Missing

by Nenny May

  “Affirmative.” Wallace glimpsed at the table covered with a white powder. His shoulder’s fell. He’d thought Spencer had been getting better, he was wrong, and the guilt nibbled on him because, he’d caused it.

  “I’ll get in touch with the chief of police. See if I can move some funds around. But I don’t know how a middle aged man’s kidnapping has anything to do with the numerous murders that has burdened this city.”

  “I have a feeling we’ll find the connection.” Wallace assured.

  . . .

  Alexander Hemmings gazed into the night, agitated and anxious. And concerned; though not about the gradually decomposing body in late Momma Hemming’s Cotswold home, or the newly acquired information he’d beat out of a now dead Bert Lance. It was ten minutes to midnight and he’d stood there in the soft breeze, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets with the grasp that his apprehension bordered on just how much of his ‘conversation’ with Bert Lance Ethan had heard from the first floor living room.

  As at the time he’d shuffled down those creaky, lonely basement stairs and into the darkness he’d dumped Bert, Ethan had been occupied with some kids show. Hemmings hadn’t bothered with the name of this one. But it wasn’t the young boys’ favourite Peppa Pig cartoon. All the better, with his concentration set on some chirpy colourful cartoon, much of Hemmings ‘activities’ would go unnoticed... at least that was what he’d hoped. Bert wasn’t exactly the most quiet person he’d had to work with but then again, Hemmings had always worked alone in the past, easily overlooking the volume of their cries and pleas. Imagine how much Bert’s blubbering had traumatized Ethan? Hemmings huffed, kicking aside a pebble by his foot. Ethan had been preoccupied. He hadn’t heard a bit of what had happened in the basement. Hemmings hoped this was the case. And that it wasn’t like his childhood where his father would abandon his mother in that very basement, listening to the music of her cries. This was different. How so? A voice asked. He dreaded how realistic the voices in his head seemed at times. How much they concentrated and scrutinized his actions and thoughts. How was it different? The voice pressed on. He’d had a reason to keep Bert and those children in there. He’d had a reason to bump holes into each one of their fragile skulls. But that was off point, Ethan hadn’t heard anything, and in the case of Hemmings childhood? He’d heard only what his father wanted him to hear and his father wanted him to hear late Momma Hemmings’ feeble cries.

  Hemmings looked to heavens and in the serenade of the night; the stars were a guiding choir. He’d learned from Bert before the poor man’s unfortunate demise at the barrel of Hemmings .38 special, that his former classmate had kept in touch with Ricky Fisher after they’d both worked on set of the WCCB. He’d also learned interestingly, that both men had handled a job not much different than the ‘activities’ Hemmings had carried out in late Momma Hemmings basement with regards to the ten ten-year-old boys that had made Ethan Daniels life a living hell. Though those weren’t the words the young boy had used to describe it. “Difficult.” Ethan had corrected him over an evening meal.

  “Either way,” Hemmings had brushed off the young boys manners. “I took care of them for you.” There’d been a pause, and a subtle tremble in the young boys’ hands. He’d tried to play it off with a dry laugh and that smile Hemming’s had noticed Ethan used to deflect uncomfortable situations.

  “Are you gonna’... take care of me?” He’d asked the question while ripping a slice of bread with his teeth.

  “No.” Hemmings remembered saying. He wished the young boy believed him.

  Alexander Hemmings had as well learned from his time in late Momma Hemmings basement that both Bert and Ricky had carried out the murder of a ten-year-old Tucker Miller on a job organized by a Clive Greene. Bert had quite a lot to say on that topic. He’d claimed Clive had paid them a chunk of money to get rid of his wifes’ son. They’d broken into the young woman’s Cotswold home in the early evening and taken the boy hostage in Fisher’s own home and the following day strangled him to death. On the third day, they’d dumped his body for the authorities to stumble upon and they were never caught, suspected or charged for their crime. Hemmings almost found it amusing how much Bert Lance had been willing to divulge when he’d looked into the eyes of death.

  To be honest, Hemmings didn’t really have much of a plan to get his hands on Ricky Fisher. Then again, he’d never had a plan to get his hands on Bert Lance either. And boy had he felt some sort of emotional cum at the sharp ringing of his .38 special knowing the single sleek bullet had rippled through the forehead of the Bert Lance from all those years ago.

  However, Alexander Hemmings had also gotten from Bert that Fisher lived on Providence by Fielding Avenue. He’d been much too impatient to get the house number.

  Hemmings knew this was just the beginning of his reign of terror on those men. One after another he would find them, he would bring them to his mother’s home and he would poke holes into their heads. The bodies would be dealt with the same way each ten-year-old boy’s body had been handled; by the authorities and they would search for whom to pin these murders on. And every time, he would slip under their noses, mockingly trudging a mop around as he listened into their schemes to catch a man that was right in front of their blind eyes.

  As far as what to do when he got his twitching clammy hands on Fisher, he would beat the location the others out Fisher and when he was done, he would shove their bodies aside, making room for his next victim. Hemmings hated the term victim. It painted him in a terrible light. He wasn’t a bad man, he was a hurt man. At least that’s what his roommate Peter liked him to believe. Not that he’d told Peter the entire story of what exactly he’d done to be considered a bad, bad man in the eyes of the public. Hemmings liked to deem his actions as purely taking justice into his own hands and making sure the men that oppressed him redeemed themselves with their blood. With regards to Ethan Daniels, Hemmings was a hero who’d gotten his wires crossed and had to hold on to the one he was saving. But Ethan was not in any danger that was for sure.

  He would have returned the boy, at this point he was losing sight of why he hadn’t in the first place. Why he’d made the woman he was supposed to return Ethan to take the fall of his crimes. He swallowed, his nerves rattling him. This wasn’t the time to deliberate his decisions. He crossed the lawn rather quickly and climbed into his beat up Toyota. He hardly used the old thing. Because people might recognize it from all the times you used it to pick up little boys... A voice in his head wailed. That was besides his concern.

  He wasn’t too far from Providence. And with the blanket of the night running over Charlotte, picking up his old classmate wouldn’t be that much of an issue.

  Turning the key in the ignition, the small vehicle hummed to life and Hemmings rode the streets itching to get his hands on Fisher. Irrespective of the fact that Fisher hadn’t directly been involved in harassing Hemmings, he hadn’t done anything to stop it. Fisher had watched, trailing Bert, Jimmy, Chandler and the likes as they publicly mortified Hemmings.

  The memories of that afternoon on the playground often burdened Hemmings in a flash, a flutter. In the beginning, he’d returned to Cotswold Elementary, well, the bench looking into the elementary school and he’d beckoned that afternoon to replay before his eyes. Other times he hadn’t had much control over the intrusive recollections. In cases like that, Hemmings often found himself a flower plucked from the stem, helpless, vulnerable and dying from the inside out. In his keen focused eyes that trailed the road to Providence, he’d felt the wry sting of brimming tears. He was just a little boy. He’d already had enough going on at home with his father’s constant harassment before Momma Hemmings had left that despicable man; all he’d wanted was a school life that didn’t make him stop by Briar Creek each afternoon after school, tempted to just walk into the slow flowing waves with a pocket full of rocks and pebbles. To become one with the waves and not have to return to Cotswold Elementary. On the afternoon in question, Hemmings had lo
itered behind in his classroom. He’d poured his attention into a puzzle he’d stolen from the library when no one had their eyes on him. He was after all the ‘oddity’ in that school and not many wanted to know that kid or what he was up to. At the time, the thought of heading out underneath the baking sun had his skin crawling. But then Gilbert and Kenny had walked in and tugged him out of class. He wasn’t the strongest kid either.

  Outside, subject to the scorching glares of his classmates, Alexander Hemmings felt out of place in Cotswold Elementary, in the school system entirely. He hadn’t been close enough to hear the mumbles and whispers but he knew they were going on. Why else would Sally Goldberg from three seats ahead turn to Patrick Thompson and mutter something into his ears, her eyes still shadowing a helpless ten-year-old Alexander Hemmings. He knew the tight feeling in his chest, he was like the poor squirrels his father would tape up to empty beer bottles and fire at with his shot gun. Those helpless animals knew what was coming and they couldn’t do a thing to alter their fate. That afternoon those boys; Ricky, Ernie, Bert, Chandler, Mikey, Leonard, Gilbert, Kenny, Patrick and Jimmy had burned it into Hemmings back leg with a branding iron and enough bitter words to remind him that he would never fit into their school, society and life as a whole. And maybe they were right.

  Hemmings clenched his teeth. This wasn’t the time or place for a shimmer in his eyes, for a stained cheek. He didn’t want to fit in anymore anyway. He’d grown to like the man he’d become. He was a man that others feared. He only wished Momma Hemmings had lived to see what exactly her dear son had become.

  . . .

  Lauren and Parker Daniels headed up the foam walled pathway to the thick double-studio doors. Their steps had been muffled by the elongated carpet that stretched out of their dressing room. Lauren had in the time since her sons disappearance found it difficult to adapt to their new situation of just not knowing the whereabouts of their little Ethan Daniels. She’d expected to go through dark times with him, he was after all a growing boy and many of her friends had moaned about their teenage boys running away from home and giving them a near heart attack. But Ethan wasn’t a moody hormonal teenage boy discovering himself, identifying outside his mothers wings; Ethan was a helpless ten-year-old-boy. Haunted by the thought of never getting to see her only child’s teenage years, Lauren Daniels had slipped into a depression she was yet to tell anyone about.

  And since neither she nor Parker had gotten the feedback they’d sought from their interview with Grace Church for the WCNC, she’d rolled out of bed last night and scheduled an airing with Andrew Hill for channel 3, WBTV. Unlike the first days since Ethan’s disappearance, Lauren hadn’t been home moping, waiting, and obsessively cleaning her baby boy’s room waiting for his arrival. She’d gotten up and poured herself into her work. A little too much... The voice in her head nitpicked.

  The young mother said nothing to her distant husband, but they’d shared a look—one that wailed of their fallout from the night before—and strode through the thick double-studio doors. One fight after another, their relationship was on the rocks. What had started with pinning the blame on her for relying on a neighbour to watch their only son in a time where ten-year-old boys were kidnapped and killed had turned dark and physical and left her with scars trailing up and down her arms and legs. Not that Lauren was ready to share with anyone else what an angry Parker Daniels would do to her when the sun had been tucked in for the night. No, she wasn’t there to report the lengths his temper and loss drove him to. She was there to plead to whoever was listening for her son. They knew the cameras were rolling, but they weren’t focused on Lauren or Parker, at least not until the pair had settled down.

  They’d been instructed on where to sit and when to turn on their microphones. Lauren had knots in her stomach. The last time, she’d been tongue tied, this time; she was going to be heard. This time she was going to talk like the strong mother she’d always shown her son that she was.

  “The street is settling back down and life goes on, but we know this is anything but the end of the road for distraught parents of Cotswold. And that is why we have with us, parents of the latest potential victim; Lauren and Parker Daniels, and they have quite a few words for those tuning in.” Andrew Hill turned to Lauren Daniels who cracked a nervous smile. Andrew Hill had the complex features of a model and the warm eyes of a child. She saw him and she saw a handsome man. “Go ahead Mrs. Daniels.”

  “Thank you, Hill. I just want to say that I’m at the point where I can’t sleep anymore, neither do I want to. I’m up, in bed, tossing and turning, wondering whether or not my little boy is alive, or if on my way to work I’ll stumble upon his body floating through Briar Creek. I think the worst thing that can happen to a mother is losing her baby.” It was bad, but it wasn’t the only thing she had to endure all on her own.

  “And we get that Mrs. Daniels; it’s practically ripping you to pieces.”

  “It is.” Lauren said.

  “We’ve done these press briefings before. Parker Daniels and I. We’ve spoken to reporters that in the beginning swarmed our house like hungry flies. And we’d been of the impression that it would bring back our boy.” At that time, they’d clung to each other, hoping that things wouldn’t get any worse that they wouldn’t receive a distressed call from the chief of police notifying them of their son’s body washing up from some lake near Cotswold elementary.

  “But it didn’t.” Andrew Hill pointed out. Lauren Daniels nodded slowly.

  “We just want to know if he’s okay. We want to know if his needs and wants are being met. And if one day we get the chance to get him back, we just want to know that he’s happy.” She hadn’t once stopped picturing the day she would be reunited with her little Ethan. She’d imagined she’d be overjoyed; she would hug him till she no longer felt the dull ache in her chest. She would be there for every moment of his life and she would watch him like a hawk, just until he grew up and pestered her to give him some space. And even then she would explain to him that there was a point in her life that she had to live without him and within that time she’d been empty. And that if she was pestering him it’s because she wanted him to know just how much he meant to her.

  “As parents all you want, all you both want is that your kid isn’t in any danger; he’s healthy, well fed and happy.”

  “And I have a theory.” Parker groaned, running his hands over his face. He’d always shut her down when it came to this theory. But he wouldn’t shut her down on live television. She could be heard here by numerous live viewers. Despite his displeasure.

  “A theory?” Andrew Hill seemed interested. Lauren Daniels nodded leaning forward in her seat.

  “Exactly, Hill. A theory on who could have been behind my son’s kidnapping.” His eyes bulged, and his lips curled up in a small smile. She knew in those eyes he was calculating just how much his ratings would grow with a distraught mother pointing fingers at her killer on live television. But to her this was more than just about the ratings. This was about rescuing her son and getting justice for all he’d endured.

  “Who could this person be and what would they have to gain?”

  “It’s not a surprise that the day my son was taken from me, he was in the custody of a sitter. A neighbour I’d hired to watch my boy.” Parker crossed and uncrossed his legs. She could tell he just wanted to be out of there, away from her and her nonsense theories. Well this wasn’t nonsense, at least not to her.

  “Madison Miller, She’s actively in police custody. Although she hasn’t been charged the twenty-seven year old is being detained during the investigation as a number of officers believe she had something to do with the kidnap and murder of the ten ten-year-old Cotswold elementary boys.”

  “I believe she took my son, although not to kill him, but to raise him as her own after her son was kidnapped from her home and killed.” Lauren Daniels felt lighter in her chest. She knew there would be backlash when she returned to the confines of her home, Parker wouldn’t
hold out, but while she was here, that didn’t matter. Though she hadn’t gotten the expression she’d been anticipating from Andrew Hill. No, he’d rather stared ahead, a finger pressed to the tiny microphone in his ear, and then he turned to her.

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Daniels,” He returned his attention swiftly back to camera one. “There’s been breaking news. It has come to my attention that Cotswold Elementary where these kidnaps and murders had begun will be undergoing an indefinite shut down until these crimes in a sense... blow over.” Lauren didn’t know what to feel about the closure of the school.

  . . .

  Back and forth, he could barely hear his own thoughts. Back and forth, he was the only one right outside terminal six awaiting a passenger from Greeneville. They’d spoken over the phone before her flight. She hadn’t sounded like herself on the other end of the line, but Adam Walker had let sleeping dogs lie. He’d rather chucked it all up to her daughter’s recent arrest pending a trial that would determine Madison Miller’s freedom. A trial that would thoroughly scrutinize the statement she’d made; a trial where the onus of proof rested on the shoulders of the prosecutors to establish a prima facie case. Julia Miller deserved to be involved with her daughter’s case. She deserved a chance to speak with Madison.

  Adam Walker drew to a stop, a low groan rumbling through his lips. He’d been pained and he’d shared his displeasure with Julia Miller. She hadn’t had much to say over the phone, but he had a gut feeling that when she’d settled in, the woman wouldn’t exactly hold back her repulsion over the situation. If he were asked what he’d felt stumbling upon an article based on the recently aired broadcast of Lauren Daniels slandering the name of Madison Miller on the WBTV’s morning news, Adam Walker wouldn’t know how exactly to describe his hurt, frustration and utter helplessness. Lauren Daniels couldn’t be farther from the truth, and Adam hated to own up it, but she wasn’t the only one who’d cradled this impression of Madison Miller. The protesters he’d driven past, the ever growing search party strenuously probing Charlotte for the missing ten-year-old Ethan Daniels all seemed to share this perspective. And he could only imagine what Madison would feel coming out, back into society after her trial to this, because he was sure as hell going to get her out, and he wasn’t going to overlook his former partner on the force.