Foreteller Page 2

  She smiled weakly. “Remember you met me at that convention in Boston last month? I forgot my pills.”

  “What? Why didn’t you say something?”

  Her expression pleaded guilty for her.

  “Oh, I remember now,” Jake said. “You did those shots of tequila to prove you could keep up with the guys.”

  “Archaeologists are surprisingly strong drinkers,” she said lamely. Memory clarity was not on her side, and alcohol consumption a rarity for her. “I’m sorry?”

  Jake marched to the end table where he’d tossed his sports coat, his facial muscles contorting in anger. He grabbed the jacket so hard that its sleeve whipped back and knocked a brass candleholder onto his foot. “Dammit!”

  Zoey watched with diminishing hope as he slipped on the jacket and seemed to want to disappear within it. “Can’t we just deal with this like two people in love, Jake? Like two adults?”

  “Two people in love don’t trick each other, Zoey. How could you accept a marriage proposal knowing you had this bombshell to drop?”

  “It’s not like we’d be the first people to get pregnant before we got married.”

  Jake’s mouth fell open in seeming disbelief. “It has nothing to do with the order of things. We talked about this ages ago, and a bunch of times since. I don’t want kids. You’re pretty sure you don’t want them. If we had them at all, it was going to be years down the road when we could decide if we wanted to bring new life onto this cesspool of a planet.”

  “Come on, Jake. With your job, you swim in the sewers. You see the worst. That’s not real life.”

  “Are you kidding? It doesn’t get more real. I see the lowest elements of scum in existence. I talk to murderers, rapists, gang members—you name it—every day. I’ve interviewed guys who download child molestations on their computers. And when I’m not talking to them, I’m dealing with cops; half of them are on the take while the rest are turning a blind eye because their caseload is so overwhelming.”

  “Our baby could be the one to change all that.”

  Jake harrumphed. “Things aren’t getting better, Zoey, but what would you know with your head in the sand all the time?”

  She let the comment pass, certain that Jake respected her profession, even if he didn’t share her passion for it. “Aren’t you even a little bit happy? I don’t understand where all this anger is coming from.”

  “A child is about the future,” he said as he patted his pockets to check for his wallet and keys. “That’s not us. Not me anyway.”

  Zoey scoffed aloud at his pessimistic view. “If I’m so lost in the past and you’re so mired in the present, it sounds like we need a future.” She thrust her ring finger toward him. “Isn’t an engagement a commitment to the future?”

  “No. It’s an alliance between two people who decide to face the future together. It makes life a little less miserable.”

  “And a child wouldn’t?”

  Jake’s expression of scorn stung her to the core. “Exactly the opposite.”

  As he headed to the door, Zoey shook her head at his easy readiness to depart. “Where do you think you’re going? This isn’t like an argument with an editor where you throw a chair across the room and get your way on a story.”

  “Oh? You’ve already written the ending to this one?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  Jake glared. “I don’t think so.”

  Zoey drew back, allowing the acidity of his statement to wash over her. A piece of her heart dissolved—the part that had believed in Jake completely. She leaned against the doorjamb of her tiny kitchen for support, stunned at the staggering turn of events.

  “I’m taking a walk to think,” he said.

  “I’ll come—”

  “No,” he said. “By myself.”

  A deep crease formed between Zoey’s brows. “Of course. Your preferred method, right?”

  Jake seemed caught off-guard by the assessment, as if no one had ever called him out on his tendency to hunker down and brood alone. “I’ll call you in the morning,” he said as his hand reached for the door.

  “Jake, don’t leave like this. Please. I don’t want our life together to start with a fight.”

  He spun around as if to speak, but didn’t seem to trust himself. He settled for looking Zoey up and down, his face barely hiding a sneer. His dry eyes landed on her moist ones.

  Zoey held his gaze, steadfast. Her heart throbbed uneasily against her ribcage, but she remained still and resolute, begging him silently to stay. But the choice was his. He would have to be the one to turn his back. He would have to be the one to abandon his child. It wouldn’t be the first time a father had walked out on a child in Zoey’s family.

  Jake didn’t let her down. He repeated history.

  Chapter 3

  Three slow, heart-wrenching minutes passed after Jake’s abrupt departure. Given the building’s slow elevators, he should be reaching the street any moment. Zoey forced herself out of the crouched position she’d crumpled into on her worn couch. She wanted to watch him go, to reinforce the fact that he’d chosen to run from a problem rather than face it. What was wrong with him, anyway? This was a guy who persisted through the impossible, a guy who chased a story to the bitter end when others shrugged in despair and threw down their pencils. So why this enmity regarding children?

  She shivered at the thought of the time when Jake’s psyche did reveal itself. She had once described him to a friend as a great guy with countless lovable qualities who she’d eventually figure out. Had she, yet?

  She walked to her bedroom window and raised the wooden blinds to peek out. The first thing she saw was the arrival of a police car at her building’s entrance. It pulled up at an awkward angle, hogging two spots. She hoped nothing had happened to old Mr. Leonard on seven. He’d claimed to be a step from death’s door for at least a year, although Zoey never saw evidence of him nearing the threshold. She rubbed her abdomen. Death and life, she thought. Helluva cycle. Already, she felt a disconnect over the mismanaged order of her pregnancy and engagement. The scientist in her preferred things laid out like an experiment: hypothesis, experimentation, analysis, confirmation or denial. Grandma Magda used to say that if Zoey’s room could stay as organized as her mind, they’d have been a lot more compatible. What would Magda have said about her sorry state of affairs now?

  Down below, the police car’s roof lights flashed on, coinciding with a burly man hoisting himself out of the passenger seat and slamming the door hard enough to be heard eight stories up. The lights went off just before a smaller officer exited the driver’s side, but the unexpected burst of illumination had left a photo-negative imprint on Zoey’s retinas. She blinked away the effect while searching for Jake.

  A moment later, he came into view, nearly colliding with the two men. His anger on the descent must have multiplied because his hunched shoulders and aggressive swagger gave the impression of a man on the edge.

  Zoey forced her window open. The water-stained, wooden frame resisted her efforts, but finally succumbed and squealed upward, the cool dampness of the air coating her face. Strains of Mad Dog’s somber blues solo intermingled with the city’s car horns, giving the atmosphere a jazzy but sad, off-kilter feel.

  Jake huffed past Mad Dog, then jerked to an unexpected stop to speak with the old man. No… too many gesticulations for simple speaking. Jake was yelling. What could he possibly be saying? And why take his anger out on some innocent, half-crazed street musician?

  Zoey peeled her ears to see if she could discern a break in Mad Dog’s syncopated eighth notes, maybe hear whatever Jake was shouting. But no luck. Mad Dog didn’t allow the rant to disrupt his tune. As others on the street turned to stare at Jake, Zoey felt embarrassed for him—an emotion she’d never expected to feel for the confident, always-in-the-know reporter.

  Suddenly spent from his verbal spew, Jake reached into his pocket and hurled a handful of coins and lint into Mad Dog’s case; at least h
e’d paid the old man to put up with the outburst. Then he slunk away, hands deep in his pockets, as he disappeared around the corner.

  Zoey closed her window and changed out of her skirt and blouse. She drifted through the motions, unable to absorb the contrast between the highs and lows of her evening. Fishing through a pile of unfolded laundry, she found a pair of peach jeans whose comfort she needed, but whose cheery color felt out of sync with her mood. A brown tee-shirt with the purple and gold insignia of her alma mater, Kraft College, seemed enough of a downer to mute the jeans. She headed to the kitchen and filled her tea kettle, setting it on the ancient stove that had come with the place. The pilot light went out every other day, but Zoey still preferred old-fashioned flames over electric coils any day. While waiting for her water to boil, she flipped through the newspaper only to spot a teaser for Jake’s upcoming exposé on the city’s growing meth problem. The accompanying photo of his handsome, smiling face infuriated her; she thumped the page with the end of her fist and nearly sent yesterday’s teacup crashing to the floor.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  Zoey started, but a ray of hope filled her. She got up, smoothed her hair with her hands, and quietly closed the bathroom door before answering. The last thing she wanted was for Jake to get another look at the pregnancy tests bearing their happy, pink messages. Then, despite years of Grandma Magda’s lectures, she failed to check the peephole before opening the door. All the more reason for the two police officers standing there to throw her into a state of wordless surprise.

  Chapter 4

  Richmond, Virginia

  The lanky guy with the hoodie, low-hanging jeans, and terrible posture should have been enough to make twenty-something Sarah cross the road and clutch her Michael Kors purse more tightly. Heck, the bag alone would be worth more to a mugger than the make-up and empty wallet inside. But Sarah internalized none of that while she texted her best friend about the “un-freaking-believable sex” she’d had last night with a guy at Club Velder. And she could hardly be expected to know that although Hoodie had failed algebra three times, he possessed enough street smarts to target women distracted by high-tech toys.

  As Sarah decided to add an icon that would lend just the right amount of innuendo to her message, Hoodie made his move, deftly relieving her shoulder of its soft leather burden.

  “Ow! Like what the hell?” Sarah yelled. She stomped her bumble-bee-striped pumps and whined in protest. “That’s like my favorite bag, you prick!”

  The high pitch of her voice harmonized with the light blue Chevy Caprice that slammed on its brakes and squealed to a stop—three feet after ramming into Hoodie’s torso. At least Hoodie’s private parts were protected by the creamiest yellow leather he’d ever felt as he body-slammed the hood of the car. Before Hoodie could process a coherent thought, let alone continue his escape, a petite female emerged from the car and pointed a police-issue .38 caliber revolver at him.

  “Freeze! Police!” she yelled. “You wanna tell me where you got the nice accessory, sir?”

  Hoodie groaned.

  “Officer!” Sarah said in a pitch only dogs would find pleasant. “That hoodlum stole my Michael Kors bag.”

  “Your what, ma’am?”

  “My purse,” she said in a none-too-subtle duh tone.

  The officer yanked Hoodie to a standing position and shoved him toward the back seat of the car, but when she opened the door, she remembered the contents in the back seat. “I gotta call for back-up,” she said. “Stay put.”

  She leaned Hoodie against the open back door while she barked into her radio and fumbled for her cuffs. Hoodie, still in a stupor, proceeded to fall forward into the back seat of the car, his drool and sweat contaminating the exterior of a sealed bag of evidence. The bag was on its way to the ancillary police lab while the primary lab underwent asbestos removal.

  The evidence might still have been admissible, if only Hoodie hadn’t ripped it open and vomited inside.

  Chapter 5

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  “Evening, ma’am,” said the young, smooth-skinned officer at Zoey’s door. The eager look on his face shouted inexperience, and his open expression contrasted sharply with the bored, sleep-deprived face of the brawny, fifty-something guy next to him. Zoey took a wild guess as to which one had accidentally switched on the flashing lights of the police car a few minutes ago.

  “We’re with the Philadelphia Police Department,” the newbie continued. “I’m Officer Wilkinson and this is Detective Farnham.”

  Detective Farnham flipped open a badge, then flicked it back to his palm and made it vanish into his trench coat pocket like a street performer who’d perfected the trick. His air of having been through this routine thousands of time with some untested rookie shined through. But somehow, the boredom rang false. Concern flickered behind his mask, as if he were putting on a show.

  The detective returned Zoey’s analytical gaze. She felt certain he’d already reached volumes of conclusions about her that she wouldn’t appreciate.

  “I recognize you,” he said, his voice gruff like an ex-smoker’s, but surprisingly warm. “You testified at the Gleason trial.”

  “That’s right. Last year.”

  Detective Farnham turned to Officer Wilkinson. “Ms. Kincaid here was an expert witness. Some whacko thought he was a time traveler and used a Stone Age Clovis Point to kill a museum guard. She helped us figure it out.” He returned his attention to Zoey. “You’re an anthropologist, right?”

  “Archaeologist. I specialize in tools and weapons from the Stone Age. Is that why you’re here?”

  Officer Wilkinson, eager to have a role in the visit, jumped in with the answer. “No, ma’am. We have an urgent matter. The Richmond, Virginia, police have been trying to track you down.”

  Zoey pulled back her head in surprise. Again with Richmond, Virginia? Could this have something to do with the strange letter from her mother’s lawyer? For a surreal instant, she could have sworn that the baby inside of her jumped, but an organism the size of a pinhead could hardly make a detectable movement. At her lack of verbal response, Officer Wilkinson continued. “May we speak privately, Ms. Kincaid?” He peeked inside the apartment.

  Zoey hesitated. She glanced at Detective Farnham’s hound dog eyes, trying to discern anything, but came up short. Finally, she stepped back and gestured for them to enter. “Please, yes, come in.”

  Without meaning to, and with no emotional space to spare, she heard her grandmother’s voice criticizing the mess in the apartment: You never know when you’re going to have company, dear. Always keep things presentable, even if it’s just a front.

  In response, Zoey reached down to pick up her running shoes and some headphones that had found their way into prime tripping territory. She quickly tossed them into the hall closet, which shamed her by revealing more coats than hangers and all manner of junk. She forced the door shut.

  “ZSZSZSZSZSZSZSZS!” The piercing hiss made Zoey jump. She spun around and looked accusingly at the officers, but Officer Wilkinson gently reached out and touched her elbow. “Do you have a kettle on for tea, Ms. Kincaid?”

  Zoey laughed nervously. “Yes, I do. Let me turn it off.” She glanced at Farnham again, wondering why he gave her such a paranoid feeling. What secret did he harbor?

  After silencing the offensive water, she forced herself into a state of calm and returned to the living room to see Officer Wilkinson repeatedly tossing a grey, fist-sized piece of quartzite in the air and catching it.

  “You like that, Officer?”

  “Yeah, it fits the hand nicely.” Wilkinson seemed proud to have come up with such an articulate response.

  “It should,” Zoey said. “It’s a hand-axe from the Paleolithic Stone Age. Over 700,000 years old. Made by Kenyan hominids who practically mass-produced them. Quite a feat without assembly lines or written instructions.”

  Rather than showing dismay at his handling of the artifact, Wilkinson lit up like an e
nthusiastic pupil. “Cool. What’d they use them for?”

  “That one, for chopping and crushing. I keep the more dangerous Stone Age toys over there.” She pointed to an elaborately carved, wooden display case on the wall leading to her bedroom. “My favorite is the Bone Projectile Point. Light and multi-purpose, but with a tip chiseled to a deathly sharpness.” Upon turning back to the officers, she realized her zeal for ancient weaponry might not convey. To compensate, she pointed to a rounder tool with a sharp, angled point. “Of course, the Burin’s great, too. I’ve made serving bowls with it.”

  Detective Farnham noticed Wilkinson still playing with the hand axe. “Put it down,” he murmured. Wilkinson reluctantly obeyed.

  “Please, sit.” Zoey glanced at her sofa, relieved that it offered enough uncluttered space for two men.

  “Thank you,” Detective Farnham said. In his hand, he held a small notebook that had appeared as suddenly and magically as the badge had disappeared. “Just to confirm, Ms. Kincaid, your name used to be Kyra Collette when you lived in Virginia, is that correct?”

  The verbal utterance of her original name was not completely unexpected—they had already mentioned Virginia—but it still jarred her.

  “Yes, Kyra Collette was my given name, but I went to a lot of trouble to change my identity after my second year of college. How did you track me down?”

  “We didn’t,” Farnham said. “Richmond police did the leg work. We were sent to verify your identity.”

  Zoey frowned. “Is that all? Is this something to do with my mother’s lawyer?”

  “Oh, uh, no, ma’am,” Farnham continued. “I’m afraid we have some news.” Farnham looked decidedly less comfortable than when he had arrived.