Jaxon With an X

by D. K. Wall

  Jaxon clasped his hands and smiled broader. “Bath time for my lizard men!”

  “Except she made us take off all our clothes out in the yard.” Connor hooted and rocked in his chair. “She was more worried about getting mud everywhere than the neighbors seeing us naked. She warned us not to touch anything until we were in the bathtub. And she made Duke stay outside. He was howling his head off ’cause she wouldn’t let him come in.”

  “Except… you snuck out and let him in.”

  Connor wiped a hand across his eyes, tears of laughter rather than sadness over lost time. “Oh, yeah, I had forgotten that too. And that time it was me, for sure. He was so excited to be back with us he ran through the house, leaving muddy paw prints everywhere. Then he jumped up on my bed, twisting around in celebration, getting mud all over my bed.”

  “And on the walls!”

  “Oh, yeah. Mom was so mad, and I got in so much trouble all over again. I tried to tell her you let Duke in, but she didn’t believe me.”

  “A mud-pit swimming pool. That was so cool.”

  “That whole day was so cool. Getting in trouble and all.” Connor balled his hand up in a fist and stuck it out toward his little brother, but Jaxon flinched and shrank back into his pillow. His face went white, and he pulled the sheet up to his chin and quivered. His reaction horrified Connor, and the laughter inside him faded, replaced by a revulsion toward whoever had changed his brother so much. He looked at his outstretched fist and exclaimed, “Oh God, no, Jax. I wouldn’t hit you, dude. Never.”

  Jaxon raised a single finger from his hands holding the sheet and pointed at Connor’s fist. “But…”

  “A fist bump. That’s all it is.”

  The boy raised an eyebrow. “Fist bump?”

  “You don’t remember. We used to do it all the time.” He had to remember how much his little brother had forgotten. He lowered his arm and loosened his fist. “It’s a way of celebrating. Kinda like a handshake but cooler.”

  “But how…”

  “Look, Jax, it’s easy. Just ball your hand up like this.” Connor tightened his fingers. “Now, reach out and tap your knuckles to mine.”

  Jaxon relaxed his grip on the sheet and slowly sat back up in bed. He looked down at his hand and curled his fingers. With a sheepish glance for approval from his brother, he reached out slowly until their knuckles touched. “Fist bump,” he whispered.

  “Fist bump.” Connor rested his fingers against the bony fingers across from him. He could feel the nervous shake coming through the light touch. “We used to do it every night before going to bed and anytime we got into trouble together. It was just our thing.”

  Jaxon hung his head. “I’m sorry. There’s lots I don’t remember.”

  “Don’t be sorry, bro. I’d forgotten the mud pit.” Connor wrapped his hand around his little brother’s fist. “We’ll remember it all together. I promise.”

  23

  Heather opened the door and ushered the sheriff and FBI agent into the hospital room. The two boys fell quiet, their conversation halted mid-sentence as they focused on their visitors. Jaxon scooted to the side of the bed closest to his brother’s chair until they were almost shoulder to shoulder. Connor draped his arm around Jaxon’s neck.

  Connor’s defensive move unsettled Heather—not so much his desire to protect the boy as the casualness of the gesture. He was being a big brother, offering comfort to his weaker sibling while defending him from the intruders. She wondered whether he would have yielded so quickly as she had and allowed Jaxon to be peppered with their questions. In retrospect, her protest felt timid and insincere. Her own protective maternal instincts should have flared up and battled the intrusion.

  She took a deep breath and reminded herself that the questions were about the other children. She had to allow this to help them. She could protect both her boys and help others too.

  “Jaxon, uh, honey,” she said as the two boys tightened their grip on each other, “Sheriff Newman and Agent Porter need to ask you a few questions. Is that okay?”

  Before he had a chance to answer, the FBI agent pulled a chair to the foot of the bed and sat down, making herself small and unthreatening. She took on a quiet, calm tone. “Call me Roxanne.”

  David attempted to emulate her by folding his lanky frame into a chair beside her. His posture wasn’t nearly as convincing. Still, the boy relaxed with a glance to Connor for reassurance.

  Heather took a hesitant step toward the bed, but there was no room left. She scanned the room for somewhere to sit, but no empty chairs remained. She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, doing her best not to feel out of place.

  Roxanne said, “We want to find the place you’ve been all these years and the people you were with. Can you help us with that?”

  Jaxon’s eyes opened wide, and the little color he had drained out of his face. He gripped Connor’s arm hard and shook his head. “I don’t wanna go back. Not ever. I can’t go there. Please don’t make me.”

  She leaned and reached to comfort the boy but stopped herself. She settled back into the chair and let her hands drop into her lap. Connor squeezed his brother with a reassuring hug. She shot the boy a smile meant to relax him. “You don’t have to go anywhere near it. You can stay right here with your brother and mom.”

  Feeling Roxanne’s glance at her, Heather unfolded her arms and let them fall to her side. She avoided the agent’s gaze.

  Roxanne spoke softly and reassuringly. “We need you to describe it so we can find it. Nothing else. Just describe. Can you do that for us?”

  Jaxon squeezed his eyes shut and balled his fists. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not about him. Not that place. Ever.”

  “I can understand that. I would probably want to forget it all, too, but what about the others, the other kids who lived with you? Don’t you want us to get them away from there too?”

  Jaxon pulled the sheet tight against his chin. “It’s too late. There haven’t been any other kids in a long time. Just me.” A loud gulp as he swallowed followed by the softest whisper. “And him.”

  Heather took a tentative step forward. If there aren’t still kids there, can’t they delay the interrogation? But what if he said that just to avoid questions at all?

  Roxanne glanced up at her, seemingly thinking the same thing. “How long has it been just you and… him?” She waited for an answer then prompted, “Days? Weeks?”

  Jaxon shrugged, a slight movement under the sheet. “I don’t know. A bunch of weeks at least. The leaves were still on the trees outside, but it was already getting cooler.” He turned away from her and pleaded to Connor, “Please. Make them go away. I don’t want to talk about him.”

  The older boy glared at Roxanne and held his brother tighter. She kept her eyes focused on Jaxon’s face, willing the frightened boy to look at her. “Then let’s talk about the house itself and not him, okay? Can you tell me what it looked like?”

  The two boys exchanged a look, Jaxon’s eyes begging. Connor leaned forward until their foreheads touched. They whispered an exchange undecipherable to the others in the room.

  Heather blinked back the tears filling her eyes. With the two boys in profile, Jaxon’s scar was hidden. For a moment she saw what could have been if he had never disappeared, the two brothers tightly bonded throughout their childhoods.

  They fell silent, and Jaxon sighed and slumped on his pillow. He closed his eyes and said, “I don’t know much. I mean, mostly, I stayed in the basement.”

  “Mostly?”

  He swallowed and continued, his trembling voice soft, “Sometimes, not real often, he made me do chores outside. Things he didn’t like to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Dig holes. Chop wood. Pile up debris that got knocked down in a storm. Stuff like that.”

  “Okay, let’s start with that. Can you describe what it looked like around the outside of the house?”

  “Trees as far as I could see. The house was in this s
mall clearing, but we were surrounded by woods.”

  “Could you see any other houses?”

  “No.”

  “Hear cars on a road?”

  “No.”

  “Ever hear people talking or music playing or any sounds of neighbors?”

  “No.”

  “Could you hear anything at all?”

  “Birds. Coyotes singing. Sometimes a jet way up in the sky. I always wondered what it was like, having the freedom to fly anywhere you wanted, to go somewhere different.”

  “I’m sure.” Roxanne asked softly, “What would he do outside?”

  “Go to the outhouse. Work on his van.”

  “Outhouse? So no bathroom inside?”

  “I don’t think so. None I ever saw.”

  “Did you go to the outhouse?”

  “Only to empty the buckets we used in the basement. That was one of my chores.”

  Heather put a hand up over her face in horror and connected eyes with Roxanne. The FBI agent nodded some sympathy toward her before turning her attention back to Jaxon. “Could you see the van?”

  “Not always. Depended on where he parked it.”

  “How often did he leave in the van?”

  Jaxon shivered. “Not much. He said most everything he needed came from the mountains.”

  “Good. Good. So he hunted for food? What did he catch?”

  “Rabbits. Squirrels. Deer. Bear. Got an elk once, but that was a few years ago. He was real freaked out about that.”

  “Why?”

  “It had a radio collar on it.”

  Roxanne and David exchanged looks before she continued. “That’s great. Did you see it? Remember if it had a number on it?”

  The boy shook his head. “Nope. He got rid of it before he got the elk back to the smokehouse.”

  “Smokehouse? So he cured his own meat? Is that what the wood chopping was for?”

  “Yeah. And for the still and to heat the house.”

  “Still? So he made his own liquor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And to heat the house? So no propane tanks?”

  “Nope.”

  “Electricity?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about running water?”

  “He got water from a hand pump in the yard.”

  Roxanne chewed on her lip. “So, let’s go back to the van. What color was it?”

  “More than one color.” He held up his hands and stacked them to indicate two layers. “Dark brown on the bottom half and a real light tan on the top half.”

  “Ford? Chevy? Something else?”

  He shrugged.

  She chewed on her pen. “Windows all the way down either side of the van and on the back doors?”

  “No. Just up front.”

  “Was it the same vehicle the whole time you were there? Or did he get a new one at some point?”

  “Same one. Always had rust and dents and stuff like that.”

  “You’re doing great. That helps tons already. What can you tell me about the house itself? Stone? Wood?”

  “Wood except stone around the bottom.”

  “Wood slats like this?” She drew a series of parallel lines on her pad and turned it to him.

  He sat up and opened his eyes to look at her drawing. “Sort of, except they weren’t straight like that. The edges were curled and really rough and uneven. And not painted or anything.”

  “Hand-hewn boards like this?” She sketched another series of lines, but this time showing rough-cut boards.

  Jaxon nodded.

  “Windows?”

  “Just two windows in the front, on either side of the door. And little windows along the ground.”

  “Little windows? How big?”

  He moved his hands indicating foot-and-a-half wide by half-foot tall.

  “They were to the basement?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay, you’re doing really well. Can you tell me about inside the house? How many rooms?”

  “Just two. The front room and the kitchen.”

  “No bedroom?”

  “No. He slept in the front room. It had a bed and a chair and the fireplace.”

  “What did the kitchen have in it?”

  “An old wood stove, a table, and a chair.”

  “Just one chair?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t eat with him?”

  Jaxon looked incredulous and shook his head.

  “Any windows or doors?”

  “No windows.” He gulped. “The only door was to the basement. It had a padlock on it.”

  She scribbled some notes before looking up. “Can we move into the basement? Can you describe it?”

  Beads of sweat formed on the boy’s upper lip. His breathing accelerated. Connor leaned forward to him and whispered, his words just loud enough for Heather to decipher, “You all right?”

  The boy quivered and took a series of rapid breaths. “I’m okay.”

  “Go ahead and tell her. I got you.”

  “Okay.” He turned to her, exhaled, and said, “Door off the kitchen. Wood steps down. Dirt floor. Stone walls.”

  “And the little windows?”

  “Way up high.”

  “Too high up so you couldn’t see out them?”

  “Sometimes. If others were in the basement with me and we didn’t think he was coming, one of us could stand on the other’s shoulders and look out.”

  Roxanne and David whispered to each other at the foot of the bed. Connor wrapped his hand protectively around the back of Jaxon’s head. The younger boy rested against his older brother’s shoulder.

  Heather stood in the middle along the wall, watching the exchange and feeling isolated. She resented Connor being more protective than she was but was thankful he was there for his little brother. Uncomfortable with her own lack of a role in the room, her arms had worked their way back up and folded across her chest as she leaned against the wall. She felt the need to insert herself and spoke up, “Look, Jaxon can’t really tell you much. Can we leave him alone?”

  Roxanne straightened in her chair and smiled. “Jaxon’s told us tons. The house is something that was once common here—an old mountain shack built with hand-hewn wood with a stone cellar on a large piece of private land. The national park has some of these maintained, but the rangers would have noticed smoke from chimneys and smokehouses, so this has to be off park property. We know it’s remote because no neighbors or livestock can be heard. And we know it doesn’t have plumbing and electricity, which narrows it down considerably. Most of the old places like this have been abandoned and have rotted away, but this one is still livable. If we can narrow down the location, we can ask neighbors in the area. Just because people don’t visit the house doesn’t mean people don’t know about it. So, please, just a few more questions, and we’ll leave you alone.”

  Without waiting for a response, Roxanne turned her attention back to Jaxon. “Can you tell us about the night you escaped? How you got out? What you saw as you were leaving the house? If you can do that, you will tell us enough to find it.”

  Heather turned her attention back to the head of the bed to see if Jaxon could keep going. But the boy wasn’t looking at her—he was looking at his older brother. Connor smiled at him and nodded.

  Jaxon shivered, turned, and looked out the window, the jagged scar dark against his pale face. He clutched the blankets and pulled them tightly under his chin.

  24

  I lost count of the days since he had last opened the door. I hadn’t heard his footsteps or the creaking of his bed or the scrape of a chair or the slamming of a door. No logs dropped in the fireplace. No pots and pans clanged on the stove. All I heard was silence.

  I couldn’t reach the windows to look out for him, not without someone else to boost me up there. And no one else was in the basement with me. No one had been there for months, not since that last boy had trudged up those steps and not come back. He had been furious about
that because summer was over, and he didn’t like to hunt in the winter. He said it was always easier in the summer.

  I didn’t like it either, because I was totally alone. No one to talk to. No one to sleep beside.

  But why was it so quiet?

  Maybe he had gone off hunting for a new kid. I hadn’t heard the van crank up and leave. I wouldn’t have missed the sound of an engine starting. No way I would’ve slept through that.

  But still, I didn’t hear him. The silence was wrong. It scared me. I would sit down there, looking up the steps, half hoping the door would open and he would still be there.

  The other half of me prayed the door never opened again.

  The problem was, I was hungry. I mean really hungry. When he tossed food down, I always knew to make it last a few days. I never knew when he would throw more down. But he had never been this long, so I had run out. Not a scrap.

  The last time he had opened that door had been a couple of weeks earlier, and I wasn’t sure he was going to throw food down. He leaned against the frame, wheezing and hissing. No new kid was thrown down, but he didn’t call me up the steps, either. He just glared at me.

  I knew he hated me. Always had. I thought maybe he had finally decided to come down and kill me. After all, he didn’t need me without a kid for me to tend to. But he didn’t come down. He just stared. And wheezed. Minutes, hours passed while he leaned against the doorframe, looking at me as I tried to hide in the shadows.

  Finally, he reached behind his back and grabbed a bucket of food. He tossed it down to me, but it hit the steps and tumbled, clattering across the floor. The slop spilled out, and the rats came from the shadows. I wanted to chase them away—it was my food, and I was starving—but I didn’t dare move until the light from upstairs was blocked and I heard the door slam shut and the lock slide into place.

  I chased the rats away and gathered my food in the bucket. It wasn’t much. They had gotten some of it. But I could make it last a few days.

  But more than a few days passed. He didn’t come back, and I didn’t know where he was. I started debating how long I would last. What if he wasn’t coming back? What if I could get away? I could have crept up those steps and forced open that door only to find him sitting there, waiting and watching for me, grinning that twisted, gap-toothed smile and twirling the ax handle he liked to use for the most heinous beatings.