Darwin’s Children
Stella nodded in the shadow.
His goatee was all gray and neatly trimmed. He was potbellied but dressed neatly, and his calf-high socks and running shoes were clean and white. He smelled confident, what she could smell behind thick swipes of deodorant and the rum-and-cherry-scented tobacco tamped into the pipe.
“You should be with your family and friends,” he said.
“I’m heading home,” Stella said.
“Bus won’t come by again until this evening. Only two stops a day here.”
“I’m walking.”
“Well, that’s fine. You shouldn’t take rides with strangers.”
“I know.”
“Can I help? Make a phone call to your folks?”
Stella said nothing. They had one secure phone at home, strictly for emergencies, and they bought disposable cell phones for occasional use. They always used a kind of family code when they talked, even with the disposables, but Mitch said they could identify your voice no matter how much you tried to change it.
She wanted the man in shorts to go away.
“Are your folks at home, Miss?”
Stella looked up at the sun peeking through the clouds.
“If you’re alone, I know some people who can help,” he said. “Special friends. Listen. I made a recording of them.” He dug in his back pocket and pulled out a small recorder. He pressed a button and held out the machine for her to listen.
She had heard such songs and whistles before, on TV and on the radio. When she had been three, she had heard a boy sing songs like that, too. And a few years ago, in the house in Richmond, the big brick house with the iron gate and the guard dogs and four couples, nervous, thin people who seemed to have a lot of money, bringing their children together to play around an indoor swimming pool. She vividly remembered listening to their singing and being too shy to join in. Sweet interweaves of tunes, like meadowlarks singing their hearts out in a berry patch, as Mitch had said.
That was what she heard coming from the recorder.
Voices like hers.
Big drops of rain left crayon-jabs of wetness on the road and in the dirt. The sky and trees behind the man with the goatee flared icy white against the charcoal gray of the sky.
“It’s going to get wet,” the man said. “Miss, it isn’t good to be out here by yourself. Heck, this shelter could even attract lightning, who knows?” He pulled a cell phone from his back pocket. “Can I call someone for you? Your mom or dad?”
He didn’t smell bad. In fact, he did not smell of much at all except for the rum-and-cherry tobacco. She had to learn how to judge people and even take chances. It was the only way to get along. She made a decision. “Could you call?” Stella asked.
“Sure,” he said. “Just tell me their number.”
CHAPTER TWELVE Leesburg
Mark Augustine placed his hand on the back of Rachel Browning’s chair. The room was quiet except for the hum of equipment fans and a faint clicking noise.
They were watching the plump man in khaki shorts, the red truck, the lanky, awkward girl that was Kaye Lang Rafelson’s daughter.
A virus child.
“Is that your stringer, Rachel?”
“I don’t know,” Browning said.
“A good Samaritan, maybe?” Augustine asked. Internally, he was furious, but would not give Browning the satisfaction of showing it. “He could be a child molester.”
For the first time, Browning revealed uncertainty. “Any suggestions?” she asked.
Augustine felt no relief that she was asking his advice. This would simply involve him in her chain of decisions, and that was the last thing he wanted. Let her hang herself, all by herself.
“If things are going wrong, I need to make some calls,” he said.
“We should wait,” Browning said. “It’s probably okay.”
The Little Bird hovered about thirty feet above the red truck and the bus stop, the paunchy middle-aged man and the young girl.
Augustine’s hand tightened on the back of the chair.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN Spotsylvania County
The rain fell heavily and the air got darker as they climbed into the truck. Too late Stella noticed that the man had stuffed waxed cotton up his nose. He sat on the bench seat behind the wheel and offered her a mint TicTac, but she hated mint. He popped two into his mouth and gestured with the phone. “Nobody answers,” he said. “Daddy at work?”
She turned away.
“I can drop you at your house, but maybe, if it’s okay with you, I know some people would like to meet you,” he said.
She was going against everything her parents had ever told her, to give him the house number, to sit in his truck. But she had to do something, and it looked as if today was the day.
She had never walked so far from home. The rain would change everything about the air and the smells. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Fred,” the man answered. “Fred Trinket. I know you’d like to meet them, and they surely would like to meet you.”
“Stop talking that way,” Stella said.
“What way?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
Fred Trinket had clogged his nose with cotton and his mouth sang with shrill mint.
“Of course,” he said reasonably. “I know that, honey. I have a shelter. A place for kids in trouble. Would you like to see some pictures?” Trinket asked. “They’re in the glove box.” He watched her, still smiling. He had a kind enough face, she decided. A little sad. He seemed concerned about how she felt. “Pictures of my kids, the ones on the recorder.”
Stella felt intensely curious. “Like me?” she asked.
“Just like you,” Fred said. “You’re sparking real pretty, you know that? The others spark the same way when they’re curious. Something to see.”
“What’s sparking?”
“Your freckles,” Fred said, pointing. “They spread out on your cheeks like butterfly wings. I’m used to seeing that at my shelter. I could call your house again, see if somebody’s home, tell your daddy or mama to meet us. Should I?”
He was getting nervous. She could smell that much, not that it meant anything. Everybody was nervous these days. He did not want to hurt her, she was pretty sure; there was nothing horny about his scent or his manner, and he did not smell of cigarettes or alcohol.
He did not smell anything like the young men in the convenience store.
She told herself again she would have to take chances if she wanted to get anywhere, if she wanted anything to change. “Yes,” she said.
Fred pushed redial. The cell phone beeped the tune of the house number. Still no answer. Her mother was probably out looking for her.
“Let’s go to my house,” Fred said. “It’s not far and there are cold drinks in the ice chest. Strawberry soda. Genuine Nehi in long-necked bottles. I’ll call your mama again when we get there.”
She swallowed hard, opened the glove box, and pulled out a packet of color photos, five by sevens. The kids in the first photo, seven of them, were having a party, a birthday party, with a bright red cake. Fred stood in the background beside a plump older woman with a blank look. Other than Fred and the older woman, the kids at the party were all about her age. One boy might have been older, but he was standing in the background.
All like her. SHEVA children.
“Jesus,” Stella said.
“Easy on that,” Fred said amiably. “Jesus is Lord.”
The bumper sticker on Fred’s truck said that. On the tailgate was glued a golden plastic fish. The fish, labeled “Truth,” was eating another fish with legs, labeled “Darwin.”
Fred turned on the motor and put the truck in gear. The rain was falling in big hard drops, tapping on the roof and the hood like a million bored fingers.
“Battle of the Wilderness took place not far from here,” Fred said as he drove. He turned right carefully, as if worried about jostling precious cargo. “Civil War. Holy place in its way. Real quiet. I love it out this way. Less traffic, fewer condo-minimums, right?”
Stella leafed through the pictures again, found some more stuck in a plastic pocket. Seven different kids, mugging for the camera or staring at it seriously, some sitting in big chairs in a big house.
One boy had no expression at all. “Who’s this?” she asked Fred.
Fred spared a quick look. “That is Will. Strong Will, Mother calls him. He lived off snakes and squirrels before he came to our shelter.” Fred Trinket smiled and shook his head at the thought. “You’ll like him. And the others, too.”
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