“You were that convinced I’d say yes?”

  “Let’s just say I was hopeful.”

  “When does she want to go to the agency?”

  Ray sat back.

  “We were just talking about that on the phone before you got here,” he said. “And it occurred to me there’s no time like the present. How’s this afternoon sound?”

  They rode in the Mustang.

  When he’d gotten to Ocean Grove, the Blazer was gone. He’d waited in the car, engine running, sounded the horn. After a few minutes she came out the front door and down the walk, wearing a green sweater, jeans, leather car coat. He leaned over, unlocked the passenger’s-side door. She got in, shut the door, and he pulled away from the curb without speaking a word.

  They drove the first few minutes without speaking. When they hit Route 33, heading west, she said, “You know where it is?”

  “Yeah. Ray gave me the address. They know we’re coming?”

  “He made an appointment for me.”

  “Ray did?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Never mind. I should have guessed.”

  They drifted into silence.

  “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “About what happened the other day.”

  He gave that a nod.

  “Reggie shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

  He didn’t answer.

  “But you overreacted.”

  He looked at her.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You could have seriously hurt him.”

  “He could have broken my neck. Without even meaning to or knowing he did it. I could have ended up in a nursing home with a feeding tube and an adult diaper. He didn’t seem too concerned about that. You either.”

  “He was protecting me.”

  “So I was supposed to stand there, let him use me for a heavy bag?”

  She looked out the window, didn’t answer.

  “And that stupid stunt you pulled—”

  “I wasn’t aiming at you.”

  “And if you’d clipped my femoral artery because your hand shook, and I’d bled to death right there on your nice hardwood floor, how would you have felt about that?”

  “You were scaring me. I thought you were going to kill him. I wanted to stop it.”

  “Never point a gun—”

  “Yes, yes. Never point a gun at someone you’re not ready to shoot. You told me.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  She looked at him.

  “Then what?”

  “I was going to say, Never point a gun at me.”

  She looked out the window again.

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  The agency was in a building off Main Street in Freehold, across from the Hall of Records. He parked in a municipal lot a block away and they walked against the wind.

  They rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and the doors opened onto a small foyer with a reception window. Behind the glass, a young black woman was talking on a headset. She didn’t look up as they came in. On the shelf outside the window was a clipboard with a sign-in sheet, a Bic pen attached to it with string.

  After a few minutes with no eye contact, he tapped a knuckle on the glass. The woman looked up at him, frowned. He raised his hand again and she reached up, slid the window open.

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “We have an appointment,” he said.

  “Who with?”

  He looked at Nikki.

  “My name’s Nicole Ellis,” she said. “We had an appointment for four?”

  “Did you sign in? You can’t see anybody unless you sign in.”

  A well-dressed black woman in her fifties came up behind the receptionist.

  “Ms. Ellis?” She looked at him. “Mr. Rane?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Right on time. I’m Rosetta Harper. I’m the managing director here at Second Chance. Let’s go back to my office.”

  The receptionist buzzed them through into a long room divided into cubicles, each with a desk and filing cabinet. He could hear phones ringing, printers clacking.

  They followed Harper down a narrow aisle into a cubicle that was slightly larger than the ones around it. Inside was a desk, two plastic chairs in front of it, a filing cabinet and coat rack behind them. There was a computer on the desk, the screen showing animated fish chasing one another silently back and forth in bright blue water.

  “Have a seat,” she said. “I pulled your file earlier.”

  They settled down into chairs. Harry unzipped his jacket, but didn’t take it off. Nikki hung her coat on the back of her chair.

  “Now, if I remember correctly,” Harper said, “this concerns a child you’ve given up for adoption?”

  “Yes,” Nikki said.

  “And Mr. Rane”—looking at Harry—“is your husband?”

  “No,” she said. “I thought you read the file.”

  “My mistake. So what can I do for you?” Sitting back in her chair, putting distance between them, Harry already feeling the whole thing going south.

  “I’ve hired Mr. Rane and his company to help me out, because—”

  “What company?”

  Harry took an RW card from his shirt pocket. He’d grabbed a handful before leaving Ray’s office. He leaned forward, handed it to her. She took it, looked at it skeptically.

  “I don’t understand … .”

  “Ms. Ellis is a client,” he said. “I don’t know how much you were told over the phone—”

  “Not very much.” She put the card down, picked up the phone, dialed a three-digit extension.

  “Who are you calling?” Nikki said.

  Harper didn’t answer. After a moment she said into the phone, “Mr. Simmons? Rosetta. Sorry to bother you. But we’re going to need you in here when you get a chance.”

  “So you understand our dilemma,” Simmons said. “As executive director of Second Chance, I have to tell you that confidentiality comes first, always. It’s the bedrock on which we work. Without it, the whole system would crumble, there’d be chaos.”

  “I understand,” Harry said. Simmons was a tall, skinny black man in a dark suit and yellow bow tie. Harry had taken an almost instant dislike to him.

  “We’re not asking you to tell us where he is,” Nikki said.

  “And we wouldn’t,” Simmons said. He’d pulled in a chair from another cubicle, positioned it alongside Harper, facing them, his elbows on the arms, his hands clasped in front of him.

  Nikki looked out of the cubicle, then back to him.

  “You don’t seem to understand what’s going on here,” she said.

  “I’m trying to, but you have to see it from my perspective. And the fact remains, I really don’t know who either of you people are, do I? On what grounds should I just accept what you’re telling me?”

  “She pulled my file,” Nikki said. “Read it.”

  “I will,” he said. “Later.”

  Harry leaned forward.

  “Go ahead and call the number on that card,” he said. “I work for a licensed security agency. Personal and professional protective services. Call the number, they can give you references: lawyers, people they worked with.”

  “Be that as it may,” Simmons said, “you’re asking me for something I can’t do.”

  “No, we’re not,” Nikki said.

  “Now if you were with an actual law enforcement agency,” Simmons said, ignoring her, “that might be different.”

  “I was with the New Jersey State Police for twelve years.” Simmons shrugged.

  “But no longer, right? And that’s why I’m afraid I don’t know what to say to you.”

  “Our feeling is there’s a risk situation here,” Harry said. “You must have some procedure when there’s a threat, when a family or child is in danger. When a birth mother or father decides to come looking for their child.”

  “There is, of course, but I’m not at liberty to say what that is.”

  “You don’t need to. But whatever that procedure is, it might be a good time to get it up and running. Whether it’s up to you or someone above you, look in your files, your database, find out where the boy is, the family, find the caseworker if there still is one. Warn them. You owe them that.”

  Simmons sat back, looked at Harper, and Harry realized he had misplayed it.

  Simmons turned back to him.

  “I’m happy to hear you have such a clear picture of how I should do my job,” he said. “But even looking objectively at what you said, I have to ask—and you should ask yourself—‘Owe them what?’ To frighten them, turn their lives upside down because of some rumor?”

  “It’s no rumor,” Nikki said. “If he’s not back here already, he will be soon.”

  Simmons looked at her.

  “You’ve seen him? Talked to him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not yet.”

  “All we’re asking,” Harry cut in, “is that someone get the word out through the system, let the family know.”

  “I told you confidentiality was the bedrock of our work,” Simmons said. “And it always has been. There’s no way the father—unless he had access to our records, which I can assure you he does not—would be able to find out where the boy is.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Harry said. “But if he got pointed to the right person, a person who knew or could find out, someone who had access to those files, I doubt he’d be as polite about it as we have been.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Please,” Harry said. “Listen to what I’m saying.”

  “I’ve been listening.”

  “What possible reason would we have for coming here, feeding you this story, if it wasn’t true? What purpose could possibly be served?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then why don’t you believe us?” Nikki said.

  He looked at her.

  “Did I say that I didn’t?”

  “You’re acting like it.”

  Harry held up a hand.

  “Let’s everyone relax here,” he said.

  Simmons slid a sleeve back, looked at his watch.

  “We’ve told you the situation as we know it to be,” Harry said. “Do whatever you think is best. That’s all we can ask.”

  Simmons looked at him, waiting for him to finish.

  “But there are some key things to keep in mind,” Harry said. “John Harrow is a multiple felon.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Knowing him, Ms. Ellis is convinced he’s going to try to find the boy. I think we have to trust her on that. Because she doesn’t want that to happen, the boy’s adoptive parents wouldn’t want that to happen, and I’m sure you don’t want that to happen.”

  “Of course not.”

  “So I think we owe it at least to those parents—and to the boy—to let them know what’s going on, so that they can be aware of what the situation is, what the potential dangers are.”

  Simmons reached over, took a pencil from Harper’s desk, looked at it, tapped it lightly against the edge of the chair, looked finally at Harry.

  “Let me think about this,” he said.

  “That’s fine,” Nikki said. “Only thing is, I get the impression you’re the kind of man that thinks a lot and ends up doing nothing.”

  Harper turned to her.

  “Now, you just wait a minute, honey. Who do you think—”

  Simmons reached over to touch her arm, calm her, looked at Nikki.

  “I’m sorry for your situation, Ms. Ellis,” he said. “But maybe there are a few things I need to remind you of. When you gave your son up for adoption—which I’m sure was the correct decision—you renounced all rights to him, maternal or otherwise, as I’m sure you fully understood when you signed those—”

  She stood up quickly and for an instant Harry thought she was going for him. Simmons reared back slightly.

  “I’m sorry we wasted your time,” she said. She pulled her jacket off the chair, slung it over an arm. “I guess I should have known better.”

  She started to leave the cubicle and Harry reached up to touch her, stop her, but she brushed by him and out.

  Simmons looked at him.

  “She’s upset,” Harry said.

  “Obviously. But when people behave like that, it’s difficult to have much sympathy for them.”

  “It’s not about her,” he said. “It’s about the boy.”

  He stood, zipped his jacket up.

  “Call the number on the card,” he said. “Ask about me. Ask around about the agency. Then, when you’re comfortable with that, all I ask is that you get on the phone to whatever regional office is closest to where the boy is now. Tell them what’s going on.”

  “Mr. Payne—”

  “Rane.”

  “I do my job as I see fit. I don’t answer to you.”

  “I know you don’t,” he said. “But if anything happens to that boy, you will.”

  11

  When they were back on the road, he said, “Well, I think we can safely say that was a disaster.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I’m afraid you didn’t help your case much.”

  “I was trying to stay calm. It didn’t work. Those people are idiots.”

  “Just bureaucrats. Following rules.”

  “Assholes.”

  He faced her.

  “I think the lesson you need to learn here is …” he said, and saw the tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She took a tissue from her pocket, wiped her eyes quickly, put it away.

  He turned the radio on low to an all-news station, the weatherman predicting below-normal temperatures, snow flurries into the night.

  They were stopped at a light on Route 33 when she said, “Do you have children?”

  “No.”

  “Married?”

  “Widowed.”

  He looked up at the light, expecting the standard response, some variation of “I’m sorry.” Nothing.

  He shifted into first, waited for the light.

  “Then you don’t know what it’s like,” she said.

  The light changed. He went through, shifted gears.

  “Maybe not,” he said. “But there are certain cases—and back there was one of them—where a little diplomacy wouldn’t hurt. Might actually get you closer to what you wanted.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Blow him to get him to do his job?”

  “I’d like to think that, even though we left on bad terms, it doesn’t mean they’re not going to do anything. At the very least maybe they can put some sort of red flag on your file in the system, in case someone starts digging around.”

  “Do you really think they’d do that? After that conversation, do you really think they’d care?”

  “Maybe. There’s one thing I don’t think anyone asked—did Harrow know what agency you used?”

  “I don’t know. If so, it didn’t come from me. It wouldn’t be too difficult to find out, though. There aren’t that many around.”

  “Chances are slim, though.”

  “I guess. He had other things on his mind at the time. He was in the middle of his trial when I went into the hospital.”

  “And you’ve had no contact with him since?”

  “Like I said, he wrote me for a while, from Belle Glade. I didn’t write back. When I went to California, I didn’t leave a forwarding address. I wanted to put everything behind me. So I guess if he wrote me after that, the letters would have been returned.”

  “And that’s what I don’t get.”

  “What?”

  “Why you were together in the first place.”

  “I was twenty when we met. I didn’t know any better. At that age sometimes, you’re looking for someone to come along, take you out of the situation you’re in. Show you a different world.”

  “That what he did?”

  “That’s what he promised.”

  “What happened?”

  “What always happens? He loved me, maybe. But he loved what he was doing even more. It was him against the world, you know? That was the way he saw things. You were either with him or against him. ‘Part of the solution,’ he used to say, ‘or part of the problem. Pick your side.’”

  “And you did.”

  “No. I just opted out. His going to prison, it was an opportunity for me to get away, get clear of all that. Some people offered to help me out, get me settled somewhere else.”

  “So you went to California?”

  She nodded.

  “And what did you do there?”

  “Lots of things.”

  They were in Ocean Grove now, almost night, purple streaks in the west marking the end of day. He found the street, pulled up to the curb, engine running. The Blazer was still gone.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For coming with me. I should have said that before.”

  He looked at her, not sure how to respond.

  “Can you come in for a minute?” she said. “I want to show you something.”

  “Are your friends here?”

  “No, no one. I won’t keep you. It’ll just take a minute.”

  He shut the engine off. She got out of the car and he followed her up the walk to the house. They went into the warmth of the living room and he closed the door behind him.

  “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll be right down.”

  She went into the hallway and he heard her footsteps on the stairs.

  He looked around. The glass vase had been replaced by a ceramic one, filled now with yellow roses instead of carnations. The tiny hole in the couch had been temporarily patched with clear tape.

  After a couple minutes, she came back down. She had a leather wallet, a small manila envelope with a clasp. She unsnapped the wallet, looked through it and slipped a Polaroid out of a plastic sleeve. She looked at it for a moment, then handed it to him.

  “I wanted you to know,” she said.

  It was a photo of a newborn baby, wrapped in a blanket. Pink skin, the tuft of hair on its skull matted and damp.

  “They don’t like you to do that,” she said. “Take a picture. They think it makes it harder to let go. But I did it anyway. A friend of mine snuck a camera in, took it right there in the hospital room.”