cry I’d ever heard. And somewhere in that beautiful, crazy, chaotic, crystal-clear moment, I realized I may never see him again—but I’d always know his first breath started in my lungs. At least I gave him that.

  At the sound of his powerful and loud lungs, both Amber and the operator started crying and laughing.

  As she caught her breath, the operator asked, “Mr. Pockets, can you wrap him in something?”

  Amber pulled a baby blanket from her bag and I wrapped him in it.

  The operator again. “How’s the bleeding?”

  “Not bad. But the cord is still—”

  She interrupted me. “Don’t worry. Momma’s body will take care of that. Give it a few minutes. Nothing to worry about. Just hang tight. EMT and police are four minutes away.”

  I sat on the tailgate, mesmerized. Not sure how to hold him while he was still tethered to Amber’s body and worried I might hurt him. Next to me, Amber lay drenched in sweat, her eyes closed. Breathing deep and calm. After she caught her breath, she placed a hand on my thigh and spoke without opening her eyes. “Thank you.”

  I tried to laugh. “Not sure we had much choice, but you’re welcome.”

  Another breath, then she turned her head toward me. Looking up. For the first time since we’d known each other, her tone was not acerbic. “I cannot believe I just gave birth in the back of a Blazer.”

  I was growing dizzier and didn’t want to drop the baby, so I wedged the little burrito between us. Together we held him. She covered in her blood and me covered in hers and mine. She opened one eye and forced a laugh. “You’re crazy.”

  I nodded. “I tend to agree with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why’re you sitting here? Why don’t you take the baby, dump me in that ditch over there, and make a run for it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why?”

  “For starters, somebody shot me and I don’t feel too well. Kind of feel like I want to throw up. And second, I’m just too tired. All I want to do is go to sleep.”

  She nodded and glanced at the bullet hole in my shoulder. “I suppose they’ll put me in prison for that.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I’ll be there with you.”

  She laughed. After a few seconds, she patted my thigh and laughed quietly. “Thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Not dumping my body.”

  I laughed again. “Don’t think I didn’t think about it. You’re just lucky I can’t lift my arm and my hand has a hole in it. Otherwise . . .” I smiled.

  “Mr. Pockets,” she said.

  “Yes mum.”

  “I think you are a good man.”

  In the distance, sirens sounded. “You might be alone in that.”

  “Yeah.” She shook her head. “But I’m not wrong.”

  The police arrived first. Two cars. Followed by a fire truck and an ambulance. The paramedics rushed to the car, lifted the baby out of my arms, and were replaced by two officers staring at me down the barrels of Glock 17s. “Kelly MacThomas Pockets, you have the right to remain silent . . .”

  “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

  I obeyed their commands, rolled onto my side, and they placed my hands behind me. Cuffing me, they searched me for weapons while the paramedics pulled the afterbirth from Amber and cleaned her up. Finding no weapons on me, they led me to the back of the police car, then noticed I’d been shot in the shoulder and that most of the blood covering me was mine.

  One of the paramedics came over, found the holes, plugged me up, and started an IV. Sitting in the back of the ambulance, while some really good drugs dripped into my bloodstream, the paramedic smiled and looked from me to Amber and back to me. “You two will have a great story to tell your kids one day.”

  Amber raised a hand and began shaking her head. “We’re not . . .” Realizing it would take too long, she let it go. “Never mind.”

  Two minutes later, they secured us in the back of the ambulance and sped to a hospital. Jail would have to wait until after surgery. I don’t know how long I was out, but when I came to, Amber’s hand was clutching my bicep. “Mr. Pockets? Mr. Pockets?”

  Noise returned. Then light. Then the sensation of pain. “You don’t have to call me Mister.”

  Amber forced a laugh. “At this point we’re pretty much on a first-name basis. I don’t have too many secrets left.” She slapped me as a serious tone returned. “We all thought you were gone.”

  I tried to shake off the fog. I wanted to rub my eyes, but my hands had been cuffed to the bed on which they’d laid me. “Not yet.”

  The driver slowed as he pulled the ambulance into the emergency unload. When the vehicle came to a stop, I heard the driver roll down the window and speak. “What’s going on?”

  A voice outside said, “Media trucks have got everything blocked. Police are making a way through now.”

  “What happened?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  The driver must have shook his head because the voice spoke unprompted. “Maybe Joe Sue is here. In the hospital. Walked through those doors right there not two hours ago. Been a prisoner in a cabin for the last month. Escaped yesterday and walked something like twenty miles over the mountains, then hitchhiked to the hospital. Kid that gave her a ride is over there surrounded by all the cameras.”

  “She okay?”

  “Tired and hungry but unharmed. Word just came in on the radio that officers arrested the sick pervert who’s been holding her. Sounds like she put one in him, too, ’cause he’s got a gunshot wound to the chest. They’re bringing him here now. Paparazzi are in a feeding frenzy.”

  The driver must have thumbed over his shoulder because the voice said, “No kidding.”

  Amber squeezed my arm. “Can I ask you something before those doors open?”

  The drugs were working, making me loopy. “Fire away.”

  She nodded toward the commotion at the window. “Did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Joe.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I promised her I would.”

  “Would what?”

  “Get her clean.”

  “Did you?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “That’s good.” A moment passed, then she chuckled as all the pieces began settling in place. “Guess that means I’ve been texting you all this time?”

  I nodded as my lips began feeling thick. “Yep.”

  Another pause. “Can I ask something else?”

  I turned and waited, the expression on my face welcoming the question she’d been wanting to ask me.

  “You hate me?”

  “No. I don’t hate you.” I tried to shake my head. “In a weird way, I feel sorry for you.”

  She paused. “Does Joe?”

  “You’ll have to ask her. But in my experience, Joe doesn’t hate anyone. Not even Syd.” The drugs were making me talkative, but I was too tired to try to stop the words. “But I’d bet money she takes you off the Christmas card list.”

  Just before the doors opened, the paramedic laid the baby boy in Amber’s arms.

  Amber studied him, pushing the blanket out of his face where the paramedic had wrapped him up like a burrito. She whispered, “Hi there, little guy. Been wondering what you would look like.”

  Before they slid her out of the ambulance, she turned and reached for me one last time. “Pockets?”

  “Yes.”

  When she spoke, she was looking at the boy. “Why would you go to this much trouble for Syd’s baby?”

  I lifted my head, then realized it had grown too heavy so I let it fall back down, content to melt into the bed. “He’s not Syd’s baby.”

  When the door opened, police stood waiting. Having realized my identity but not yet realizing Amber’s, the paramedics soured on me and began fawning over her. Sliding Amber out first, they commented, “He’s so handsome.”

  Amber glanced at me, pressed the boy to her bare chest, and admired him, nodding. Tears streaming. With one hand, she was counting his fingers and toes. Unable to keep my eyes open any longer, I closed them and began drifting away. The last words I heard before I dropped off were Amber’s. “Yes, he is . . .” A long pause. “But . . . I’m just the surrogate. The mom is Maybe Joe Sue.”

  Chapter 43

  After

  The inflating pressure from the cuff on my bicep woke me from the best sleep I’d had in a long time. White walls, an IV, bandages, and the smell of antiseptic suggested I woke in a hospital, or at least a surgical ward. A woman dressed in light blue and wearing squeaky shoes appeared next to my bed, muted the machine above my head, recorded my vitals, and left while an armed guard stood opposite her, staring down at me. I tried to scratch my nose but my hands and feet were shackled.

  Just outside my door, nurses scurried up and down the hallway as a television news team echoed. “In late-breaking news, former celebrity bodyguard Kelly MacThomas Pockets was arrested late last night after holding three-time Academy Award–winning actress Maybe Joe Sue. Abducting her one month ago from her Malibu home following her historic third Oscar win, he has been holding her captive in the Montana mountains. After a heroic escape and a walk of some twenty miles through the mountains, Mrs. Joe hitchhiked to the hospital. Surprisingly, Mr. Pockets was arrested on Highway 121 after delivering a baby from a second woman he kidnapped, Ms. Amber Paxton, whom he had abducted the day prior from a home in Georgia. No motive is known. Ms. Paxton is safe and recovering, having given birth to a healthy boy early this morning.

  “From her hospital room, Mrs. Joe released a statement saying she had not known that her former bodyguard, Mr. Pockets, had escaped prison or that he was her abductor as he only spoke through a computerized voice, never letting her see his face. When asked how she was feeling, Mrs. Joe responded with, ‘Better.’ Authorities do not know Mr. Pockets’s intentions, but he used stolen security devices at the Montana cabin to set an electronic perimeter and control her movements. Mrs. Joe said when she crossed the invisible boundary, the device around her neck would issue a brachial stun and knock her out. In order to escape, Mrs. Joe braved the third stun, only to find the device either malfunctioned or had been deactivated. She then walked all night down mountain roads to Highway 121, where she flagged down a ride.

  “As you can see behind me, I’m standing outside the hospital room where Mr. Pockets is recovering from surgery, treating bullet wounds sustained in his abduction of Ms. Paxton, who bravely attempted to defend herself and her baby. Authorities here tell us that upon recovery, Mr. Pockets will begin serving the remainder of his sentence at Russex State Prison while he awaits trial for these most recent kidnappings.”

  Somewhere in there I nodded off to sleep. The news was not news to me.

  The next time I awoke, the sunlight seemed softer, suggesting I’d slept through most of the day. Outside my room, the nurses still squeaked up and down the hall as a new guard sat staring at me through heavy eyelids. I thought about telling him it was okay to grab some sleep, that I wasn’t going anywhere, but then thought better of it. From the nurses’ station, I could hear the television.

  “In late-breaking news today, Amber Paxton was arrested this morning, just four days after giving birth to a healthy boy in the back of a stolen Chevy Blazer. Turns out the boy wasn’t hers. Details are still coming in, but, as if straight from a Hollywood script, Ms. Paxton was serving as surrogate to Mrs. Joe Sue. Initially hired as a makeup artist, she had a front-row seat to Mrs. Joe’s difficult pregnancy journey, during which she suffered multiple public miscarriages. Mrs. Joe’s medical team later determined she was unable to have children, so Mrs. Joe hired Ms. Paxton, for an undisclosed amount, to serve as her surrogate. Ms. Paxton agreed, took an initial payment, then, six months into the pregnancy, disappeared with the baby.

  “But the story doesn’t end there. Over the next three months, Ms. Paxton teamed up with three men who, according to phone and computer records collected by the FBI, blackmailed Mrs. Joe to the tune of 1.2 million dollars. Tonight, all three men are in custody, including Mr. Pockets. In an exclusive interview today with Morning Edition, Mrs. Joe recounted the strange details of her captivity. When asked what she would do now, she said she intended to disappear from the public eye and focus on her son and learning to be a mom.”

  I tried to lift my head but could not see the screen as the knowledge sank in that I’d slept through the last four days. The news anchor opposite the reporter asked, “Any word on new charges being filed against her former bodyguard, Mr. Pockets?”

  The field reporter nodded. “Several new charges have been filed against Mr. Pockets, but a trial date has not been set. Most legal scholars agree Mr. Pockets will live behind bars for quite some time.”

  Chapter 44

  After

  “All rise. The Honorable Judge Thelma Dixon of the California Ninth Circuit is now presiding.”

  We stood as Judge Thelma Dixon entered. Judge Thelma Dixon had been on the Los Angeles bench thirty years, ran a tight courtroom, and, from the looks of things, didn’t miss many meals. She was a big woman, maybe force is a better word, and didn’t put up with any foolishness. This was her domain and she ruled it with an iron gavel. She was said to be sympathetic to women and their needs and was known to throw the book at men who mistreated them in any way. She liked to brag she could “sniff out a fraud” and didn’t suffer fools.

  The judge entered, studied the room over her glasses, muttered something to herself, then sat. She nodded to the bailiff, who led me to the stand. I shuffled forward, my chains rattling, placed my hand on the Bible, said “I do,” and the judge told me to sit. So I did.

  Given the high-profile nature of the case, the district attorney had fought hard to allow cameras in the courtroom, stating on nightly news channel after nightly news channel how the public needed to know. I disagreed but nobody really seemed to care, so I lost. My defense team had been assigned to me, but they weren’t all that helpful, seldom came to see me, and I didn’t have much faith in them. When we first met, I’d offered to tell them my story but they declined. I asked how they could defend me if they didn’t know the truth, and they said it would come out in court. This left me flying solo. I knew the outcome. Knew where I was headed. And I didn’t really care. I was just hoping to get a chance to say a few things that needed saying.

  The courtroom was standing room only. Members of the press crowded every corner. The prosecution team sat opposite. Joe sat behind them. Not looking at me. She had not been present the prior two days, but I’d heard on the news that she wanted to be present during my testimony. In support, several other celebrities sat around, which only added to the circus. The networks were calling her harrowing experience “Thirty Days in Hell,” and one outlet reported this morning that several streaming services were bidding for documentary rights.

  Never one to miss a chance to ride Joe’s coattails, Syd showed his tanning-bed face. He glad-handed the other celebrities, slapping backs and working the camera angles. I overheard him say he wanted to make sure I got what I had coming and he hoped they buried me beneath the prison. A guy like me doesn’t need to be loose in safe society.

  The prosecuting attorney’s name was Carl Munson. Carl was competent, good at his job, and possessed a flair for the dramatic that, honestly, I liked. I found his timing to be rather entertaining, even if at my expense. The courtroom quieted; Mr. Munson paced in front of me, taking his time studying the jury, me, and then the cameras. “Sir, would you please state your name for the record.”

  “Kelly MacThomas Pockets.”

  “And you’re on the stand of your own volition?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you understand you have the right not to testify?”

  “I do.”

  “And no one is compelling you?”

  “I’m here because I want to be.”

  “And your occupation?”

  “Currently, I’m employed at Russex State Prison.” Laughter rippled through the courtroom. “I work in the garden. Right now we’re growing tomatoes and peas.”

  More laughter.

  “What did you do prior to that?”

  “I spent twenty years in the Scottish military in various capacities, then five years in personal protection.”

  “And by ‘personal protection,’ you mean . . . ?”

  “I was a bodyguard.”

  “Mr. Pockets, do you know Mrs. Joe Sue?”

  “I do.”

  “Did you work in her employ?”

  “I did.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “I was her bodyguard.”

  “For how long?”

  “Five years.”

  “And would you describe her as a fair employer?”

  I looked at Joe. “No, sir.”

  This seemed to surprise him. Murmurs echoed behind him. “Not fair?”