Between Now and Forever

by Barbara Freethy

  "What else should I do?" she asked.

  "There's nothing more you can do tonight."

  "I feel so helpless, Max. Every minute counts. How can I sit here and wait?"

  "We’re making every minute count. We've got everyone in the department looking for Brandon, and your father has alerted all the fire stations in the city. Brandon's photo has been on the news, and by morning Emma and the rest of your family will have thousands of flyers up all over the city. Someone is going to see Brandon and call us."

  "If he's still in San Francisco," she said, voicing the thought that had been forming in the back of her mind the past few hours. "What if Brandon was taken out of the city?"

  "It's a multi-state alert throughout California, Nevada, and Oregon," he told her.

  "I wish we had a license plate. Something more to go on."

  "Hopefully, we'll get that something soon. We'll re-interview some of the kids and parents tomorrow in case someone remembers something. I'm going back to the station now. I'll call you as soon as I have any news." He paused. "Any word from Ryan?"

  "Emma reached him about fifteen minutes ago. He just got off his flight. He should be here soon." She had mixed feelings about Ryan being on his way home. She wanted his support, but she was too distraught to handle the awkward relationship that had developed between them since they'd separated several months earlier. It was still difficult to believe their great love story had fallen apart.

  "I'll talk to him later then."

  "He won't be able to add anything, Max. He hasn't seen Brandon in two weeks."

  "We need to cover all the bases, Nicole."

  "I understand."

  As Max walked out to his car, her younger sister, Emma, stepped onto the porch. Emma was a slender blonde, whose blue eyes matched Nicole's, although there was usually more mischief and fire in Emma's gaze. Tonight there was only worry.

  Nicole didn't want to see concern in her sister's eyes. Emma was a strong, kick-ass fire investigator, brilliant at taking small, random clues and figuring out how they went together. And she needed Emma to believe that everything was going to be all right, so she could believe it, too.

  "You should come inside, Nicole. It's cold out here," Emma said.

  "In a minute. I need to catch my breath."

  "Is the family driving you crazy? Do you want me to start kicking them out?"

  "Soon," she said. The Callaways had descended in full force on her small house, and while she appreciated the support, their increasing worry was only making her more nervous. "It's getting really late."

  "They'll stay here all night if you need them."

  "Well, Sara should be home in her own bed," Nicole replied. "She's eight months pregnant."

  "Aiden made that suggestion a few minutes ago, but no one wants to leave you alone, including me." Emma gave her a compassionate look. "It's going to be all right, Nic."

  "You don't know that, Em. I can't lose Brandon. Since Ryan left, it's been Brandon and me against the world. He's like my other half." Panic ran through her. "What am I going to do without him?"

  "You won't be without him. You have to stop imagining the worst."

  "I can't help it. Every hour that passes—"

  "I know it's terrifying," Emma said, cutting her off. "But you have to keep the faith. And I know you will, because when it comes to Brandon, you don't give up. And neither does the rest of your stubborn-as-hell family. The Callaways don't accept failure."

  Emma's tough talk was just the kick that Nicole needed. She straightened and threw back her shoulders. "You're right. Brandon is coming home. There is no other option."

  "Exactly. Now, why don't you come inside?"

  "I will in a minute. I want to speak to Ryan alone, and he should be here soon."

  As Emma went into the house, Nicole glanced down the street, willing Brandon to appear. Minutes passed, and a shimmer of fog began to cover the streetlights, adding darker, deeper shadows to the night. The air grew cold, the street eerily quiet. The empty candy wrappers scattered on the lawn by impatient trick-or-treaters, reminded her that Brandon had completely missed Halloween. Not that he would have cared to participate. In fact, he probably would have hidden in his room the whole time. He didn't like the sound of the doorbell. He didn't like noise or strangers. Maybe he'd hidden away in some dark yard to avoid all the chaos of the night.

  She strained to see some sign of her little boy trudging home. She could imagine Brandon suddenly appearing through the trees, from behind a bush. She could picture herself running down the walkway, gathering her son in her arms, squeezing him so tightly he would scream in dismay. He hated to be touched, hugged. But she’d weather the screams if only she could hold him again. She ached with yearning, and tightening her arms around her waist, she held onto the only thing she had left—herself.

  Her heart jumped as a car turned the corner, the headlights sweeping across the street. The taxi stopped in front of her house. A tall man in a navy blue pilot’s uniform got out. He tossed money at the driver as he pulled his black suitcase out of the cab and hurried towards her with long, impatient strides. Ryan had been on a flight from Hong Kong when Brandon disappeared.

  "Is he here? Is he back?" Ryan demanded, dropping his suitcase on the porch. "Did you find him?"

  She heard the fear in his voice and shook her head, her throat too knotted with emotion to speak.

  Ryan ran a hand through his thick, dark brown hair as he’d probably done a hundred times since he’d received her message. He paced around the porch, every jerky movement a reflection of his worry. "What the hell happened, Nicole?"

  The anger in his voice took her by surprise. He was blaming her?

  "He’s six years old," Ryan continued. "How could you let him out of your sight? You always tell me over and over again not to take my eyes off the kid."

  "You? You’re asking me that? You?" Fury ripped through her body.

  Ryan was the one who’d promised to love her for better or worse, but when worse had come, he’d bailed. He was the one who couldn’t be counted on to watch Brandon, not her. She was the one who was there, who was always there.

  Her hands clenched, and all the emotions of the day sent her fist flying towards his face. Her knuckles cracked against his cheekbone. She’d never hit anyone in her life, but it felt good—amazingly good. She drew her hand back for a second time, but this time he caught her by the arm.

  "God dammit, Nicole! Stop it. I’m sorry. Okay? I’m just—scared."

  The agony in his words, the fear in his eyes, took the fight out of her. This wasn’t Ryan's fault. It was hers. And that was the bitter truth.

  He was right. She’d let her child out of her sight. She’d been distracted by a game of kickball with another child, with selfish, yearning thoughts for a normal life. And now Brandon was paying the price.

  "I looked away for a second." She bit down on her bottom lip as she struggled to hold back the tears. "He was there, and then he wasn’t."

  Ryan let go of her arm, the brand of his heated grip still stinging. But it was a pain she could deal with it, not like the one ripping her heart in two.

  The skin around Ryan’s right eye was swelling already. She felt a momentary twinge of guilt that she’d hurt him. "You should go inside and put some ice on your face."

  "I don’t care about my face."

  "I’m sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

  "Forget about it. Just tell me what you know. Do the police have any leads? Did Brandon run away? Did he wander off and get lost? That’s the most likely scenario, right?"

  "I thought it was, but every second that passes makes it seem less likely. If he was anywhere in the neighborhood, we would have found him by now. They even brought out a search dog to try to pick up his scent. But the dog came up with nothing."

  Ryan swallowed hard, the pulse in his neck beating fast and furiously. "What are you saying? Do they think someone—someone took him?" he asked, stumbling over
the question.

  Her stomach twisted at the thought. "I don't know. A few seconds after I realized Brandon was gone, I saw the back end of a white SUV turning the far corner. And a second grader, Stephanie Bennett, said she saw Brandon get into a big white car, but she couldn’t identify the make or remember a license plate number. She didn’t even notice who was inside. She started crying when the police kept asking her questions. And then she said she wasn’t sure, maybe it wasn’t Brandon but someone else. There was more than one kid wearing a cape at the carnival."

  "I don’t understand how anyone could grab Brandon. Brandon will barely let me touch him," he added, pain in his voice. "I can’t imagine how a stranger could get close to him. Why didn’t he scream? Why didn’t he struggle? I’ve seen him take a swing at the pediatrician he’s known all his life. I’ve seen you wrestle him to the ground to get a toothbrush in his mouth. This isn’t a kid who just goes along with things."

  "It doesn’t make sense to me, either." She gave a frustrated shake of her head, his words echoing her own thoughts. "I was right there, Ryan. I was watching him play. I moved away for a couple of minutes when Kathleen came over. I couldn't have been more than twenty feet away from him. When I turned back around, Brandon was gone. I don't know how anyone could have taken him away without him screaming."

  "What do the cops say?"

  "That maybe someone waved him over with an enticement, a puppy, a toy, a candy bar."

  "Brandon can't be tempted like that."

  "I told them that. Luckily, Max arrived and got everyone straightened out on Brandon's condition, and then they sprang into action. Everything that needed to be done was done, but Brandon still isn't home." She paused. "All I can think about is how terrified he must be. He can’t tell anyone what he needs. And if someone took him, how will they know when he’s hungry or cold? Will they give him a sweater or a blanket? Will they feed him? And what will they do when they find out he has problems? What if he doesn’t do what they want him to do? What if he won’t stay quiet, or won’t stop screaming, or stop kicking his feet and his hands? Will they understand that he can’t help it? That he’s just scared? Or will they try to make him shut up?"

  Ryan put up his hands on her shoulders, cutting off her hysterical ramble. "Don’t, Nicole. Don’t go there."

  She looked into his eyes. "I can’t stop myself. I'm terrified, Ryan."

  His jaw tightened. "We’ll get him back." He let go of her and walked across the porch, staring out at the street.

  She wanted to believe everything would be all right, just the way she’d wanted to believe that Brandon would snap out of his autistic state, but she’d been wrong before.

  Chapter Three

  The early morning sun crept through the slits in the living room blinds. The hands on the grandfather clock in the corner were finally making their way towards seven o’clock after a seemingly endless night. Ryan turned on his side, his legs and body cramped on the short and uncomfortable couch in Nicole’s living room.

  It had once been his living room, too.

  Five months ago he’d moved into a two-bedroom condo by the Embarcadero. Brandon had been to his home exactly three times, and the room he’d put together for his son, had never been slept in. Brandon didn’t like change, not even when that change came with his father.

  After those couple of visits, which consisted of Brandon hiding under a desk in a corner of his living room and screaming at the top of his lungs for most of the afternoon, Ryan and Nicole had agreed that Ryan would see Brandon at her house. That hadn’t worked much better. Eventually his visits had dwindled down to nothing. He felt guilty about that. He felt guilty about a lot of things. But it seemed apparent that Brandon didn’t miss him. The child who had once slept on his chest, cried on his shoulder, held his hand and looked to him for courage, safety and love didn’t even notice his existence.

  Nicole didn’t seem to miss him either. He couldn’t blame her. He’d let her down. And the sad truth was that he’d always known deep down that that would happen. From the minute things had turned serious between them, he’d worried that he’d be a lousy husband, a terrible father, just like his own father had been. He’d fallen in love with her, but he’d felt destined to disappoint her.

  He’d hoped it wouldn’t happen. With Nicole and Brandon, he’d finally found the family he’d always been looking for, a family that didn't include an alcoholic abusive father or a weak-willed mother who could barely take care of herself much less anyone else. He'd counted himself lucky to marry into the Callaways. And Nicole and Brandon had been the center of his world. Now they were in their own world, and he was on the outside—where he deserved to be. He’d screwed up. And he couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t fix one damn thing. He turned over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

  Things had started out so good.

  The first time he’d seen Nicole she’d been seventeen years old and in her favorite class—art. She’d had on a smock covered in streaks of paint, her gaze focused intently on the easel in front of her. She hadn’t even noticed him, and that had surprised him. All the girls looked at him. He was an athlete. But Nicole didn’t care much for sports. She liked art and history and was wildly interested in obscure subjects like Greek mythology and the Trojan War. Even though she was a pretty blonde, and one of the Callaways, she wasn’t in the popular group. When he’d finally gotten her to look at him, she’d simply been annoyed, not impressed. She had dreams, ambitions, and she had no time for him.

  And from that moment on he’d had no time for anyone else.

  Her blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes had pulled him in. Her passion, her drive, her view of the world had changed him. She was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and she put a bright slash of color in his dark, ugly life.

  They became inseparable, spending weekends at the beach, in the mountains, sometimes even in the library where Nicole would force him to read obscure texts about mythological gods. She’d made him look at life in a whole new way. She’d made him care at a point where he’d given up caring about anything. He’d been going down the road to nowhere until he met her and she’d yanked him back, making him want to pursue his dreams again. She was the one who’d talked him into asking his neighbor for flying lessons. She was the one who’d watched him take off that first day, who’d made him see that the world was a lot bigger than he’d ever realized. Nicole had made him want to be someone, not just for himself, but also for her.

  He’d screwed it up, all of it.

  Which was why he was on the couch and not in bed with the woman he’d once loved more than anyone.

  Not that Nicole was in their bed. He’d heard her go into Brandon’s room hours ago, and she hadn’t come out. She was either sitting in her grandmother’s rocking chair, or she was lying in Brandon’s twin bed, her arms probably wrapped around Brandon’s honey bear, a stuffed animal that had once been his favorite sleep buddy but had been discarded along with so many other things and people that had once been important to his son but no longer were.

  He’d thought he’d come to terms with the fact that he was no longer a husband or a father, but now—back in the house that had been filled with so much promise, so much love, he was achingly aware of just how wrong things had gone.

  Too restless to sleep, he sat up and stretched his arms over his head. Then he got up, walked into the kitchen and started the coffee maker. As he moved toward the refrigerator to get some milk, the picture on the door gave him pause.

  It was a hand-sketched drawing. The artist had used colored pencils. But it was the familiarity of the scene that made his heart stop. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. The focus of the picture was the living room of his condo. Every piece of furniture—from the leather couch, to the big screen television, to the bookshelves under the window, was depicted in painstaking detail. He pulled the paper out from underneath the colored magnet to take a closer look.

  He couldn’t believe Nicole had spent time sketch
ing his apartment. She’d only been inside a handful of times, yet everything was so carefully delineated. She hadn’t left out a thing—not the clock on the wall, the magazines on the coffee table, the empty coffee mug, his tennis shoes sticking out from under the couch, the basketball in the corner.

  What the hell? Why would she draw this? Did she miss him? Was he seeing a crack in her armor?

  He looked up, startled to see the object of his thoughts walk into the room. Nicole's long blonde hair was tangled, her eyes bloodshot and weary. In her arms she held Brandon’s teddy bear, just as he’d predicted.

  "Coffee," she mumbled.

  "Almost done."

  She shuffled over to the table and sat down. She was wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday, a pair of blue jeans with a cream-colored camisole top under the bright orange sweater she’d worn every Halloween since the first day he’d met her. She stared down at the bear in her hands, her fingers rubbing over the nose that had long ago lost its fur. As a baby, Brandon had gone to sleep sucking his thumb and rubbing his other fingers over the bear’s nose as he lulled himself to sleep.

  "Do you think Brandon misses Honey Bear?" she asked.

  "Brandon gave up on that bear a long time ago."

  She slowly nodded. "Yeah, I guess he did."

  "Nicole, when did you draw this? More importantly, why did you draw this?"

  She gave him a confused look. "What are you talking about, Ryan?"

  He hated the way she said his name now, as if it exhausted her to speak to him, to deal with his needs. She used to say his name with eagerness, passion, and love. He turned the picture around so she could see it. "I’m talking about this. Why did you take the time to make such a detailed sketch of my living room?"

  Her eyes widened. "You think I drew that?"

  "Who else? It’s perfect—the symmetry, the lines, the angles. You were always a talented artist."

  "I didn’t do it." She got up from the chair and took the paper from his hands. She turned it to face him. "Take a good look. Where do you think the person was who drew this? What’s the perspective?"