'But you'll get the baby?'
He nodded again.
Kier knew Winona needed closure following this bizarre process. He wasn't sure it would help, but after inducing a young woman to carry a baby for money the clinic could bend a little. Now, with the cesarean, Winona might never have a normal delivery. Anger flared inside him as he approached the nurse's station.
'I am sorry to trouble you. I am here to discuss my niece's request to see the baby for a minute,' he said to the charge nurse.
'Your niece didn't say a minute, but the answer's the same. It's against policy.' She whispered, 'And you don't really want to do this to her.'
'It'll only be for a few minutes.'
'I'm sorry, I'd really like to help you, but it's against the rules.'
'Sometimes it's better to break the rules. This might be one of those occasions.'
'I know who you are and how much influence you have with the local community and the Tilok tribe, but we don't break the rules for anyone, Dr. Wintripp.'
'I understand. Perhaps I could speak with the person in charge of this hospital?''
'That's the administrator, Mr. Hanson.'
'I would like to see him.'
'He's with a very important visitor.'
'Who is that?'
'The president of the company that owns the clinic. Mr. Tillman.'
'I would still like to see him.'
'I'll see if the head nurse can make an appointment with the administrator some time this week.'
Kier looked in the woman's eyes. 'It would be a great kindness if you could tell me how to find him now so that I could work out my niece's problem.'
At that moment a nurse with a clipboard hurried toward them from the surgical wing, whispering, 'They're coming, they're coming.'
Kier looked back at the charge nurse, who glanced nervously to the side, not meeting his gaze. The four staffers around them looked bewildered, as if they were contemplating hiding in the closet.
A small swarm of people and a flashbulb-popping photographer appeared. They surrounded a tall, physically powerful man whose narrow waist and bulky upper body were ill-concealed by his L.L. Bean outdoor wear. Kier assumed this man to be Mr. Tillman. He didn't look the doughboy executive that Kier had imagined. The man's presence, his leathery face, black wavy hair, and hooked nose, the primitive intensity of his gaze, looked anything but soft and corporate.
Kier stepped into the group's path, his sheer size slowing them to a near stop.
'Mr. Hanson?'
A short, balding man with black glasses stepped forward. 'I'm Mr. Hanson. The clinic administrator. Can I help you?'
Kier appraised Hanson and the rest of the entourage, noting that Tillman watched him with interest. If Kier had to guess, he would have said that Tillman knew who he was. He addressed Mr. Hanson directly. 'I'm Kier Wintripp. My niece is a surrogate mother. She just delivered. We believe it would help her to show her the baby for five minutes, then we'll give the child back.'
'We can't let surrogate mothers start telling us how long they want the baby,' Hanson said. 'It's not their baby. They only carry it.'
'A deviation from that policy might be a good thing in this case. I believe it would help my niece, and it would solve some potential problems for all of us.'
'I'm sorry. We don't deviate,' Hanson said. 'Excuse me,' Tillman interrupted, 'I'd like to understand what you mean?' Tillman's voice was deep and smooth. 'I mean following the policy risks disrupting our peace.' 'Maybe you could explain that for me.' 'Well, two thousand Tiloks might take a sudden interest in your clinic, and they might all happen to show up at once, making their arrival look remarkably like a demonstration. Of course, the press from miles around would come. That would generate news articles, I'm sure, about the wisdom of surrogate mothering and things of that nature.'
'What exactly do you want, Mr. Wintripp?'
'Five minutes of the baby's life in the arms of the woman who gave birth to him.'
'We can't give in to this,' Hanson protested. Tillman gave him a sharp glance, and he quit talking. 'Five minutes. Then the child goes back to the nursery, and you're out of my hospital.'
'I'm out of your hospital when I'm through visiting my niece.'
Tillman's jaw set hard. Kier could tell he was accustomed to having his way. 'We can work something out,' Tillman said, quickly regaining his composure.
''It's settled then,' said the charge nurse, appearing relieved. 'Come with me, please.'
Kier followed, his body strangely alive with adrenaline. In moments, a woman with a surprised expression had brought the baby into Winona's room. Kier stood to the side, avoiding his mother's gaze. He knew that Winona was about to partake in one of the emptiest moments of her life. Motherhood and the hope of a shared future were supposed to be the reward for the hard work of birth. Greenbacks and five minutes with someone else's child would have to be enough for Winona.
At first, the snow fell lightly. Jessie Mayfield found herself outside a three-chair beauty shop in a town where the men still went to the barber. Visiting Johnson City was a bizarre experience and a greatly needed distraction. Trying not to think about Frank Bilotti seemed to be the antidote of choice until she figured out some way that thinking about him could be constructive.
Claudie had tried to insist that she visit a local hairdresser, but Jessie wasn't in the mood. She had picked up the groceries for Claudie and her kids, all the way down to the Pop Tarts, and had only one stop left. A prescription for Claudie's shingles waited at the pharmacy, where she could also pick up some cold medicine for Claudie's firstborn son, Bren.
The only pharmacy in Johnson City operated out of an old church. The steep-pitched slate roof, steeple, overhanging eaves, and lap siding gave the building a certain character. Something else about it made it poignant, but Jessie couldn't put her finger on it. Entering through the church's original set of double doors, Jessie saw shelves climbing all the walls, even reaching the point where the ceiling rose at an angle to form the steeple. Not short on merchandise, the place was packed with everything from portable toilets to hot water bottles.
'Can I help you?' a beautiful olive-skinned woman said. She looked part Native American, with soft, well- tended hair that dropped over her shoulders.
'Claudie Donahue has a prescription.'
'You must be her sister from New York?'
'Word travels that fast?'
'Around here the trees have ears and the rocks talk.'
Jessie's face broke a natural smile. It felt odd because her life was distinctly a frown.
In a corner next to the counter, a dark-haired boy was coloring. It required no imagination to suppose that his mother was tending the store. His eyelashes were long and distinctive. Designed for expansion, his blue overalls were rolled nicely at the ankles, his tiny polo shirt bore stripes that handily complemented the denim. Mom worked on this kid.
Jessie wondered at his place in life: Other than waiting for his mother to finish work, which he did rather well, this child's only job was keeping the crayon in the coloring book. He had no conflicts pulling him in opposite directions, no tests looming on his horizon to determine if he would be judged fit or worthwhile. No conscious possibility of flunking life. That would come later. Jessie gave him a smile-her second of the day. She enjoyed the connection as their eyes met, and she silently wished him well.
As Jessie crossed the street to her Volvo, the snow hurled down in blinding torrents. The keys didn't fit in the car door lock at first-probably due to the overanxious shake in her hands-and it took a minute to make them work. She didn't want to drive back over the mountain in this snow, but she had to get back to Claudie. Besides, where else would she stay in this desolate county but at her sister's?
Jessie had never believed that circumstances controlled people unless people allowed them to. She now
