Sins of the Mother (6 page)

As the phone rang, he pressed his cell closer to his ear, knowing that he would know the truth within seconds; he’d be able to hear it, if she answered.

And she did.

“Hello.”

“Natasia, this is Hosea.”

There was a pause, but then, “I’m surprised to be hearing from you. What’s going on?”

The police were going to follow up on this lead, but he almost wanted to call Detective Cohen and tell him to save that time. Natasia Redding was a jilted lover, a disgruntled employee, a pissed-off friend. But she didn’t have his daughter. He’d had Natasia’s heart once—he knew her and would be able to hear any sign of guilt.

He said, “I . . . ah . . . just wanted to know how you were doing?”

She chuckled. “You mean you wanted to know if I picked myself up after you had me fired?”

Now he just wanted to get off the phone. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called.”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have.” And she hung up, saving him from having to do the same to her.

So Natasia wasn’t responsible. And he still doubted Brian Lewis’s involvement. So who had taken his daughter?

The image of the faceless man spun around in his mind again. And with that picture came his rage.

He peered through the car windows. Though taxis and other vehicles rolled down the streets, the sidewalks were deserted as the clock ticked toward eleven and the temperature plunged toward zero. With another glance to his left, then to his right, he bent over and fumbled beneath the seat until he felt the box.

As it rested in his lap, he fondled the gray leather exterior before he unhitched the flap. The nine millimeter gleamed under the overhead streetlight.

Hosea lifted the eight inches of steel from the pocket. He fingered the custom diamond-wood grip—the reason that he’d purchased
this
gun. The grip and the name.

It’s called the Target,
he remembered the dealer telling him.

That was what had moved him to spend over a thousand dollars on this weapon. He’d purchased and registered the gun right after his father had been released from the hospital almost three years ago. His father had spent months in a coma after being shot—caught between rival gangs . . . at least that’s what the police still told them. There had never been an arrest, which was one of the reasons why Hosea had bought the revolver.

With a little girl (and now a son) he hated having a gun in his possession. But if the police couldn’t protect his family, then he would do it.

But he had failed. He had the gun, and even more than
that, he had his name, his father’s name, and one of the biggest churches in New York—and still his daughter had been abducted.

Feeling as useless as the gun had been, Hosea tucked the box back under his seat and worked to press his fury down. It did no good to think about what he’d failed to do. All he needed to focus on was doing everything right now.

That was all that mattered.

J
ASMINE HEARD THE CRIES
.

“Mama!”

They were faint, at first. Then louder. And louder.

“Mama!”

Jasmine’s eyes fluttered open.

“Jacquie,” she whispered as she shot up straight in the bed. “Jacquie!” She jumped up and stumbled through the dark.

“Jasmine?” Hosea called. “What’s wrong?”

“Jacquie! She’s home.”

Rushing across the living room, Jasmine didn’t notice the two policemen who slept—one on the sofa, the other on the love seat. She dashed past them, hurrying to her daughter’s room.

Thank God!
was all she could think.

Thank God this had all been a dream. A bad dream. But now her daughter was home. Safe.

Jasmine swung open the door to Jacqueline’s bedroom and inhaled the scent of the fresh baby powder that lingered. She
ran to the bed. Tossed back the covers. And stared at the pink sheets.

“Jacquie?” she called softly. “Jacquie?” she said a little louder now. She threw the cover on the floor, got on her knees, searched under the bed. “Jacquie?” Frantically, she stood and ran to the closet. “Jacquie?”

Behind her, she heard rushed footsteps. She twisted, looked into her husband’s eyes, and she realized it hadn’t been a dream.

The reality made her wail, “Jacquie!”

Her knees buckled, but Hosea caught her before she hit the floor. Slowly, he eased her down and held her as she screamed her daughter’s name. Jasmine never saw Detective Foxx and the other detective as they ran into the room. She never saw Hosea wave them away.

She saw no one, saw nothing through her tears.

“My baby, my baby!”

“I know,” Hosea said softly. “I know.”

“Jacquie,” she cried as he held her.

Soon he was calling their daughter’s name with her. And as Jasmine cried, matching tears rolled down his cheeks. She raised her arms and held him, too.

And they cried.

Together.

On the floor.

For hours.

Together.

T
OMORROW HAD COME
.

And Jacqueline was not home.

Jasmine rushed down the hallway of the NBC studios, Hosea’s steps far behind hers. She stopped in front of the
GUESTS
sign and swung the door open. Her pounding heart slowed the moment she saw Reverend Bush and Mrs. Sloss standing guard over Zaya as he slept in his stroller.

Releasing a deep sigh, she pulled her son into her arms.

Reverend Bush said, “I told you, sweetheart, nothing’s going to happen to him. I promise.”

She had no idea how—after everything that had happened—anyone could make any kind of promise. But she said nothing as she rocked Zaya in her arms. He squirmed and whined, as if he didn’t want to be disturbed, but Jasmine didn’t care that she’d awakened him. She needed to feel his heartbeat against her own.

“Ssshhhh,” she purred as she walked back and forth across
the room. “It’s all right,” she said, more to herself than to her son.

It had been torture to leave him for the minutes she and Hosea had been on camera, just as torturous as when they had stopped at ABC and CBS earlier.

She’d been so hopeful when Reverend Bush had called while darkness still owned the sky, and had told Hosea that he’d arranged for interviews on all three networks.

“The weekend shows don’t have the audience that the weekday shows have,” Hosea had repeated his father’s words to her, “but I’m sure they’ll replay it tomorrow, and on Monday, if Jacquie isn’t home before then.”

But a battle began when Jasmine jumped from the bed and began to dress Zaya to go with them.

“We can leave him here,” Hosea had said. “We’ll only be gone a couple of hours.”

“Are you crazy?” she had asked her husband in a screaming fit. “I am not leaving my child!”

“He’s not going to be alone, Jasmine. Mrs. Sloss, the detectives, they’ll all be here to protect him.”

“No!”

“If you want, I’ll even have Pops come over, but Zaya will be safer here than anywhere.”

Even as he’d given her reason on top of reason, Jasmine had ignored her husband and bundled up their sleeping son. She didn’t care if Colin Powell was standing guard—her son would be safe only with her.

The second fight began when they arrived at the ABC studios. She and Hosea had settled into the Green Room with Reverend Bush and Mrs. Sloss when the producer came for them. Holding Zaya in her arms, Jasmine had stood to follow the headphone-wearing woman.

“Ah,” the producer began, “you can leave your son in the Green Room. It’s best if it’s just you and your husband on camera, in case your son wakes up.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jasmine said.

The producer’s insistence made Jasmine give in, but only after she had Reverend Bush’s assurance that his grandson would never leave his sight. She repeated her fight at CBS and then NBC; but at each network, she’d had to acquiesce. It was all over now, however. She could go home where she could safely watch over Zaya and pray for Jacqueline.

Exhaustion finally made her sit down. Hosea crouched in front of her, his face etched with the same exhaustion that she felt. She was certain that her eyes were as bloodshot as his, but she wasn’t sure if the weary redness they shared came from the hours they’d spent crying, or from the restless hours that followed when they’d lain awake in bed, as Zaya slept between them.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

She nodded. “I’m fine, just tired.” She looked down at their son. “Ready to take my baby home.”

He said, “We have to make another stop first.” Her frown made him add, “We have to stop by the police station.”

She searched his eyes, wanting to know if there was more to his words. “Is it about—”

“No!” He shook his head. “I mean, yes. They want to talk to us some more about Jacquie. But there’s nothing new, not yet.” He looked down at his cell phone. “I got a message from Detective Cohen; he saw us on the morning shows and has a few questions.”

Laying Zaya back in his stroller, she said, “I’ve told him . . . you’ve told him everything.”

“I know, but if it will help in any way, we can’t answer enough questions.”

She nodded. Of course she would go to the station. Anything. Whatever. Everything she could do.

As she slipped into her coat, she said, “Zaya is coming with us.”

Hosea had no arguments left. He just nodded and glanced at his father before he reached for the stroller and followed Jasmine out the door.

T
HEY WERE BACK—IN THE
same room, in the same chairs, where they had sat less than twenty-four hours ago. Like before, Detective Cohen was on one side of the rectangular table, across from Jasmine and Hosea—only this time, Zaya’s stroller was right at Jasmine’s side.

“Thank you for coming back down.” Detective Cohen leaned forward, his arms resting flat on the table. “I know this is a lot—”

“Anything to find Jacqueline,” Hosea interrupted, and reached for Jasmine’s hand.

“I really don’t know why we’re here,” Jasmine said. “If you don’t have any news on Jacquie, and we’ve already told you—”

“I understand, Mrs. Bush,” the detective interrupted. “This may seem redundant, but we’re following up on every lead. And sometimes it helps to go over some of these leads with the people involved.”

Hosea leaned forward. “Do you have—”

Before Hosea could finish, the door behind them opened.
They all turned to face another of the detectives Jasmine recognized from yesterday.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said to all of them. Then, to Hosea, he asked, “Can I get you out here for a moment? We have some . . . paperwork . . .” He stopped, as if that was enough.

Hosea frowned, and Detective Cohen nodded. “Go ahead. I can go over these things with your wife.”

Before he could even ask, Jasmine waved him away. “I’m fine.”

He kissed her cheek before he stood and left the room.

With a sigh, Jasmine leaned back in the chair.

The detective said, “I know this is difficult, Mrs. Bush.”

Nodding, she looked down at her son, sleeping, as if their world was normal. Serenity was all over his face. Her heart ached as she stared at her son and saw her daughter. Not that her children looked too much alike—the brother and sister had each taken on the features of their respective fathers, and therefore they didn’t look much like siblings at all. But the way they slept—that was the same. Eyes closed, mouths open, lips upturned just a bit. As if they saw angels in their dreams.

Even now, Jasmine imagined Jacqueline sleeping, and she prayed that at this very moment her daughter was just like her son. Resting. Filled with peace.

The detective drew her back into his world. “Is there anything you can think of, Mrs. Bush? Anything else that you want to tell me?”

“I don’t know what you want from me.” The words felt heavy as they left her mouth.

The detective glanced down at the piece of paper he held. “Mrs. Bush, do you mind if I read you something?”

Without taking her eyes from her son, she said, “Go ’head.”

A beat passed, then, “This is an e-mail that came into the station this morning.”

Still, she didn’t look up.

“The woman who sent this said that she attends your church.”

Jasmine pulled the blanket that covered Zaya up to his chin.

“She starts off by saying that she knows what happened to Jacqueline.”

Jasmine jerked, her attention now on Detective Cohen. “Someone knows where—”

He held his hand up, stopping her. “She says . . . well, let me read this.”

Jasmine leaned onto the table, trying to get closer to the detective, wanting to hear every word.

He focused on the paper he held, then slowly raised his eyes. Looked straight at her. “‘Jacqueline was murdered.’”

Her tears—the shock—were instant. Her hand flew to her mouth, covering her cries.

Jasmine panted, but the detective kept going. “‘Her mother killed her—’”

“What?” She squinted. His words—her thoughts—were confusing.

As if Jasmine hadn’t spoken a word, the detective continued, “‘Because Pastor Bush is not the girl’s father.’”

“What?” she asked again, this time a bit louder. “What is this?”

His eyes didn’t leave the paper; he kept reading, “‘And now that they have their own child, Jasmine didn’t want to live with the memory of what she had done.’”

The legs of the chair squeaked as Jasmine jerked back, jumped up, and reached across the table, ready to snatch those lies away from the detective. But with just a little shift, he was able to keep the paper beyond her grasp.

“Give that to me!” she yelled. “How could you read that?
How could you make me sit here and have to listen to those lies when my daughter—”

“Lies?” His eyebrows rose, though his voice stayed even. “Are you sure they’re lies, Mrs. Bush?”

Now she wanted to reach across the table and grab him. Choke him until he stopped asking those stupid questions and spewing those lies.

But she stood frozen in her space, with trembling lips. “You . . . you couldn’t possibly believe that I had anything to do—” It was hard for her to breathe. “No!” She shook her head.

“No what?”