Only Son by Kevin O'Brien Page A

the car and checked the plate. The baby’s shrill cries continued. Carl waited. A drop of sweat slithered down from his underarm.
    Finally, the patrolman returned to Carl’s window. “I’m letting you off with a warning this time, Mr. Jorgenson,” he said. “Take it easy the rest of the way to Seattle, then you and your little boy will stand a better chance of making it there. All right?” He gave him back the license.
    Carl took it. He nodded a few more times than necessary. “I will. Thank you, Officer.” He turned the key in the ignition.
    But the cop still stared at him, unmoving. With a brief nod at the baby, he cracked a smile. “Powerful set of lungs. How old is he?”
    Carl hesitated. “Five months. Why do you ask that?”
    â€œI’ve got a two-year-old at home myself. What’s his name?”
    Again, Carl didn’t answer right away. He looked at the baby for a moment. “Um, Sam,” he said. “Sam Jorgenson.”
    â€œWell, Sam,” the policeman said. “Tell your daddy to obey the speed limit.” Then, with a grin, he waved him on.
    Carl rolled up the window, put his license away, and slowly started back onto the highway. He checked his rearview mirror. The cop was getting inside the squad car—perhaps to an APB over his radio about a Portland kidnapping. Certainly, by now the McMurray girl had given the police a description of her missing child, and what he was wearing. The cop would remember.
    Carl picked up speed. He wondered if he should get rid of his car after today. Thank God the new place in Seattle had an underground garage. He could keep the car down there for the next few days until he figured out what to do. The police wouldn’t be looking for it there. But they’d be looking for him.
    He wished the baby would be quiet for just a minute. His head was pounding. “Oh, please, shut up,” he said hotly. This red-faced, screaming urchin wasn’t anything like the happy baby in the portrait Mrs. Sheehan had shown him on the plane.
    If only he could drive back to Portland, bring the kid into a police station, and claim he’d found him in an abandoned car someplace. With a little luck, they might have believed the story. But it was too late now. That cop had seen him.
    The damn crying wouldn’t stop. “Oh, for chrissakes, can’t you be quiet?” he hissed. “Shut up!”
    One hand on the wheel, Carl frantically dug into his pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief. The car rocked and swerved as he reached over and got ready to stuff the handkerchief in the baby’s mouth. Then Carl remembered what his mother had once told him: “I’d find he’d stuck a rag or something in your mouth to stop the crying…”
    Carl threw the handkerchief to the car floor. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, rubbing the baby’s leg. He turned and gazed at the road ahead, then started crying with his son. “I’m sorry. Hush, now, Sammy, please. I’ll never hurt you. I’m not my father. I’ll take good care of you….”
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    When Carl lifted him out of his car seat, the baby let out a howl. His cries took on a staccato rhythm as Carl hurried up the back stairwell with him to the second floor. Carl could hardly breathe without gagging, because the kid had loaded up his diaper shortly after they’d pulled off the interstate at Seattle. Staggering inside his apartment, Carl set the smelly, wiggling, screaming thing on the carpeted floor.
    He heard the baby crying as he ran into the nursery and tore open a box of Pampers. All the neighbors could hear the screams, too, no doubt.
    The nursery was completely furnished, loaded with Pampers, clothes, and toys. The rest of the apartment wasn’t far behind, except he hadn’t gotten a phone yet. It was a spacious two-bedroom with a fireplace and bay windows. He’d even figured out where to put the