Jaxon With an X

by D. K. Wall

  27

  When the door opened, Connor quit his quiet chattering with Jaxon and focused on the visitors. The sheriff and FBI agent entered first and stepped to either side of the doorway, their bodies as tense as a pair of mountain lions prepared to pounce.

  Harold slipped through the door behind them, disheveled—unshaven, hair mussed, ragged clothes—and obviously unsettled by the large audience. He glanced nervously at Heather, who had shrunk against the wall beside the window, positioned between her sons and her ex-husband with her arms crossed.

  Harold opened his mouth, but only a whistle of air escaped. He swallowed hard, coughed, and croaked, “Jaxon?”

  Connor felt Jaxon tense and turned to see his brother’s eyes widen, carefully assessing the newcomer but not showing any extreme signs of fear. “Who…?”

  Connor wrapped his calloused hands around the fingers gripping his arms and smiled to reassure his sibling, “It’s okay, Jax. It’s Dad.”

  Jaxon’s gaze came back to rest on Harold. A puzzled look clouded his face. He kept his grip on Connor’s arm and asked, “Dad?”

  Harold took two steps toward the bed, but Jaxon shrank away and leaned against his brother. Seeing the reaction, Harold stumbled backward and shot an angry look toward David, who had tensed up. He wrung his hands and dropped his head. “Yeah, son, it’s me.”

  Roxanne motioned to the empty seat at the foot of the bed. “Why don’t you sit here and give him some space? This all has to be very overwhelming for him.”

  He looked to Heather, who nodded in reply, before reluctantly sitting. He clasped his trembling hands together.

  Connor felt the tension in the room. He knew the sheriff wouldn’t easily lose the long-held suspicion of his father, but Harold wasn’t helping things with his nervous behavior. In a bid to help his dad, he turned to the boy in the bed. “Did you know that Dad had a best friend called Jackson? That’s where the name Jaxon comes from, even though it’s spelled different.”

  “Really?” The boy’s face crinkled, and an eyebrow rose.

  Harold studied his shaking hands and managed to steady them. He looked up and licked his lips. “My best friend in my army unit, except he spelled it the old way. J-A-C-K-S-O-N.”

  “And I’m named after him?”

  “Yeah, sort of. A lot of our buddies had unusual names or at least unusual spellings. He and I were boring. Jack and Harry.”

  “Why’s boring so bad?”

  Harold looked nervously around the room. “It’s not. But when you’re young, you get focused on things like that. Just the way it is, I guess.”

  Jaxon smiled a little. “Did he like you used his name?”

  Harold ran his hand through his thinning hair and grimaced. He looked like he really regretted the conversation. “He never knew. He was killed by an IED over in Afghanistan before you were born.”

  Jaxon took the news of death without even a flinch, unlike the others in the room. “Who’s an IED?”

  “It’s a what. An IED is a bomb. Just an army term.” Harold gazed out the window, his eyes glistening in the sun. “Jack was my anchor over there. We kept each other sane. When we got hit, the Humvee flipped over on its side. I crawled out, took shelter, and scanned for the threat. But no one shot at us. Nothing. Just quiet. I checked myself and didn’t have a scratch on me, but when I started checking the other guys, there was Jack, bleeding and gasping for breath. We called for an evac, but it didn’t get there fast enough. I held his hand and promised to call his wife, tell her he loved her. And then he died.”

  The room was so silent they could hear birds through the closed window. Jaxon asked, “Did you call her?”

  He whispered, “Yeah. Hardest call I ever made. And then I went and got falling-down drunk.”

  David and Roxanne exchanged a glance. It was the most sympathy Connor had ever seen them show his father. The man wasn’t acting guilty or even like a parent. He seemed simply lost.

  “I wanted to honor my friend, but I also wanted to make it unique. It couldn’t just be Jack. So, Jaxon. With an x.” Harold cleared his throat and turned to the boy. “Jackson would be proud you have his name.”

  Jaxon dropped his eyes and fiddled with the blanket, opening and closing his mouth but not speaking.

  Harold said, “It’s good to have you home, Jax.”

  Jaxon relaxed his grip on his brother’s arm and sank into the pillows. His eyes shifted around the room, over the monitor showing his vital signs, the IV bottle feeding him nutrients, and the array of medical equipment on the wall above his head. His voice sounded small as he squeaked, “Home?”

  Harold smiled at the little joke. “You got me, Jax. It’s not home yet, is it? But soon enough, you’ll be going home and sleeping in your own bed in your own room. Your mom and brother will be right there for you. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  Jaxon didn’t answer but asked instead, “Won’t you be there too?”

  Harold glanced at Heather. “For visits, when your mom’s okay with it. If you’d like that.”

  “You don’t live there?”

  “Sorry, buddy, no. We were getting divorced when you… left.” He shot a look at the sheriff.

  Jaxon’s head rested against Connor’s chest, and his eyes drifted shut. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

  They exchanged surprised glances at each other. The separation certainly hadn’t been a secret because the boys understood the custody limitations, but maybe it was just another forgotten detail.

  Jaxon’s breathing became deeper and steady as he drifted off to sleep. Soon, soft snores came from the boy. Harold stood to leave, but Connor stopped him. “Dad, it’s not you. The doc’s giving him some sedatives, and he’s real tired. Maybe you can try again later.”

  Harold smiled weakly. “I understand. The kid needs time to rest and recover. He doesn’t need a bunch of strangers hovering around his bed. Not me, for sure.” Harold opened the door to leave but paused and looked pointedly at the sheriff. “And certainly not you. Why don’t you stop hanging around the hospital and go find the son of a bitch who hurt my son?”

  Harold’s shoes squeaked as he walked down the hall. David turned back to the room as if to defend himself, but Heather brushed past him and into the hall. He was met with a harsh glare from Connor as he cradled his brother.

  With a sigh, David nodded to Roxanne, and they left the room.

  28

  “Harold, wait.”

  Heather walked quickly down the hallway to catch up with her ex-husband. He slowed and ran a hand across the day-old growth of whiskers on his face. “It’s okay, Heather. I’m just another stranger to him.”

  “You’re not a stranger. You’re his dad.”

  He reached out and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “No, I’m not his dad. I never was. I might have fathered him, but I’ve never been his dad. Even less so for him than Connor.”

  Becoming pregnant had certainly not been part of their high-school plans. Neither was being married. So she was only angry, not surprised, when he announced he had enlisted in the army. He had told her not to worry, claiming that he would send money to care for Connor. And he did—for a while. And he even came home for a few visits during breaks in his first year of training. But once he left for his first year-long deployment to Afghanistan, the phone calls became sporadic then ceased altogether.

  He surprised her by showing up on her doorstep when he returned stateside. He was quieter, more serious, and even talked about a future in Millerton after getting out of the army. They married and moved to Fort Bragg to build a life together. Shortly after that, they received double news—he was being deployed for a second tour, and she was pregnant again.

  Afghanistan went poorly for him the second time. The loss of his best friend, Jackson, changed him profoundly. She’d been proud to name her son after a man she barely knew but had heard so much about. But when Harold came home after the second tour, he struggled to use the name and even suggested they chang
e it. They fought often about it. He would storm out of the house and spend the evening drinking with buddies. In many ways, those nights alone were easier for her, because when he was home, he often awoke from nightmares, screaming and sweating.

  When she’d finally had enough, she demanded a divorce. To her surprise, he agreed. He moved out of the house and agreed to give her full custody of both boys with only limited visitation rights for himself—only at the house and with her specific permission. He claimed he wanted to be involved in the boys’ lives, but his empty promises usually ended in disappointment. Jaxon was too young to understand, but she knew that Connor felt the sting.

  After Jaxon’s disappearance, Harold served several years in prison for drug charges, under a cloud of suspicion about his son. When he returned, he was bitter and struggling, but he seemed determined to be there for Connor. Despite a few slips, he had mostly maintained his sobriety.

  “The past is past, Harold. But you’ve worked hard the last few years to build a relationship with Connor. You can do the same with Jaxon.”

  His eyes were downcast. “At least with Connor, I had something to rebuild. But with Jaxon… I never really knew the kid. Honestly, if I had passed him in the hallway today without you telling me who he is, I wouldn’t have recognized him.”

  She didn’t mention she had barely recognized him herself and shifted the conversation. “Not sure I’ve said it, but… I’m proud of your patience with Connor. Giving him time to come around to you.”

  “Time is about all I have to offer.”

  “Good. Because time’s what he needs. He’s seen how you’ve changed.”

  He turned away. “One hundred sixty-three days. Not even a half year yet sober.”

  “And longer than last time. You’ve told me to celebrate the steps. You may have fallen off the wagon twice this year, but that’s better than last year or the year before. I remember whole years you didn’t have two days without a drink.”

  “Heather, you don’t get it. I want a drink when I get up in the morning and even more when I go to bed at night. I crave it in a way I can’t explain. I can’t think about anything other than getting through one day, today, without a drink. Then I can say I made it one hundred sixty-four days.”

  “And you’ll make it.”

  He walked a few steps but stopped and turned around. His hands were shaking, and his face was red—he seemed angry, and she suspected it was directed at himself. He gritted his teeth. “The whole time I was in that room, looking at that boy in the bed, all I could think about was running out and getting drunk. I can taste the beer right now. What kind of father could I ever be to him?”

  “You aren’t gonna, are you? You aren’t going to get drunk?”

  “I want to. Bad. But… no.” He looked down the hall to Jaxon’s closed room door. “You know why?”

  “Because you’re stronger.”

  “No. Because I can’t even remember the day Jaxon disappeared. I don’t remember promising to watch the boys. I don’t remember where I was or what I was doing. I don’t remember anything at all except waking up a few days later with some Asheville cop’s gun in my face as he yelled at me to put my hands up.”

  “Harold…” She wanted to stop him from going down that path again.

  “When they figured out who I was and tried to tell me what had happened, you know what I was worried about?”

  “Harold…”

  “I didn’t care I was sitting there, buck naked. I didn’t know where I was or who I was with. Worst of all, I didn’t even care my son was missing or they thought I might’ve had something to do with that. Hell, I wasn’t sure I didn’t have anything to do with it because I couldn’t remember. But the one thing I understood? I could see a whiskey bottle sitting on the bathroom sink and a glass pipe on the floor. I wondered if I could have some of either—or both—before they slapped the cuffs on me.”

  They stood in silence in the hallway, the nurses at the station watching them warily. Heather took his hand. “That was a long time ago.”

  Harold ripped his hand away. “Not for me. For me, it was yesterday. Don’t tell me to forget it, because I don’t want to forget it. It’s the only damn thing that keeps me sober. That”—his hand shook as he pointed down the hall—“and those two boys.”

  He turned his back on her and walked to the elevator bank. He pressed the call button and looked at her as the doors opened with a ding. “I’ll be here whenever they’re ready for me. I’ll never make up for what I’ve done, but it’s all I’ve got to offer.”

  29

  After they saw the couple talking upstairs, David and Roxanne wanted to ensure that Harold left before they did. They raced down five flights of steps and waited inconspicuously in the corner of the hospital lobby as Harold walked across the parking lot, toward his car.

  Confident the man was leaving, they moved into the vestibule. David said, “I can’t take him off the suspect list with the way Jaxon reacted. He’s scared of that man.”

  “He’s scared of all men.”

  David’s eyebrow rose as he thought through Jaxon’s reactions. “Not Connor. He clings to that boy.”

  “Exactly. ‘Boy.’ Connor may legally be an adult, but he’s still a teenager. And in Jaxon’s memories, Connor’s a boy not that different in age from others who would have been held victims in that hellhole. He’s someone to trust and someone who would protect him.”

  David leaned against the cold glass. “But his reaction to Harold was visceral. You saw how wide his eyes got. He doesn’t react as poorly to other men.”

  Roxanne turned to face him. “Oh, yeah? What did he do when he saw your deputy last night?”

  “Ran, but that was when he had just gained freedom.”

  “And when he arrived at the hospital. Did he open up to Dr. Queen or Nurse Sheila?”

  “Hell, Roxanne, I don’t warm up to Dr. Queen either. Sheila is much easier to talk to.”

  “How did he react when he first saw you?”

  David watched the water running over the asphalt from the melting snow. “Fine, I surrender. He didn’t care much for me either.”

  “Look, I’m not taking Harold off the suspect list—I’m not taking anyone off until we learn more—but I don’t see anything that makes him stand out either. I did back then, but not now.” She turned to face him. “Jaxon didn’t react well to him because he’s a man, and after the last ten years, he has a big fear of any adult man. Harold was someone who came in and out of his life, so he has no particular affinity for him, unlike Connor, so he’s a stranger to him today—just like you or the doctor or any other man. I didn’t see any signs he recognized him at all.”

  David leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes. The chill helped slow the scramble of thoughts bouncing around his brain. “Which means I focused on the wrong guy.”

  A blast of cold air hit them as the outside doors swooshed open. A woman walked in, chatting on her phone with barely a glance in their direction. The interior doors closed behind her, cutting off her chatter.

  Once they were alone again, Roxanne said, “We focused on him because no one else crossed our radar. We had thousands of insignificant little leads, none of them worth much. Nothing pointed in any direction except the boy disappearing without a struggle, which meant we assumed he went with someone he knew. It made sense to focus on a family member, and Harold was the only one, but none of us were ever sure. You know that.”

  “I also know I was the lead investigator, so it was my job to get it right.” David stood up straight, feeling determined. “And now we have a new lead. A house somewhere off the Wattsville exit. Unfortunately, the tax office isn’t showing an old house with a cellar on the McGregor land. All it shows is the house and the trailer, just like I remember.”

  “Doesn’t mean one’s not there.”

  “No, of course not.” David stared into the parking lot. “But it sure does make getting a search warrant a lot harder.”


  “So maybe we just go visit. He talked to you last time.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But last time, we were knocking on every door, looking for a lost child. This time would be basically an accusation. And if he refuses to let us search and he does have kids there…”

  Roxanne completed the thought. “Then he’s alerted we’re that close, and he gets rid of them. So maybe we ask some neighbors if there is an old house? Go knock on doors and see if anyone recognizes the description Jaxon gave us?”

  “Maybe, but finding people up that way willing to talk to the law is about as hard as finding the right abandoned house. Even harder for the FBI. Run, Rudolph, run.” His reference to Eric Rudolph, the infamous domestic terrorist who detonated a bomb at the 1996 Olympic games in Atlanta, wasn’t missed by Roxanne. The FBI led a relentless manhunt in the North Carolina mountains until he was eventually caught scrounging through a dumpster behind a grocery store by a small-town rookie police officer. Throughout the search, rumors floated that locals had helped the fugitive with food and places to sleep. While that was never proven, many enjoyed watching the frustration of the FBI agents as they struggled to catch their target. One of the most popular T-shirts in tourist stores in the region read Run, Rudolph, Run.

  Roxanne asked, “Do you have a better plan?”

  He studied the mountains to their west. “Maybe. An old high-school buddy lives up there. He grew up in Wattsville and moved back to the old family land after retiring from the military, but he knows the area and the people out that way much better than I do.”

  “Then let’s go see him.”

  “Not quite that easy. We might have hung out together in high school some, but we’ve only seen each other a few times since. And he’s not a big fan of the badge. I’ll call and find out if he’ll see us.” David tossed a glance over his shoulder at Agent Gonzalez waiting in the lobby behind them, his red tie stark against the white shirt. “If I can convince him to let us come by, you two need to look much less like federal agents.”