Undercover Babies. Alice Sharpe

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      She blinked. She looked confused and miserable, and he wished he had an umbrella to offer her.

      “Is Jake my name?” she repeated.

      “You don’t know your name?”

      As she shook her head, his heart sank. She had to be homeless, penniless, adrift in a fog of drugs or booze or mental illness. She had to be someone’s daughter, someone’s lover, a beauty faded before it blossomed with such a shocked look in her eyes that it brought to mind a small animal trapped by a larger one.

      Eyes like his mother’s eyes, so many years ago.

      He resisted the urge to turn away from her but it was there, growing more pronounced by the moment—the desire to turn away, to shield himself from her raw pain and the subsequent feeling of helplessness it engendered in his soul.

      She rubbed her throat where he’d manhandled her.

      “Sorry about that,” he said and, as an act of penance, took off his favorite gray felt hat and pushed it down on her head.

      Engulfed by the hat, she stared at him still, her eyes glittering slits beneath the brim. “Do you know me?” she insisted.

      He shook his head. “No.”

      Her voice turned to a pathetic squeak as she mumbled, “I’m not Jake?”

      “No, but you seem to be wearing his clothes. Where is he?”

      She managed to look even more bewildered and he knew she didn’t have an answer. He also knew he couldn’t leave her like this, nor could he call the cops and risk their sometimes heavy-handed treatment with the down and out, not when it was so obvious she struggled just to stay on her feet. It also wouldn’t help her win hearts if the cops found her with him. There was a shelter within walking distance, one run by two ex-nuns with medical training. He’d take her there.

      But first, he’d make sure she hadn’t clubbed old Jake and stolen his clothes. “Come with me,” he demanded, moving toward the alley.

      She stood her ground, if that teetering sway could be called standing.

      Opening the sack, he produced the hoagie. “Hungry?”

      She stared at the sandwich for a moment before nodding.

      “Then come with me. You can eat while we take a shortcut through this alley.”

      Still, she hesitated though her gaze never left the tightly wrapped hoagie he offered as bait.

      “Listen,” he said, suddenly impatient. It was cold and his head was wet, thanks to the impetuous gift of his hat. He was worried about Jake. He’d testified in court that day and thus wore a suit under his raincoat, which meant he also wore his good shoes that might never recover from standing around in this torrential downpour. The day had been long and arduous, and he still had paperwork to do.

      Taking a couple of powerful steps toward her, wincing as his approach caused her to shrink inside her pilfered clothes, he said, “If I’d wanted to hurt you, I’d have already pulled you into the alley. I wouldn’t have waited around risking pneumonia and I wouldn’t have offered you a perfectly good sandwich. Come with me or stay here, it’s your call.”

      “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded, suddenly straightening her slender body and, for a moment, transcending her environment. She wiped the rain from her face and extended a hand. “Please,” she added.

      He handed her the sandwich and turned away, aware when she fell into step behind him, pleased that she had at least enough street smarts to give herself a little running room in case he turned into an ogre. After all, who knew if she’d stay at the shelter or leave as soon as they fed her properly? If she wound up back on the street, she’d need to be wary if she planned on surviving.

      Wary, like his mom.

      The girl stayed in the middle of the alley, eating her sandwich with a determination that surpassed mere hunger and spoke of elemental need. As she ate, her gaze darted this way and that, as if she expected a ghost—or worse—to materialize at any moment.

      Mac moved aside boxes and shined a small flashlight into dark corners, into Dumpsters, under stairs and in old doorways. The girl stayed close by, moving forward as he did, quiet but watchful. When he upset a nest of empty bottles, the clatter made her jump.

      “Your old stash?” he said with an oblique look.

      She shook her head, thought about it a moment and then shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “Maybe. I…I don’t recall…er…drinking.”

      She smelled as though she did, not only her clothes, but her hair. He didn’t know if Jake smelled like booze. Jake had never allowed Mac close enough to get more than a cursory whiff. Jake was little more than a darting hand, an occasional grunted thanks, a turned back. For that matter, Jake wasn’t really Jake. Mac had pinned that moniker on him.

      They reached the far end of the alley without finding a single sign of Jake. This was the first time Mac had actually entered this particular alley, so there was no way for him to tell if things were the same as usual. After this brief but thorough tour, however, he doubted Jake actually slept there. Not enough cover, not enough privacy. He probably just dropped by at dusk on his way to panhandling drinking money on a busier street, waiting for Mac and his nightly hand-delivered sandwich for fortification.

      Mac could think of nothing else to do but get rid of the girl and take himself home. “I know where you can sleep,” he told her.

      She looked suspicious so he added, “Would you rather stay here in the alley?”

      Her answer was immediate and delivered as she glanced back over her shoulder. “No. Please, don’t leave me here.”

      “Then come with me. I know of a shelter run by a couple of fine women. They’ll give you a bed for the night and maybe allow you the soul-satisfying pleasure of earning your keep by mopping a floor tomorrow morning. You’ll like them.”

      She wadded up the paper that had surrounded the late, great sandwich and stuck it in her pocket. Jake’s pocket…

      “I’ll be happy to earn my keep,” she said softly. She punctuated this statement with a yawn that she covered with wet fingers.

      She looked so damn pitiful that Mac wanted to fold her in a hug and protect her from the rain, from her confusion, from herself. Instead, he walked away quickly, checking every now and then to make sure she followed, not sure what he’d do if she stopped. What could he do? Who knew better than he that you couldn’t help someone who didn’t want help?

      Her trust in him would have been heartwarming if it wasn’t so obvious she was lost enough to follow anyone who offered a ray of hope. It was a big responsibility, being trusted in this way, one that made him antsy lest he fail her. He didn’t want to make her significant problems worse, but he wasn’t equipped to save her, either. It had taken him most of his life just to save himself and, come to think of it, he hadn’t been terribly successful at that chore. If he had, Jessica wouldn’t have left him, right?

      Thinking about his ex-wife wasn’t Mac’s idea of a good time, СКАЧАТЬ