They were just a completely alien life force, as far as she was concerned. She’d been an only child of two only children, so she hadn’t been exposed to any babies growing up. And because she and her parents had moved around a lot, to cultures that changed as quickly as their residences did, Claire had never really learned to relate to other children for any length of time. She’d been shy and anxious when she’d come to new communities, and as a result, she’d remained fairly solitary. She’d just never much abided children. Not even when she was a child herself.
And now here she was, face-to-face with a baby—a baby!—and she had no idea what to do. Okay, of course, she knew the basics, that they needed to be fed and diapered and kept warm. Which, now that she thought about it, might be a good reason to panic, because she had neither baby food nor diapers in her house. Then again, the basket on her arm was a bit larger and heavier than seemed necessary for one baby. Could be that whomever had abandoned the little tyke had at least properly provided for it.
For the time being, anyway, she added to herself, swallowing the panic that began to rise yet again.
She forced herself to move to the overstuffed couch on the other side of the living room, then switched on the standing Tiffany lamp beside it and settled the basket carefully down between two big tapestry pillows. Nudging aside the bulk of blankets in which the baby had been swaddled—okay, so the keeping warm part would be no problem—Claire found, in addition to the pudgy infant, about three dozen diapers, a can of powdered formula, four small bottles, an assortment of baby food in jars and five changes of clothes, all pink.
Congratulations, Claire. It’s a girl.
“Oh, boy,” she muttered to no one in particular.
Until now she had been trying to avoid actually looking at the baby, but when the infant began to chatter incoherently again, Claire had no choice but to turn her attention to the little cherub. She had no idea how old the tiny thing was, but the baby was smiling and attentive and making a lot of noise, so she must be several months old, anyway. As Claire watched, the infant’s mouth formed a near-perfect O, and she released a long, lusty coo. Then she laughed, as if she’d just made a wonderful joke, and for a moment—just a moment—Claire felt sort of, kind of…warm inside, and she smiled back.
Then she remembered she had no idea how to care for this child and that ripple of panic began to surge up inside her again.
“Police,” she whispered aloud, as if needing an audible reminder. Surely the police could send someone over right away, someone who knew what to do with abandoned babies, someone who could see to this particular baby’s needs better than Claire could herself. Because although there were a lot of things in her life about which she felt uncertain, of one thing she was absolutely sure. She was in no way cut out to be a mother. Nuh-uh. No way. No how.
As if she needed to be reassured of that fact—which, of course, she didn’t—when she reached in to lift the baby out of the basket, it immediately began to howl. Loudly. Lustily. Lengthily.
Okay, Claire. You can panic now.
Oh, boy, she thought. It was going to be a long night.
Nick Campisano was just leaving his favorite liquor store with a six-pack of his favorite brew when his pager went off.
Great, he thought. He should have realized there was no way he’d be allowed to enjoy what was left of New Year’s Eve. Hey, he hadn’t been allowed to enjoy Christmas Eve, had he? Or Christmas, either. Or Thanksgiving, for that matter. Or even Halloween, dammit. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been allowed to have an entire holiday off at all. So why should tonight be any different?
Because he needed a break, dammit—that was why. He needed a little time to step back and reevaluate, and try to remember why he’d become a cop in the first place. Something about wanting to make a difference, he recalled from some vague, dark, corner of his mind. Something about wanting to be a role model for kids who didn’t have any in their lives. Something about wanting to help people—help kids—get themselves straight and stay that way.
Yeah, right, he thought now. As a narcotics detective, all he seemed to succeed in doing lately was watch the problem get worse. Too many kids—good kids, at that—were taking drugs, selling drugs, dying from drugs. Oh, yeah. Nick had made a really big difference for them.
And tonight—like every other night—he needed some time to unwind and relax, some time to think about life. Some time to help him remember what living his life was all about. Yeah, life, he echoed derisively to himself. He was gonna have to see about getting himself one of those real soon. All work and no play was making Nick a very cranky boy.
He sighed with resignation when he noted the number on his pager, then made his way slowly back to his big—and very dated—Jeep Wagoneer, where he’d left his cell phone for the few minutes he’d be inside Cavanaugh’s Liquors. Sure enough, the word Called appeared in the readout. Clearing it, Nick punched in the number he’d been instructed to return—the number of his workplace—and after hearing a feminine voice greet him blandly at the other end of the line, he snarled, “Campisano. Whaddaya want?”
“Woooo, those are just the words a woman wants to hear in the middle of the night from a big, strong man like you,” the sultry voice at the other end of the line said, punctuating the observation with a wry chuckle.
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Nick said—even if it was without a trace of apology. Suzanne Skolnik was, after all, his boss, but she wasn’t so far removed that he couldn’t voice his irritation at being summoned during his off-hours. “Whaddaya want?”
“Where are you?” she asked without preamble.
“Halfway home. Soon I’ll be all the way home,” he added pointedly. “Why?”
But instead of answering his question, she said, “Define ‘halfway home.”’
Nick growled under his breath. This didn’t sound good. “Cavanaugh’s Liquors on Route 30,” he told her. Then he asked again, “Why?”
“So you’re skirting the wilds of Haddonfield, right?”
Nick growled again. “Yeah. Why?”
“And you got four-wheel drive in that big bucket of yours, right?”
“Yeah. Why?”
But he still didn’t get a response to the one question he really wanted answered. Not a response that he liked anyway. Because his superior asked another question of her own. “You know a lot about kids, don’t you, Nick?”
As questions went, it wasn’t that unusual a one for a man in his line of work to hear. “I know enough,” he said. “Why?”
“Don’t you got, like, a lot of nieces and nephews?”
“Eighteen, last count,” he replied. “Why?”
“That’s right,” Lieutenant Skolnik said thoughtfully. “Your sister Angie just dropped two last month, didn’t she?”
Nick was fast losing patience with this interrogation. Not just because he seldom indulged in chitchat with his boss, but because he was cold, and he was tired, and the snow was coming down harder and at least two of the six bottles of Sam Adams in the seat next to him were calling his name.
“Uh, no offense, Lieutenant,”
