Most Wanted (5 page)

“You want a soda or anything?”

“No thanks. You were so mysterious in the text.” Lauren looked from Christine to Marcus and back again. “What's going on?”

Marcus smiled. “I'll let my lovely wife explain it to you. I'm going out to hit some balls.”

Christine looked at him in surprise. He hadn't mentioned he was going to the driving range. They'd had a quiet dinner, with her trying to keep down some light vegetable soup and him having a tuna fish sandwich and leftover cake.

Christine touched his arm. “Don't you want to stick around? You can make your case.”

“No, I'll leave you two to it.” Marcus kissed her on the cheek and opened the door. “Lauren, take care. Give my best to Josh and the kids.”

“I will, bye.”

“See you, honey.” Marcus shot her a final smile, then closed the door, and Lauren flared her eyes as soon as the latch had engaged.

“What is going on? Are you pregnant? Oh right, yes. What
else
is going on?”

Christine wished she could smile, but she felt wetness come to her eyes. “I'm worried about something.”

Lauren frowned, instantly concerned. “Oh no, are you serious? Is something the matter? Are you spotting? Should we call the doctor?”

“Oh, nothing like that, God no. Sorry. Come with me, upstairs.” Christine headed for the stairwell, getting back in control.

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.” Lauren fell into step beside her, and they climbed the stairwell together, Christine running her hand along the banister. She didn't feel so nauseous anymore, but she was suddenly exhausted, which happened every night. She'd read that fatigue was typical during the first trimester, and there had been many nights when she couldn't keep her eyes open as she did the paperwork required by her job. Tonight she was pretty sure she could keep her eyes open.

“Why are we going upstairs?”

“I want to show you something and ask you your opinion.”

“What is it?”

“Wait and see. I don't want to say.”

“Why not?”

“I don't want to prejudice you. Come in.” Christine turned on the light in Marcus's home office, which he rarely used. One of the benefits to being an infertile couple was that they had a lot of spare rooms, having moved into their four-bedroom in Cornwell expecting to fill it with children.

“Why are we in Daddy's office? I can't remember the last time I was in here.”

“Because he has the biggest computer in the house.”

“Wow, it's so ritzy. Did Greenwich explode in this room?” Lauren glanced around, taking in the neat bookshelves filled with engineering textbooks, job files from work, hardcover biographies, copies of
Golf Digest,
and an entire shelf of golf books. The window on the right side of the room had green plaid window treatments, and underneath was a strip of artificial turf with a white plastic cup at one end, his Callaway putting green.

“Sit down at his desk.” Christine gestured her into the mesh ergonomic chair at the sleek walnut desk, which boasted the latest-and-greatest iMac, with a twenty-seven-inch screen and retina display. Marcus used it for Excel spreadsheets from work and Madden golf video games, but tonight it was going to serve a more important function.

“Are you guys in a fight?” Lauren sat down, swiveling around like a kid in the chair.

“No.” Christine leaned over, palmed the mouse, and woke up the computer, which showed the landing page of SportsIllustrated.com. She navigated to the CNN website and clicked on the story, which she noted hadn't changed since the addition of the medical saw. She clicked on the video and enlarged it, without playing it. “I would like to show you a video. It's the one they played in the teachers' lounge today, of that serial killer they arrested in Pennsylvania.” Christine could barely bring herself to say the words. “Take a good look at the guy they arrested, a young blond man. Then I want to show you something else.”

“Okay.” Lauren turned her attention to the computer as Christine clicked
PLAY
. The video began the way it always did, with the police walking forward and out of frame, then came the prisoner.

Christine tried not to react as the blond man ducked into the police cruiser and looked up, which was when she reached over and clicked
STOP
to freeze the video. “You see that face?”

“Sure, yes.” Lauren nodded.

“Now I want to show you something else.” Christine slid her iPhone from the pocket of her jeans, swiped to the photo of Donor 3319 as an adult, and set it down on the desk. “Now, look at this. This is a picture of our donor.”

Lauren looked down at the phone, but said nothing, her expression impassive and her lips pursed.

“What's your first impression?” Christine asked, holding her breath.

Lauren looked over at the screen, then back down at the photo, apparently double-checking.

“Well?”

“Well.” Lauren looked up, her forehead creased. “They look alike. I mean, they look a little like each other.”

“Right? I mean, it's weird, you have to admit.” Christine had to force herself to say the words out loud. “Our donor looks like that serial killer.”

“Yeah, I see that.” Lauren swallowed visibly and palmed the mouse. The computer woke up, with the freeze-frame of the prisoner looking up.

“Let's compare.” Christine picked up her phone, unlocked it, and held Donor 3319's photo right next to the prisoner's face on the monitor. “Please tell me they're not the same guy.”

“No, they're not.” Lauren shook her head, then threw up her hands. “I mean, obviously, your donor is not a serial killer. It's just not possible.”

“That's what Marcus says, and I know they screen these donors.” Christine's words raced out, as if they were escaping pressurization. “Our donor is a medical student, and it doesn't say this guy's a medical student, but they did find a medical saw in his trunk.”

Lauren kept shaking her head. “It does look a little like him, I know why you're saying this. But it's not him. I mean, they could be brothers, for God's sake. It could be anything. They don't look
exactly
alike, for what that's worth.”

“What difference do you see?”

“I think the guy they arrested has a narrower face. Like his face is thinner. The eyes look a lot alike, but blue-eyed people have those eyes. Round, pretty, blue. Like a doll.
Goyische
eyes.”

“What?”

“Gentile eyes, WASPY. But, wow, this is scary. You must've been scared.” Lauren looked up, her forehead buckling, and Christine could read the sympathy in her expression.

“I'm worried it's the same person. Marcus doesn't think so.”

Lauren palmed the mouse. “Wait, hold on. What's the name of the serial killer?”

“Zachary Jeffcoat.”

“Okay.” Lauren navigated to Google, plugged in Zachary Jeffcoat, and searched under Images. A mosaic of the prisoner's face flooded the screen, and Christine tried to take in all the faces, photographed from different angles. Most of the photos had been taken after his arrest, shot in the same sunlight, with him wearing the same clothes. Some of the other photographs were of dark-haired men who weren't him, and there were two black men. But the overwhelming number were the blond prisoner. Something about seeing them all together was nightmarish, as if the parts all added up to the same place, Christine's worst fear.

“Hold on,” Lauren said, on task. “Let's look him up on Facebook.”

“Really? A serial killer, on Facebook?”

“Why not? Everybody's on Facebook.” Lauren logged out of Google and navigated to Facebook, typing in her name and password, then she plugged in Zachary Jeffcoat, and a full page of Zachary Jeffcoats popped onto the screen. Some showed men with families who looked older, some were African-American, but there were plenty of shadowy faces from pages that were kept private.

“All I know about him is he's from Nevada and that he's in medical school. I don't know his hometown or where he goes to school, they don't tell you that.”

“Hmmmm.” Lauren scrolled down through the thumbnails. “I don't see anybody from Nevada. Or anybody from a medical school. He's got to be on Facebook. He's young and good-looking and a medical student.”

“He might be keeping his settings private.”

“Right.” Lauren logged out of Facebook and navigated to Instagram, plugging in her username and password. “You never know, right? It's certainly worth checking.”

“Right.” Christine watched, her stomach still tense.

“Okay, so he's not on Instagram, at least under his name. Let me check Twitter.” Lauren's fingers flew across the keyboard, and Christine felt a wave of gratitude for her best friend.

“What would I do without you?”

“Without me, you would've ended up with a coconut sheet cake, which I know you hate.” Lauren shook her head, eyeing the Instagram search. “I'm not seeing him. Is it odd that he is not on social media? I mean everybody is, especially his generation.”

“Not necessarily. Some people boycott. Not everybody's a teacher.” Christine wanted to laugh it off. It was a running joke that teachers were more obsessed with social media than teenagers, but they used it for exchanging lesson plans, telling each other new ways to engage students, and sending links to the latest mole in district headquarters, who leaked them confidential info about what was coming from Common Enemy.

“That's true.” Lauren half-smiled.

“I don't think it means anything. We know teachers who hide their identities online. They don't want the administration to know. He might go under ScooterGuy, or Reds fan, or something like that.” Christine was starting to convince herself. “Like, Marcus's firm has a professional page on Facebook, but he also has a personal page under Golden Bear Posse, for his golf buddies.”

“I never knew that.”

“You know he loves Jack Nicklaus.” Christine gestured at Marcus's treasured piece of sports memorabilia, a framed U.S. Open poster that Jack Nicklaus had autographed, with a color photograph of the golfer with his nickname, Golden Bear.

“Cute. Why do they have the Facebook page?”

“They post videos of their swings and critique each other.”

“Whatever.” Lauren chuckled. “Anyway, as far as your donor, I don't think it means anything that he's not on social media. I take it back.”

“Unless he gave an alias to the bank,” Christine said, the thought coming out of nowhere “But I'm sure they verify who somebody says he is when he donates. If a donor is trying to hide something, he can do that.”

“But it's not like they give them a lie detector test.”

“No, right. Here, look at his bio.” Christine pulled over the Donor 3319 profile.

“I remember looking at this,” Lauren said, frowning as she read, then looked up. “You know, you could call the bank and just tell them what you're worrying about.”

“Homestead? That's not how it works. I never dealt with them. Dr. Davidow orders it, I never dealt with them at all.”

“Then I think you should call him.”

“You do?” Christine glanced at the clock on the computer, which read 7:45. “It's after hours.”

“So leave a message. It doesn't have to be an emergency. Just say you have a question about your donor.” Lauren reached for her arm and gave it a soft squeeze. “Honey. I know it's going to bother you, that's why I'm telling you to call. But if you ask me, they're not the same person.”

“Okay, I will. Hold on a sec.” Christine picked up her phone, scrolled through
CONTACTS
, and called Dr. Davidow's cell. The call rang twice then was picked up.

“Hello?” Dr. Davidow answered warmly. “Christine, hi!”

“Hi, Dr. Davidow.” Christine felt her heart leap at the sound of his voice. He had been so good to her, through everything. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No worries. How are you? How can I help you?”

“Do you mind if I put you on speaker? My friend Lauren is here, and I want her to listen in.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Great, thanks.” Lauren pressed the button to put the call on speaker. “Can you hear me?”

“Sure,” Dr. Davidow answered, his voice echoing in the quiet room. “So what's the problem, how are you feeling?”

“I'm fine, but I happened to see a news report on television today about a serial killer being arrested, and when I looked at the video, it looked a lot like our donor.” Christine felt silly, but she wasn't stopping now. “I know that sounds strange, but I think I recognize him from the two pictures we have, one baby and one adult. Is that even possible?”

Dr. Davidow paused. “You're saying you identified him from his adult photo?”

“Not positively, but yes. It looks like him.”

“Which bank did you use?” Dr. Davidow's voice changed slightly, losing its casual tone.

“Homestead.”

“Did your donor join their Open Identity Disclosure program?”

“No, it was an anonymous donation, and he's not willing to be known either. Can you look him up and check if the name is the same? The name of the man they arrested is Zachary Jeffcoat.”

“We don't have the name of your donor. If a donation is anonymous, it's anonymous to Families First, too. The bank gives us only the information that you get.”

“Oh, I didn't realize that.” Christine glanced at Lauren, who puckered her lower lip in disappointment. “I thought you would have some record.”

“No, that's completely out of our control. We place the order for you and take receipt of the vials, which are shipped in a cryogenically frozen state. But the donation, retrieval, and transport is handled by the bank. Still, Homestead is extremely reputable. I'm at liberty to say that my own sister used them with two successful pregnancies, using the same donor twice so the children could be biological siblings.”