The Child Snatcher

by Aria Johnson

  “It’s okay, Jeff. I tend to keep unpleasant memories bottled up, but I probably need to be more open.”

  “When you’re ready. I can tell that the topic is causing you distress.”

  “It is. But I need to get it out.” I swallowed. “After my dad died, my mom discovered that my dad hadn’t left us any money. He’d stopped making life insurance payments and had gambled away my college fund. She had to take on part-time work in addition to her full-time job to pay the bills. Over time she became resentful of me. She also started drinking. Once, in the midst of a drunken rage, she blurted that she’d only had me to placate my father and now he was gone and she was stuck with me.”

  A look of outrage covered Jeff’s face. “What kind of mother would say something so hurtful to a child?”

  “Needless to say, we had a strained relationship. But we learned to put up with each other. After Howard divorced me, I became ill and had to have minor surgery. I had no choice but to ask my mom to help me with Brandon while I recovered.

  “I caught her drinking while she was supposed to be taking care of him. I shouted at her and called her irresponsible and she responded by saying that having to look after an autistic child was like caring for a zombie.

  “She even suggested that he was missing a chromosome. She stuck the knife in deeper by saying that she didn’t blame my ex for leaving me and a messed-up kid like Brandon.”

  “Oh, man,” Jeff said, shaking his head. “How come you never mentioned that Brandon was autistic?”

  “Because he’s not,” I said in a voice raised higher than I’d intended. “He just different,” I explained in a lowered voice. “He’s awkward around people and prefers to keep to himself. He’s a brooder. A really unhappy young man. But he’s getting better.”

  Jeff patted my hand. “Hey, let’s drop the subject. I already dig your kid because I love you. I’ll learn his ways and make sure to give him his space.”

  “There’s more to it,” I mumbled, not making eye contact. “He moved in with this really tacky girl, and I’m trying to be accepting because more than anything, I want my son to be happy . . .” On the verge of tears, my voice caught and I couldn’t continue.

  “It’s okay, babe. As parents, we have to learn to let go. Even when we fear our kids are making horrible mistakes, it’s their road to travel and we can’t walk it for them.”

  I was sniffling, dabbing at my eyes with the napkin that had been beneath my drink, and smiling at the same time.

  I had no idea what I’d done to deserve such a wonderful, understanding man like Jeff, but I knew with certainty that I was going to hold on to his love with everything I had.

  Chapter 12

  Paris! The entire city was a gorgeous setting of historic monuments and scenic bridges over the Seine River and the fashionably dressed Parisians were delightful to observe. Even though I could only understand a few French words, listening to the beautiful language soothed my soul.

  Jeff was right about the French café back home. It couldn’t begin to compete with the real thing. On our first evening in Paris, we dined at a crowded café that was located in a cobblestone alley.

  It was utterly charming. There was nothing more intimate than being seated amidst a sea of round wooden tables. We were all so closely crammed together, our elbows knocked into the people on either side of us. We laughed with the other patrons and shared a bottle of Burgundy and a platter of cheese and charcuterie as we waited for our main courses. And when the wine began to take effect, Jeff and I couldn’t stop stealing kisses right there at the table.

  The evening was divine.

  During our seven-day stay, Jeff and I spent long days exploring the city and its popular attractions and we spent even longer nights in our hotel room making love with wild abandon until the sun came up.

  I enjoyed visiting the famous Louvre art museum, the Eiffel Tower, Luxembourg Gardens, and other popular tourist attractions, but I could have been just as happy if we never left our hotel room and stayed in bed all day.

  Once, during a full-day winery tour, where we discovered the pleasures and history of champagne, we literally walked for hours. During the seven-hour tour, we visited the house of Moët & Chandon, which boasted seventeen miles of wine cellars. We also stopped by the gravesite of Dom Perignon, and I was surprised to learn that the father of the French bubbly had been a monk.

  Tramping through the vines in the fields was no walk in the park for me. It was a scorching hot day and I was being eaten alive by unusual-looking bugs. Dust swirled around, coating my skin and sticking to my hair, and my feet were killing me. But Jeff was having such a wonderful time, I didn’t utter a word of complaint.

  In the course of the day, we learned the different techniques for growing and harvesting champagne. I’d never tasted so much champagne in my life, and by midday I was extra giggly and staggering so badly I had to hold on to Jeff’s arm to keep my balance.

  By the end of the ridiculously long tour, I was itchy, sweaty, and felt like I was covered in grit and grime. All I wanted to do was get back to the hotel and take a hot bath and go to bed. I was so terribly exhausted, I was willing to forgo a steamy night of amazing sex.

  But Jeff had other plans.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said as I ran my bathwater.

  “Nooo, I don’t want a surprise. All I want to do is relax in a tub of hot scented water.”

  “Sorry. You have to bathe quickly; we have an appointment in thirty minutes.”

  “An appointment to do what?” The thought of traipsing around Paris instead of getting badly needed rest was so upsetting, my voice went up several pitches.

  “You’ll find out. Now hurry, my love. Wash up quickly.”

  My skin was still damp as he hustled me out of our room and escorted me to the elevator. “Where’re we going, Jeff?” I asked in irritation as the elevator ascended.

  But Jeff’s only response was a mysterious smile.

  When the doors opened, we stepped out onto the floor of the hotel’s luxurious spa.

  Instead of giving me the traditional box of chocolates, Jeff pampered me with a decadent, “All About Chocolate” spa treatment. He kissed me on the cheek before leaving me in the capable hands of the spa staff.

  A chocolate-body scrub was followed by a Swiss chocolate and toffee body wrap, and finished up with a deep tissue massage using cocoa oil. It was the most relaxing experience of my life. After two hours of pure, chocolate bliss—without the extra calories—I was left with the wonderful sensation of floating on a cloud.

  The rest of the days were filled with shopping trips, visiting tourist attractions, and dining in elegant restaurants.

  But our last night in Paris was unexpectedly extraordinary. We were taking an evening stroll and sharing a bottle of Chardonnay, which we drank straight from the bottle. Slightly intoxicated, we were looking for a vacant alley where we could indulge Jeff’s outdoor sex fantasy.

  We couldn’t find an empty alleyway, and somehow stumbled upon a large group of people who had gathered at a mini amphitheater along the Seine River. An old man sat on the edge of the river with his radio playing Argentinian accordion music while groups of people seductively danced the tango.

  Beautiful Parisian women with off-the-shoulder dresses and wearing flowers in their hair walked up to total strangers and invited them to dance by the water’s edge.

  It was all so sensual, Jeff and I took a seat, joining other spectators who sat on the stone banks, watching like voyeurs. Mesmerized, we were unable to tear our eyes away from the passionate dancers whose movements reminded us of lovers engaged in sex acts with their clothes on.

  Back at the hotel later that night, our pleasure during lovemaking was heightened by having witnessed such uninhibited, sensual dancing.

  I could have easily stayed in Paris for another whole week if it weren’t for the fact that I was unable to get in touch with Brandon. He hadn’t answered any of my calls or texts, and I was eage
r to get back home and touch base with him.

  At the airport, getting through customs took forever and we almost missed our flight. By the time we boarded the plane, I was jittery and on edge.

  “Is everything okay with you?” Jeff asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said with a hint of annoyance.

  “Are you sure?” He stroked my hair and gave me one of his trademark smiles as he tried to coax me into a better mood.

  “I’m fine, really,” I said, manufacturing a tight smile. “The reality of going back to real life is starting to hit me, and I’m a little sad that the honeymoon is over.”

  “The honeymoon is not over; it’s just beginning. We need to talk about our living arrangements, Claire. I want you with me all the time, and I’m starting to feel slightly off-kilter, knowing that after we land, we’ll part ways and go to separate houses.”

  I would have been delighted to talk about planning a future with Jeff at any time except now. All I could focus on was Brandon. I pulled my phone out and called him again. Pick up, Brandon. Pick up! My heart thundered when I got his voicemail again. I was so worried about him, I was beginning to feel a tightness in my chest.

  I wondered if Ava had said or done something to cause him to withdraw. Was she jealous of the relationship Brandon and I were developing? Had she forbade him from communicating with me?

  So many questions swirled in my head. Then, it occurred to me that it was possible Brandon had lost his job. He’d never done well in structured environments and found it nearly impossible to adhere to rules and regulations. I was surprised he’d lasted as long as he had. The poor kid was probably embarrassed to tell me he no longer had a means of income.

  Convincing myself that nothing terrible had happened, and that Brandon was merely brooding over losing his job, I was finally able to relax and enjoy Jeff’s company.

  When Jeff dozed off mid-flight, I was free to power on my phone and bombard Brandon with a string of urgent messages.

  “Sorry, ma’am, you can’t have your device on at this time,” the flight attendant reminded me with a kind smile.

  I nodded, shut off my phone, and stuck it in my bag. Then I asked for a blanket and cuddled up next to Jeff and fell into a deep sleep.

  • • •

  The baggage claim area was chaotic, yet Jeff was perfectly calm. He seemed refreshed and serene, the way you’re supposed to feel after an amazing vacation. But I was a basket case, pacing, scowling at the carousel of luggage, my body poised to lurch forward and snatch my bags the moment they appeared.

  After twenty-five minutes had elapsed, I gestured agitatedly toward the carousel. “For the love of God, why is this taking so long?”

  “Things take a bit longer after an international flight. Be patient, love. I’m sure it’ll only be a few more minutes.” Jeff gave me a flicker of a weary smile and reached for my hand, brushing his fingers against my skin, attempting to soothe me.

  But I found the movement of his flesh swishing against mine more annoying than calming, and I slid my hand out of his.

  He looked at me in surprise and then thoughtfully stroked his chin. “Something’s been bugging you from the moment we boarded the plane in Paris. Wanna talk about it?”

  “It’s Brandon. He hasn’t been taking my calls or responding to my texts, and I’m worried sick.”

  Jeff scoffed. “That’s what’s bugging you?” He shook his head pityingly. “Claire, you have to get a grip . . .you’ve only been gone a week. When I was Brandon’s age, I didn’t call my mom for weeks at a time.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said curtly. “Listen, I can’t stick around here any longer. Do me a favor and pick up my luggage, and take it back to your place. I’ll stop by and get it tomorrow.”

  “What’re you planning to do?”

  I looked in the direction of the windows and spotted a line of waiting cabs. “I’ll hop in a cab,” I said and turned around and walked briskly toward the exit sign.

  “Claire!” Jeff called out.

  I whirled around. “I’ll call you,” I promised and began trotting across the vast room and out the door.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  “Uh . . .I need to make a quick stop on MacDade Boulevard in Woodlyn.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “I don’t know the exact address, but the apartment building is a few blocks from the SuperFresh. I’ll recognize it when we get there. And, uh . . .can you wait for me?”

  “I can wait, but you have to pay the fare for that trip, and then I have to turn the meter back on.”

  “No, problem; I understand.”

  Throughout the thirty-minute trip, I continued to call Brandon. I no longer expected him to pick up, but I kept calling. I couldn’t help myself.

  We arrived in Woodlyn, and I guided the cabbie to Ava’s building. After hastily paying the fare, I hopped out and raced to the entrance. Two unsavory-looking characters were hanging around smoking joints. The smell of marijuana was strong in the air. One guy was Caucasian with stringy brown hair and the other was African American, short and squat with long, reddish-gold-tinted dreadlocks.

  “Do you know a woman named Ava who lives in this building?” I asked.

  “Ava, who?” asked the black guy.

  “Ava Stephenson,” I said and when the name didn’t seem to register with him, I quickly began to describe her in a breathless rush of words. “She’s thin, lots of tattoos, purple-ish, multicolored hair. She drives an old, beat-up Honda..”

  Picking up on the desperate ring in my voice, the guy with the dreads squinted at me as if suddenly struck by a brilliant idea. “I might know her,” he said challengingly.

  “How much?” I asked, cutting to the chase.

  “Uh, fifty bucks?” He cut his eyes at his buddy.

  “A hundred,” the white guy quickly piped in.

  Paying for the information wasn’t an issue, but I hesitated, fearing the two men would snatch my purse and take off running the moment I began scrounging inside, searching for my wallet.

  As if reading my mind, the black guy said, “Yo, lady, we too high to run off with your bag. My legs feeling like noodles right about now.” Both men broke into raucous laughter, slapping hands over the absurd idea of them attempting to run.

  Nervously, I fingered through the bills in my wallet and extracted two fifties.

  “Ava’s in apartment two-fifteen,” the squat black man informed.

  I hurried inside the vestibule area, scanned the numbers on the doorbells and then frantically pressed the button of two-fifteen.

  “Yeah?” The voice that came over the intercom was unmistakably Ava’s, and my dislike of her was so intense, I involuntarily shuddered at the sound of the single word she’d uttered.

  “Is Brandon there? It’s Claire—his mother.”

  “He’s not here,” she said without a trace of emotion.

  “Well, where is he?” I practically shrieked.

  “How the hell should I know. I don’t keep tabs on him. Dude packed his shit yesterday, and I told him good riddance and peace out! He probably went back home . . .where else would he go?”

  “Thank you,” I muttered. Though Ava didn’t deserve a polite word from me, I was genuinely grateful to find out that Brandon was safe and sound at home.

  I sprinted past the men I’d paid and raced to the cab, and breathlessly gave the driver my home address. “Can you hurry?” I asked in a demanding tone that was unlike me.

  “I gotta stay within the speed limit, lady,” he responded, refusing to be bullied by me.

  Chapter 13

  The cab’s brakes squealed loudly as it came to a stop in front of my house. The house was pitch-black and I craned my neck and squinted up at Brandon’s bedroom window, searching for the dim light of the TV or his computer. But his room was as dark as the rest of the house.

  A gnawing worry settled in the pit of my stomach. Where was my child? Was he so forlorn and heartbroken that h
e was wandering the streets of the city? He couldn’t possibly be in Middletown; the police would have escorted him home. In our small town, drifters and loiterers were not tolerated.

  After paying the driver, I flung the door open. Under normal circumstances, I’d have used the brick walkway, but being in a rush, I took the quickest route to the front door and dashed across the lawn, uncaringly trampling my lovely flower garden.

  Inside, I clicked on lights as I made my way from the living room, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. Everything was as I’d left it. Not a sign that Brandon had been in the house.

  Calling his name, I took the stairs two at a time, and when I reached the landing, I knew something was dreadfully wrong. My hand went to my chest as I gawked at Brandon’s closed door.

  I’d left his bedroom door open when I’d left for Paris. If he was in there, why wasn’t he answering me?

  “Brandon?” I whispered as I hovered near his door. I tapped softly and when he still didn’t answer, my stomach twisted in a tight knot. My hand fisted limply around the knob and I stepped inside the darkened room.

  I hesitated briefly before flicking on the light switch. I had to brace myself for a note stating that he’d fled the area in search of himself. I assumed that running off to India or some other foreign land was the kind of thing a hopelessly lost and brokenhearted young man would do.

  But Brandon didn’t have any real world experience. Or enough money to travel very far. I trembled in fear thinking of the dangerous situations he’d encounter trying to make it on his own in this cold, cruel world.

  Bravely, I flicked the switch and in an instant, I found myself down on the floor. I wasn’t sure if I’d dropped with a hard thud or had slid down the wall in a slow swoon.

  From my position on the floor, I could see the wheels of the swivel chair and Brandon’s sneakers. My eyes roamed upward from the ankles of his jeans up to the knees. Then I had to lift my head to figure out why he was sitting so still. Some part of my brain had known when I hit the floor, but I continued observing curiously and saw that his slumped torso was leaning sideways and his mass of curly hair hung to one side. His lifeless eyes were unfocused, staring out at nothing. My eyes landed on the hole in his right temple and lingered briefly on the clumps of blood that clotted his beautiful hair.