Undercover Babies. Alice Sharpe
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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, and he approached the shelter with a sigh of relief.
The door to the place stood wide open. Sister Theresa stood framed in the open doorway, talking to a man wearing a long, old-fashioned-looking raincoat. The man carried a compact black bag.
A doctor? If Mac paid the guy for his trouble, would he examine the girl and help her out?
Sister Theresa called to him. “Mac? Is that you? Come in out of the rain. Have a hot cup of coffee or some cocoa. And bring your friend. Everyone’s welcome here.”
He felt a tug on the back of his coat and turned swiftly. The girl was shaking her head, trembling from the cold or a bad case of nerves, or maybe something less obvious.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, trying to reassure her.
She peered around his side, then back at him. My, she had pretty blue eyes. “Is that the woman you mentioned? The kind one?”
He furrowed his brows. The quaint phrasing of the question sounded odd, especially coming from this drowned rat of a woman whose sodden clothes probably outweighed her.
“That’s Sister Theresa, though you’d never know it by the way she dresses. As you can see, the good sister doesn’t go in for the traditional habit. Seems it’s your lucky day. Her visitor looks like a doctor—”
He stopped talking because the girl had wrenched herself free and was now walking away from him as fast as she could, which wasn’t all that fast but was decidedly determined. He called out to Sister Theresa that he’d be back and trotted after his waif, calling for her to wait up. She pulled the hat down farther on her head and kept walking.
He caught up with her easily and even as he seized her arm, he wondered why he bothered. Reasonable or not, she was a grown woman with the right to make any decision she so desired. No cop would arrest her for changing her mind about a shelter. So far as he knew, she’d done nothing wrong and hurt no one, not even herself. But he couldn’t ignore the vulnerable slump of her shoulders or the way her gaze faltered when their eyes met.
She was afraid. If not of Sister Theresa, then of what? Or whom?
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She cast a wary look toward the still lighted doorway and the two figures who had turned back to their conversation. She shook her head as though unable to put this new fear into words.
“Is it the doctor? Do you know him?”
Again she shook her head.
“Then let him examine you.” He touched her hand. “Come on—”
Again, he was talking to thin air as she’d managed to dart away. Instead of walking, she’d broken into a run. He’d