A Child Is Missing

by David Stout

  “Maybe, maybe not,” the chief said. “The subject had some burn scars on his hands.”

  “Chief, you are not saying that the published report was incorrect, are you?” asked a reporter in the front row.

  “Not at this time,” the chief said.

  Will allowed himself to feel smug. His story had been on target. No, a bull’s-eye. Hands down. Damn, he thought, this is more fun than watching over an office and tiptoeing around the publisher all the time.

  The rest of the briefing was short and routine. There were no other surprises, no more answers to the nagging riddles.

  So he probably would go home tomorrow. He was looking forward to that, yet he was sad, too. Covering a big story could be … fun. There was no better word for it. It was why he had gone into the newspaper business.

  Will would do some more reporting and writing—on his own, if need be. This time, he meant it.

  He had time to spare before filing his story. Energy to spare, too. There was something he wanted to check into, just for the hell of it.

  He found the same editor he had seen before at the Long Creek Eagle. The editor sportingly congratulated Will on his exclusive story and said sure, no problem, he could have access again to the Eagle’s clips and microfilm.

  There was no way Will could keep secret what—rather, whom—he was interested in. Although he had become somewhat familiar with the Eagle’s information-storage system on his last visit, he would still need help. The morgue clerk, a middle-aged man with a limp, reacted courteously enough, but Will thought he saw a flicker of doubt on his face as Will asked him for the clips on Richard Brokaw.

  But the clerk retrieved the clips, arranged more or less in order in an inch-thick manila envelope, and Will began to sift through them. They told the story of a young man from Hill County who succeeded at just about everything he tried: class president and football star in high school, football star and engineering major at Cornell, cable-television entrepreneur back home in Long Creek.

  Clearly, Richard Brokaw had never meant to be limited by the isolation and decay of his hometown. In fact, he had used that very isolation to make himself wealthy, by bringing cable television into the region. Apparently, a lot of people who couldn’t afford decent clothes or dental work could afford cable.

  But there was something missing from the story of Richard Brokaw’s life, and Will wandered out to the tiny newsroom to ask about it.

  “Tell me,” Will said to the same helpful editor, “where are all the clippings on Richard Brokaw’s divorce?”

  The editor smiled sheepishly. “There aren’t any.”

  Will was surprised: a bitter divorce involving a prominent local citizen, and no coverage? “No clips at all?” Will said. “Not even when the divorce decree was handed down?”

  The editor continued to smile. “Richard Brokaw is a very big man around here. I mean very. He didn’t want his divorce covered, so it wasn’t.”

  Of course. Will had been momentarily naïve. If there was anything he was familiar with, it was the care and feeding of sacred cows—and how often they succeeded in keeping things out of the paper.

  Will thanked the editor for his help and left.

  He didn’t know what he was looking for—nothing important, probably—but having struck out at the Long Creek Eagle made him all the more determined. When he had first driven into Long Creek, he had noted the location of the county courthouse. That was his next stop.

  The courthouse had been built in the same era as the Long Creek Hospital. The inside smelled of old marble, wood, and cigar smoke. After a couple of bum steers, he found the right office—really, a corner of a corner of an office.

  He waited at an ancient wooden desk for a minute or more until an old man appeared from a warren of filing shelves. He was short, froglike, with white hair and skin. Will wondered whether he ever got any sunshine.

  The man looked at Will through glasses as thick as storm windows and said, “Help you?”

  “I understand this is where divorce decrees are filed.”

  “Yep.”

  “I’d like to see the paperwork in the case of Brokaw, Richard versus Celeste.”

  “Nope.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said nope.”

  “It’s public record, isn’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then I demand to see it.”

  “Nope.”

  Will felt his head spinning. This is like Alice in Wonderland, he thought. “Let me get this straight. You agree that it’s public record, but you won’t let me see it.”

  “Mister, you’re just a stranger standing in front of me. You got no control over what happens in this courthouse. Now, Richard Brokaw has a lot of say in who gets elected county commissioner.…”

  “And who around here gets to keep their jobs.”

  “You got it. That’s why you don’t get to see them divorce papers.”

  Will started to say something about filing a freedom-of-information suit, or getting a court order (a court order! He was standing powerless in the courthouse, where he was a total stranger!), then thought the better of it.

  Ears burning with anger and humiliation, he turned and walked away without saying anything. From now on, he’d have to be more understanding when his reporters couldn’t get information. He’d just had a stinging reminder: whether something was public record or not, you couldn’t get it—when you wanted it, at least—unless someone gave it to you.

  He stopped again at the police station to see whether there was anything new (there wasn’t), then decided to stop at the same diner where he and Casey had gone. That reminded him: He had to say good-bye to Casey. He didn’t know whether he was sad or relieved, or both.

  He ordered coffee and chili, which went well with the cold, gray midday. Still smarting over being defeated by Richard Brokaw—that was how he thought of it—he wondered whether his pride was getting in the way of his judgment. Did the details of Richard Brokaw’s divorce really matter if they had nothing to do with the kidnapping?

  Okay, Will thought. Suppose, just suppose, Brokaw arranged to have his own kid snatched. My God, could that be? But Brokaw had looked so heartbroken at the press conference. Sure, and he could have made his eyes red by chopping onions. But why kidnap his own son?

  Will left a generous tip, complimented the cook for his four-alarm chili, and headed out into the cold. Earlier, he had heard something that stuck with him. Now what the hell was it? He has the best shrinks in the world to straighten out the kid’s head.

  A reporter had said that about Brokaw. It was true. He could hire a lot of shrinks, get them to straighten out his traumatized son, maybe fix it so the boy wanted his father all the time.…

  Will, Will. Give it up. That’s too fantastic. Isn’t it? Is it? So what’s the big secret about the Brokaw divorce? And how does that forest freak fit into it? Or maybe he was never supposed to fit into it at all.…

  He was still wondering when he pulled into the hotel’s tiny parking lot. As he got out of his car, a bigger car pulled in right alongside his.

  Two men got out and confronted him.

  “You’re Will Shafer?” one said.

  “That’s right.” Cops, Will thought. I have to keep my head. Can’t give them a chance to use their authority. Something familiar about one of them. Had Will seen him at the police station? He wasn’t sure.

  Twenty-eight

  “Mr. Brokaw would very much like to see you. Right away.”

  Will was flabbergasted. “Sure. Should I follow you?”

  “We’ll take you and bring you back.”

  A rear door was held open, and Will settled into the back of a Lincoln Continental. Soon, the car was in one of the few sections of Long Creek that didn’t look shabby. The driver turned into a driveway that led to a low gray-modern structure with an edifice as much glass as stone. The car kept going, all the way to the rear, where it made a ninety-degree turn, then another, and proceeded do
wn a short ramp. At the bottom, a metal door rolled open automatically, and the car entered the bay.

  “Welcome to the home of Twin Counties Cablevision, Mr. Shafer.” It was Richard Brokaw, standing next to the car in a thousand-dollar gray suit and looking totally in charge despite the lines of fatigue and worry that creased his face. “Tony, you’ll take Mr. Shafer back when he’s ready.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now, from the newspaper pictures, Will recognized the smaller man as Tony, the chauffeur who had been driving Jamie Brokaw home the night of the kidnapping.

  “Hello,” Will said, shaking hands with Brokaw and trying not to betray his intense curiosity: What did the guy want?

  Brokaw smiled ever so slightly. “Please, Mr. Shafer. Won’t you come with me? Thanks, guys.”

  Will followed Brokaw through a metal door and into a long carpeted corridor. Brokaw’s shoulders were wide, and he moved like an athlete. Which he was, Will recalled.

  Brokaw stopped at a wood-panel door, which he opened with a key. He gestured for Will to enter first.

  The room had a giant desk with an easy chair behind it, a sofa and table along one wall, and several television sets with videocassette recorders. A window behind the desk faced onto the road.

  Brokaw took off his coat, draped it over the easy chair, and invited Will to sit on the sofa. Then he reached into a bottom desk drawer and took out a bottle and two glasses.

  “I have ice if you prefer,” Brokaw said. “But I suggest you drink it straight.” He poured into both glasses. “Glenlivet, Mr. Shafer. In my opinion, there is no better single-malt scotch. Do you agree?”

  “On my salary, I wouldn’t know.”

  Brokaw smiled and paused. “My prayers were answered when my son was returned to me. Your reporting has consistently been a step out in front of everyone else’s.” Brokaw saluted with his glass and sipped.

  Will drank. Brokaw was right: Will had never tasted better scotch.

  “But what’s your interest in my divorce, Mr. Shafer? Why are my personal troubles any concern of yours or your readers?”

  Of course, Will thought. “How did you know I was checking?”

  Brokaw smiled as if to say, Aw, come on. Then the smile vanished. “Small town, Mr. Shafer. As you’ve no doubt noticed. I know your publisher. I could call Lyle Glanford right now.”

  Will knew Brokaw was serious. He also knew there was only one way to handle a threat like that, so he said, “Do it. It’s your phone.”

  Brokaw waved off the challenge. “So what if I keep something out of your paper by calling Lyle. That wouldn’t tell me what’s in your head.”

  For a moment, Will didn’t know how he felt about this rich, arrogant man who didn’t mind throwing his weight around, this powerful man who had seemed, seemed to have suffered terribly when his child was stolen.

  Will felt at a terrible disadvantage. He was on Brokaw’s turf, and drinking his scotch. Finally, Will said, “I wanted to know as much as I could about you. There are a lot of questions about the kidnapping that are still hanging in the air. I’d heard that your divorce was bitter. That caused me to wonder…”

  Brokaw’s eyes flashed in sudden comprehension. “You thought I might have … Jesus Christ!” He drained his glass and set it on the table.

  “I hadn’t come to any conclusions,” Will said. “I mean…”

  Brokaw shook his head in disgust. “Do you believe I could have done such a thing?” Brokaw’s face was unchanged, but there was no hiding the pain in his eyes.

  “Not now, I don’t. I hadn’t met you before. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry,” Brokaw repeated. “Sorry. That word works sometimes. Other times … There are things I can’t undo, things I wish I hadn’t…” He shook his head. “My son is back. I thought that was all I wanted in the world. But being human, I want more still. To have things the way they were.”

  Will finished his drink. “Your divorce, your personal troubles are your business, and they’ll remain so. You don’t have to call Lyle Glanford. I’m sorry.” He stood to leave.

  “I’ll buzz Tony.”

  “Is your son all right? I’m not asking as a newsman.”

  “He is, thank you. A wonderful boy. Making wonderful progress.” Brokaw seemed to want to say more.

  “Best scotch I ever had,” Will said to mark time.

  “The divorce papers aren’t that interesting, you know. They contain allegations that I fooled around. And I’m ashamed to say…”

  “It’s not my business.”

  “I travel a lot. I’ve always felt at ease around women. Sometimes it seemed inevitable. Have you ever been tempted?”

  Will felt his face warm. He thought of Heather Casey, and nodded.

  “I’ve promised her I’ll stop. I’m going to try very hard.”

  “Good luck. On everything, I mean.”

  “And to you.”

  On the way back to the hotel, Will said nothing to Tony. Will knew he might be passing up a great story opportunity, if Tony would say anything at all about the night of the kidnapping, but he didn’t feel like trying.

  He wrote a simple, straightforward story, patting himself on the back only slightly when he referred to the chief’s grudging near confirmation of the kidnapping suspect’s identity. He called his wife and told her to expect him the following night. He told her only a little about his meeting with Brokaw. She thought Will sounded cold, and said so. He apologized, said he was just tired. That was a lie.

  As he lay in bed, he thought of his early suspicions about Brokaw. He thought about Heather Casey, how he had used her to get information, how he was attracted to her. He thought of the proverb about no pillow being as soft as a clean conscience.

  He slept fitfully.

  Twenty-nine

  In the morning, Will called Heather Casey. “I’m out of here in a little while. I wanted to thank you for everything, wish you well, and…” And what?

  “As they say, Will, it’s been real. Good luck to you, too.”

  He wanted to say more. No, not just say more; he wanted to be with her and…

  “So it’s home to Bessemer,” she went on. “Do you think you’ll get back this way soon?”

  “No telling.” And what if he did? The spell might be broken.

  “Well, then. I hope things go well for you, newspaperwise. Am I saying that right? Newspaperwise?”

  “You’re saying it just fine.”

  “I’ll keep my ears open. That man from the woods, I mean. And everything else.”

  “Good. Thanks.” His words, his voice sounded wooden to him. He would not have this chance again, the chance…

  “Drive carefully.”

  “I will.” The chance to say…

  “Bye, then.”

  “So long.” The chance to say that he thought of her as a special woman, a lovely woman, and that any man who—Click. And the chance was lost.

  He had a cup of coffee and a doughnut at the diner and bought another coffee and two doughnuts for the road. He was eager to get started. But first, one last stop.

  The police station had ceased being the command post in a major crime investigation and had become once again the dirty, drab storefront of law enforcement in a broken-down town.

  Will parked at a corner, pulled up his collar against the cold, and walked the half block to headquarters. I owe you this much, Frannie.

  The owlish sergeant at the front desk looked at Will over his half-rim glasses and raised his eyebrows. He was curious but not friendly.

  “Good morning,” Will said. “I’m with the Bessemer Gazette, and I wanted—”

  “You got a name, mister?”

  Fuck you, Will thought. “My name is Shafer.”

  “Oh, right. You’re the one who knows what we’re doing even before we do.”

  “That one, yes. Before I leave your fair city, I wanted to check one more time to see if I’m missing any last-minute reports on the kidnapping case.”

 
; “Any information comes from the chief.”

  “And how might I find him?”

  “You might find him plenty pissed off.”

  “Touché. Can he spare a moment for me?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Steady, Will thought. “Sergeant, I would very much appreciate it if you would inquire if Chief Howe can spare a moment. As long as everything has to come from him.”

  The sergeant muttered something and left Will standing alone. Will hadn’t expected much cooperation, so the little confrontation was partly charade. What he hoped to do was get a feeling about what they might be hiding. Perhaps he could do that by seeing what questions annoyed the chief the most. As Will waited, he idly flicked the big metal-shaving paperweight with his thumbnail.

  “Yes?” Chief Howe had appeared at the desk with the sergeant at his side.

  “Good day to you, Chief.”

  “I have nothing whatever to report,” Howe said.

  “Are you still pursuing—?”

  “I have nothing whatever to report.” Louder this time.

  Will had an idea. It wasn’t the best time for an idea, with a dozen pairs of eyes on him, but it was worth a try. In for a dime, in for a dollar. “Chief, would there be anything new on the Luna homicide?”

  “My detectives haven’t reported to me yet.” A light of recognition in the chief’s eyes. “And I never said we were calling it a homicide.”

  “So you’re not ruling out—”

  Too late, Will realized that in his nervousness, and without thinking, he had kept on flicking the paperweight. He saw the chief’s eyes, and he knew at once that Howe saw the gesture as contemptuous.

  “Chief, if you could check with your detectives, I’ll try not to bother you anymore.”

  “Mister, I don’t run this department for you or anyone else.”

  Steady, steady. “I know that, Chief. I’m only asking you to ask your brother…”

  A hush in the room. Will was appalled at his own blunder. He should never have said “ask your brother.”

  In two seconds, the chief had come to the other side of the counter. He was two inches taller than Will, and forty pounds heavier.

  “Mister, all I want to hear from you now is good-bye. You’ve had all of my time you’re entitled to. I’ve seen the car you drive, and I think I could find a dozen equipment problems on it. Care to try my patience?”