Sins of the Mother (8 page)

Still Jasmine had hope, until Monday morning. When Detective Foxx announced that the police were packing up their surveillance equipment.

“Usually the ransom call comes in within twenty-four hours, forty-eight hours, tops,” he explained as he, Jasmine, and Hosea sat in the living room.

“So what does that mean?” Jasmine asked.

“Just means that we need to regroup, and truthfully, I want to get out there and hit the streets myself.” And then, as an afterthought, he added, “This is a good thing.”

You’re lying!
Jasmine thought. This couldn’t possibly be a good thing, especially not with the expression that was etched on his face. If Jacqueline’s disappearance was no longer considered a kidnapping for ransom, then the motive was far more heinous.

“We’re going to leave this behind,” the detective said, holding up the black box that was attached to the telephone. “It’s a recording device that’s hooked up to a main board at the station. If you get a call, press this button”—he showed them—“and we’ll be able to get a trace going from down there.”

Jasmine and Hosea nodded.

Detective Foxx said, “Do you want me to show Mrs. Sloss?”

“That’s a good idea,” Hosea said.

But Jasmine said, “No, that’s okay. I’m going to be here.”

“But suppose you go out?” Detective Foxx asked. “It’s best that everyone in the house know how to use this.”

“I won’t be going anywhere.” Jasmine folded her arms. “Not until Jacquie comes home.”

“Jasmine,” Hosea began, but she didn’t wait for him to say another word. She just turned, left the room, and imagined the men whispering behind her back.

She didn’t care what any of them said; she was going to stay with her plan. With her hope waning, all she had left was her faith—and her desire to protect her son the way she hadn’t protected her daughter. She would stay home and pray . . . and keep Zaya from harm.

For the rest of the day, Hosea tried to make their lives as normal as any other Monday. Except for the fact that he was home and not in his office at the church. Except for the fact that one quarter of their family was not with them.

Hosea stood shoulder to shoulder with Mrs. Sloss at the stove, cooking a hearty breakfast of pancakes, sausages, and scrambled eggs. Although Jasmine joined them at the table, she ate nothing, just picked up bits of eggs and pancakes that never made their way to Zaya’s mouth as he fed himself. And she stared at the empty chair across the table.

Then, when Zaya pounded his fists on the table and chanted, “Yaki, Yaki, Yaki,” Jasmine pushed back her chair.

She told Hosea, “I need to lie down.”

He nodded, his eyes sad; he knew their son’s call for his sister had slain her heart.

As she handed Zaya’s fork to Hosea, her son said, “Bye-bye, Mama.”

Inside their room, Jasmine crawled into bed and surrendered to her exhaustion. She submitted to the nightmares that met her on the other side every time she closed her eyes. But even with that darkness, sleep was better than consciousness.

Her rest was not deep. She could feel the passing of time, the warmth of the daylight heating the room, then cooling as the sun made its journey from east to west. Then there were the sounds: Zaya laughing with Hosea; whispers in the living room between Hosea and Malik, then Hosea and Mrs. Whittingham, then Hosea and Deborah; the voices from the
television as Hosea and Mrs. Sloss flipped the channels from cartoons to the news, looking for the story of Jacqueline, which had all but disappeared from the news.

And then there was the telephone that kept on ringing. But the call was never from the one they wanted to hear from.

So Jasmine just kept on sleeping.

Time passed, and she finally awakened with a heavy head and heavier heart. Her eyes focused on the clock on the nightstand: 6:17.

Why wasn’t Hosea awake?

Usually he was up before six, bustling through their room, preparing for work.

Behind her, she heard Hosea’s soft snores, and when she rolled over, she almost smiled when she saw the way he held Zaya under his arm. But then the sight of her son reminded her of their daughter, and she became aware again of the heartache that swarmed around her.

She pushed herself up, then tiptoed into the bathroom. The mirror told her story—deep, dark crescents framed her swollen eyes, and she saw lines on her face that she’d never seen before, as if time felt the need to mark its passing on her.

Turning to the shower, she hoped to wash away some of the agony. But the water did nothing to take away the images. She leaned against the marble tile and pressed her hands against her head. For just one minute, she wanted to breathe, wanted to escape, wanted to be free.

But all she could do was imagine her daughter . . . with someone.

“Hold on, Jacquie,” she whimpered, keeping her cries as low as she could. Her tears mixed with the shower’s rain. “Hold on, baby,” she said, praying that, somehow, Jacqueline could hear her inside her heart. “Hold on. Mama’s coming.”

After long minutes, Jasmine turned off the shower and her
tears at the same time. She had cried for almost three days, and that had done nothing to bring Jacqueline home. There would be no more tears. She had to remember who she was—Jasmine Cox Larson Bush—and somehow, she would find a way to bring her daughter home.

Jasmine grabbed the towel with a new resolve. Her fight would begin now—she would start with the polygraph exam.

T
HE BELL RANG, AND
J
ASMINE
wondered for a moment how anyone could reach their door without first being announced by the concierge. But then she remembered—they were expecting New York’s finest. The police didn’t announce themselves to anyone.

“Mrs. Sloss,” Jasmine called out from her bedroom, “can you get that, please? It’s either Detective Cohen or our attorney.” Then she opened the bathroom door. “Hosea.” Right away, the shower turned off. “They’re here,” she said.

“They’re early,” he said from behind the glass. “But I’ll be right out.”

As she waited, she paced in their bedroom. It was still unbelievable that she actually had to take this test. What an insult! But it was an insult that she could endure since Dale assured them that it would help.

She heard Mrs. Sloss’s gentle knock on the door.

“Just tell them that we’ll be right out,” Jasmine said. There was no way she was going to face those men without Hosea.

“It’s not the police, Ms. Jasmine,” Mrs. Sloss said so quietly, Jasmine had to strain to hear.

With a frown, she asked, “Who is it?”

Mrs. Sloss bit her lip, hesitated before she answered, “You should come and see.”

It was instant, the way her heart began to pound. The look in Mrs. Sloss’s eyes let Jasmine know—this had something to do with Jacqueline. She rushed past her housekeeper and dashed into the living room.

Then she stopped.

“What are you doing here?” she asked through clenched teeth, controlling herself so that she wouldn’t scream.

“Jasmine,” Mae Frances said, holding the back of the couch to steady herself. “I . . . I had to talk to you.”

Jasmine folded her arms. “There’s nothing I want to hear,” she began, her voice rising with each word, “and nothing I want to say.” She paused. “Well, actually, there is.”

Mae Frances’s eyes brightened with a bit of hope.

Jasmine stepped forward. “I told you before,” she began calmly, “but you obviously didn’t understand. So let me break this down for you. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from my family.”

Mae Frances shook her head. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your family is my family. And I’ve been praying that you wouldn’t still be this angry.”

“Angry? Is that what you think I am?” She pointed her finger in Mae Frances’s face. “Angry would be if you forgot to give me an important message. Or if you lost my keys. But this . . . this is not anger,” Jasmine said, yelling now. “This is rage. This is hatred.”

“But I never meant for this to happen.”

Jasmine stomped to the door and pulled it open so hard that it slammed against the wall.

“Listen to me,” Mae Frances pleaded. “Please, Jasmine.”

Jasmine said nothing more. Just stared at Mae Frances with a look that told her to get out now.

But Mae Frances didn’t move. “You have to know how much I love you. How much I love Jacquie.”

Her daughter’s name passing through Mae Frances’s lips made Jasmine snap. She marched across the room until she was within an inch of the woman’s face.

“Get out of my house,” she screamed, spittle flying from her mouth. “Get out now if you value your life. Get out now, or I won’t be responsible for what happens to you.”

“Mrs. Bush?”

Jasmine turned and stared into the faces of Detective Cohen, Dale Brody, and another man she’d never seen. But it was Detective Cohen who had called her name, who stood in front of the others, looking at her most intently.

He stepped forward. His glance moved between Mae Frances and Jasmine. “Is everything all right in here?”

It took a moment for her to stop shaking. Then Jasmine said, “This woman was just leaving.” If the man who’d asked her if she had a temper wasn’t standing right there, Jasmine would have pushed Mae Frances to the door, then, with the tip of her boot, kicked her out. But she kept her hands and her feet to herself, and just watched as Mae Frances staggered away. The woman had barely stepped over the threshold before Jasmine slammed the door behind her.

When she turned around, Jasmine tried to face the men with some kind of smile. The three stared back, still shocked by her explosion.

As if nothing happened, Jasmine said, “I’m going to see if my husband is ready. Please have a seat.” She walked away without looking back, and so she never saw the glance that passed between the men.

• • •

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to do this?” Dale questioned as he huddled in the kitchen with Jasmine and Hosea.

Jasmine nodded. “I told you, I’m fine.”

Hosea whispered, “What just happened . . . with Jasmine and Mae Frances. It won’t affect the test, will it?”

Dale shook his head. “No, they ask baseline questions to get a steady read, but I always prefer if my clients are calm.”

“I said I’m fine!” It came out louder than she wanted, but she didn’t care. This was all too much: Mae Frances, a polygraph, a detective who looked at her now as if she really were guilty. Detective Cohen couldn’t seem to keep his eyes away from her, staring as if he were about to take the handcuffs out and cart her away.

But she didn’t care what the detective thought; this polygraph would prove that he was a fool and that she was innocent. Then, finally, they’d get back to the real business.

“Okay then, if you’re ready, just remember,” Dale spoke softly, a sign to Jasmine to do the same. “Be yourself. Answer all of the questions honestly.”

Behind them, in the dining room, the examiner, a member of the police department staff, was setting up the equipment. Detective Cohen was there at the request of Dale. “I want complete transparency—we need them to see how cooperative you are.”

After the scene they’d walked in on, Jasmine was sure Dale regretted that invitation now.

As they moved toward the dining room, Dale said, “Like I told you before, these tests are not one hundred percent accurate, but if you tell the truth . . .”

Crossing her arms, she wondered why he kept talking about the truth. It wasn’t like she would lie.

She knew where his words came from, though. Dale Brody was a long-time friend of Reverend Bush, and he probably knew every single one of her transgressions, knew every lie she’d ever told.

But that was her past.

Looking over the rims of his spectacles, the examiner nodded at Dale.

“I’ll go first.” Jasmine marched toward the man with nothing but confidence. She sat, banged her arm down on the table, and stared straight ahead. She focused on the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the fireplace. And then her eyes moved to the mantel as the examiner attached sensors to her skin.

The man began, “Is your name Jasmine Bush?”

The framed photos on the fireplace were in her sight; the pictorial history that told the story of the Bushes and their wonderful life. “Yes,” she said evenly.

“Do you live in New York City?”

Now she looked at the picture of Jacqueline alone—her daughter with her bright smile, with her legs crossed, with her hands folded right above her knees.

“Yes,” Jasmine responded again.

“Are you forty-five years old?”

Her eyes got bigger, for just a moment. Jasmine wanted to raise her hand and ask if she could have another question. Not that she was going to lie, but she had lied so much about her age, she wasn’t completely sure of the real number. She did a quick calculation. “Yes,” she answered, and hoped that was the truth.

“Were you in the bathroom when your daughter disappeared?” “Did you have anything to do with Jacqueline’s disappearance?” “Do you know where Jacqueline is today?”

That last question made her close her eyes, and inside the blackness, behind her lids, images formed—of an unfamiliar man with her child.

“No,” she answered as calmly as she could, just like she’d done with the other questions. It didn’t do any good to be offended.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bush,” the examiner said, sooner than she expected.

She looked up, and both Hosea and Dale were smiling, looking like they were about to clap—as if she’d done something major. All she’d done was tell the truth, but to them maybe that was special.

It was Hosea’s turn. Just like with her questions, the time passed quickly. Could the examiner really determine their innocence that fast?

When Hosea stood, she hugged him as Dale and Detective Cohen chatted. Then a cell phone rang, and the officer excused himself.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Dale asked.

But before Jasmine could tell him that of course it hadn’t been bad for him, Detective Cohen said into his phone, “Okay, I’ll let them know.”

She broke away from Hosea’s embrace and searched the detective’s face. “Was that call about Jacquie?”