Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

“I was awesome in Pygmalion …my high school drama class staged it,” Krystal said. “One last question-what happens to the baby if the parents change their minds? Like, do I have to keep it?”

“That never happens. We have long lists of parents. So no, you wouldn’t have to keep it.”

Krystal bit her lip. She’d been taking notes in a small pad. Sunlight glinted off of her neon-metallic nails as she doodled while pondering. Hedda made an obvious display of checking the time on her phone, signaling an end to their meeting.

“It’s really sixty thousand?” Krystal asked.

“If all goes smoothly, and it usually does, then yes, that is the amount you receive. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.” Hedda collected her things. “I have to go. It was nice meeting you, Krystal. Think it over and contact me if you have more questions.”

Outside, Hedda ended any further thought of Krystal.

These days she rarely met with potential surrogates, but this had been one way to use her time while she awaited word on her problem case: Chelsea Drew-Flynn and Remy Toxton.

As Hedda walked along Randolph Street she checked her phone.

No news from her investigator, Ed Bascom.

In addition to having Bascom track Remy and her ex-con boyfriend, Hedda had launched other efforts to salvage the case. She’d had several members of her support staff pose as people desperate for a new Caucasian baby boy. She’d instructed them to call her competitors, who ran international adoption agencies, and enquire about deliverability in the shortest time frame, and to hint at a “bonus” payment if they could circumvent any waiting list.

In every case so far, all attempts had been futile. The wait was too long. One agency out of Europe hinted at something in six months. Even if Hedda had succeeded in finding a new baby boy, Chelsea rightfully regarded Remy and Fyodor’s baby as hers. She’d fallen in love with this couple. A substitution would be a challenge, but she’d done it before.

Hedda was growing increasingly fearful of the possibility that Remy may have been among the dead or missing in the wake of the tornadoes that devastated parts of Texas and other states.

It would account for why Bascom had failed to pick up any activity on Remy or Mason’s credit cards, bank cards, or cell phones.

I don’t know, Hedda thought. We have no proof that’s what happened .

If Remy lost the baby, she might have been encouraged by her ex-con boyfriend to flee in order to hang on to the fifteen thousand. Or, she may have decided to keep the baby, a possibility that Hedda doubted, based on her experience with surrogates.

Hedda’s phone vibrated with a message from Chelsea Drew-Flynn.

I want to talk. Can I call now?

Hedda stopped walking and gathered her thoughts. Be careful, you are not going to blow this . She took a moment then responded.

Yes, call me now.

A few seconds later, Hedda’s phone rang.

“Any news?” Chelsea asked.

“Nothing concrete, but we’re very hopeful.”

“You think the mother is having second thoughts?”

“It’s…possible. But as I say, we are hopeful.”

Chelsea sighed heavily on the other end of the line. “All right, you can work out your commission or whatever you do, but I’m prepared to offer seven hundred and fifty thousand to help her change her mind, conditional upon me holding my son within two weeks.”

Hedda steadied herself on a Chicago Tribune news box. She swallowed, her mind assessing it all, as she cleared her throat.

“The agreement is written for two hundred. We’d have to-”

“Yes, yes, you make any changes necessary for me to initial, sign, whatever. Call the increase a gift, call it whatever you like, but I want my son and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make it happen. Is that clear?”

“Understood.”

“Moreover, I had indicated to you that I know of other women very anxious to adopt a new baby, including one, actually two, who will pay over seven figures.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m willing to recommend your agency to them, if you don’t screw this up. My friends have very large networks of affluent people.”

“All right.”

“If you fail to deliver on our agreement, I’ll have to explore all my options. Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely.”

The call ended.

For several seconds, Hedda stood there on the busy street staring at her phone in disbelief. The stakes had gone up.

Way up.

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Shelby Nix scratched his three-days’-growth beard as he reviewed registrations for the Tumbleweed Dreams Motel while watching commercials on the big flat-screen TV in reception.

For the past eight years he had been manager of the two-story inn that sat at the city’s southeast edge. Every now and then the ex-navy cook thought about buying the place from the owners who lived in Florida. The glory of the old motel, like its worn, embroidered towels, was fading and it barely broke even. This week was good, he thought; they were at ninety percent, thanks to the tornadoes, but today they had a lot of departures. Shelby was clicking through the guest log on his computer at the counter when the phone rang.

“Tumbleweed Motel,” he said.

“Shell, I can’t make it in today.”

His hand reflexively tightened on the handset at the sound of Daisy Culpepper’s whiny voice. She was the most senior of his four housekeepers, but even if the good Lord and all his apostles helped her, Daisy could not work a full week. He’d warned her several times.

“It’s my back, again. I’m in pain.”

“Daisy, you’re done. I’ll mail you your final check and pink slip.”

“What?”

“You’re fired.”

“But Shell-my doc-”

Shelby ended the call and started another to his junior housekeeper, Maria Mendosa.

“Hi, Maria, it’s Shelby at the motel,” he said in Spanish.

“Hi, Shelby.”

“If your cousin’s still looking for work, tell her to come with you today.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic! I will tell her! Thank you, thank you very much!”

Maria never missed a day and her work was stellar. He was confident her cousin would be a good hire. Upon hanging up, he dismissed any remorse over firing Daisy. Hell, the woman lived a block from the motel but always had an excuse not to make it into work. For the next several moments he reviewed her attendance record.

It was dreadful.

No, he thought, it had to be done. She’s gone.

Shelby’s eyes then flicked to the TV, where he saw the President’s face. The news was on. He used the remote to increase the volume. The White House was confirming the President’s upcoming visit to the Metroplex and its hardest-hit regions.

The commander-in-chief’s coming to town. How about that, Shelby thought.

That report was followed by one showing sketches of two people sought by police.

“The FBI is investigating the case of a baby boy, five-month-old Caleb Cooper of Dallas, who vanished from his mother’s hold in the storm at the Old Southern Glory Flea Market near Kleberg.

The FBI says the baby’s clothing was found under suspicious circumstances 20 miles away in Duncanville. They are appealing to the public for help locating two persons of interest-a white male and white female, who may be traveling with the baby.”

After providing descriptions of the couple, the TV news displayed two sketches of the woman and two of the man.

Shelby pressed the button on the remote to replay the details.

The woman could have short spiky red hair, or shorter dark hair and dark-framed glasses.