Three Days Missing

by Kimberly Belle

  Mom frowns, thoughtful. “That would explain why his chakra’s so blocked.” She circles a hand above her head like a halo. “Completely stuck. I tried to clear him, but he wouldn’t sit still long enough except to play that silly video game. These things work best when the subject is an active participant.”

  “Well, did you try talking to him? He believes in your energy healer mumbo jumbo, you know. If you tell him his chakra is blocked, he’ll want you to unblock it.”

  “I tried that. He said he didn’t have time.”

  I roll my eyes. “He’s got loads of time now.”

  “I think part of what’s blocking him is the energy in this house. No offense, but talk about energy demons. This place is swarming with them. They’re sucking up all the good energy and throwing everything out of balance.”

  “So work your witchcraft. Chase the devils out.”

  “They’re called demons, dear. And I can clear them, but what I’d really like to do is take Sammy up to my house for a while, just until this mess is all sorted out.”

  I’m shaking my head before she’s reached the end of the sentence. “Whoever took Ethan is still out there. It’s why there are a dozen cameras pointed at the house and two armed bodyguards patrolling the yard at all times. Those energy demons are nothing compared to the real threat of a stranger coming back to kidnap Sammy.” Saying the words out loud gives me a full-body shiver.

  “Why are you so sure it’s a stranger?” Mom says.

  Another memory pricks at me. The caller’s voice on my cell, how he asked if he was speaking to Stef. I’m positive I didn’t tell my mother any of this. “You’re not?”

  “I already told you, sweetie. Energy demons everywhere. These things are all interrelated.” She swipes her feet from the table and pushes to a stand. “Anyway, I’m going to pop out for some sea salt and dried sage, if you don’t need me here. I want to do something about the energetic imprints in this house, and maybe a protection spell or two while I’m at it.”

  The last time Mom saged this house, when we moved in six years ago, it smelled like a Grateful Dead concert, and Sam kept wondering why he was suddenly craving pizza. But in the grand scope of things, I figure what’s the harm? At the very least, it’ll keep her busy for a couple of hours.

  “Knock yourself out,” I say, returning to the laptop.

  While Mom fetches her bag and car keys from upstairs, I sign in to my Xbox Live account. I type in my name and password, but when I hit Enter, bright red letters pop up on the screen.

  Your account or password is incorrect.

  I type the letters in again, <3SamJosX2, this time more slowly. I get the same message.

  And then I get the bigger message, one that heats me from the inside out: not only did Sammy hijack my password, he switched it out for one of his own. That little brat locked me out.

  I snap the laptop closed, slide it onto the table and march upstairs. I don’t knock. I don’t announce my presence from the hallway. I burst into the room without warning.

  “Samuel Huntington, you are in such big tr—”

  I stop on the thick, wool carpet, a curl of uneasiness cooling my chest. I turn in a full circle, suddenly recalling a sunny September afternoon when Sammy was two, when I’d left him for less than a minute. Just long enough to refill his sippy cup and cut up a banana from the fruit bowl. I had a clear view of him the entire time, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, playing with his toy cars. But what all those parenting books say is true—all it takes is a second or two. In my case, to toss the milk container in the recycling bin by the garage door. When I came back around the corner, Sammy was gone. Vanished.

  At first I thought it was a silly game of hide-and-seek, and I played along. I called out for him. I wondered aloud at where he’d gotten off to. I peered into the most obvious hiding places, figuring I’d find a beaming Sammy crouched under the dining table or giggling behind the curtains. But he wasn’t in any of those places. I checked every room in the house, the yard, the sidewalk down by the street. By the time I got back to the house, I was frantic.

  I called Sam at work on the house line and 9-1-1 from my cell. When the police banged on my door sixteen endless minutes later, I was hysterical, battling visions of Sammy toddling into morning traffic on Northside Drive or floating facedown in some neighbor’s pool. I handed the police a recent picture, frame and all, and they scattered. Sam came screeching up the drive right as I found him, sound asleep and oblivious, bundled up in a basket of freshly laundered towels.

  But this time is different.

  This time I don’t call out for him. I don’t check where else he might be—my room, the basement, Mom’s room across the hall. A blast of jasmine-scented heat hits me square in the face, and I know where he’s gone.

  Out the open window.

  * * *

  I lean my entire upper body out the window, limp with relief when Sammy isn’t sprawled on the ground below. I eyeball the distance to the dirt—a good twenty feet or more—too far for an eight-year-old, especially one as small and scrawny as Sammy, to fall and survive.

  “Sammy!” I shout it as loud as I can, and my voice echoes over the street. The reporters hear me. They rush the gate, their camera lenses winking in the sunshine. “Did any of you see my son, Sammy?”

  My question is greeted by the metallic chatter of a dozen camera shutters.

  I scan the yard, searching for any flashes of skin, any movement, but other than a couple of squirrels stirring the upper branches of a tree, there’s nothing.

  “Sammy!”

  Gary comes jogging into view, his equipment bouncing at his belt. He stops under the giant magnolia, looking around for the source of my voice.

  “Up here.” I wave my arms until he spots me. “Have you seen Sammy?”

  “He’s not inside?”

  “Check the yard, will you? I’m on my way down.”

  I shove off the sill and race out of the room, bumping into Mom in the hall. She’s on her way out—car keys in her hand, purse slung over her shoulder, hair shoved off her face with a pair of ancient sunglasses. She takes in my frantic state, and her eyes go wide. “What’s going on? What’s the matter?”

  “I think Sammy jumped out his window.”

  She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “What? But why?”

  “Find Sam, and the two of you check the house just to be sure. I’m going out to talk to the guards.”

  I race down the stairs and burst out the door.

  Like most houses on our street, ours is set on the back third of a generous lot, at the top of a gently sloping hill. Three-quarters of an acre, most of it sweeping lawn lined with a thick line of shrubs and trees and beyond, a ten-foot privacy fence of concrete columns connected by sleek iron rods. The barrier was built to keep people out, but it also keeps people in. The only way though is the driveway gate, now blocked by reporters.

  But how did he get out the window?

  My gaze lands on the massive magnolia hanging over the entire left front of the yard. It’s one of the reasons Sam and I bought the lot, because of its dark, glossy leaves and the white blossoms that open up like velvety saucers every spring. We designed everything around the tree, positioning the house so the tree’s thick branches reach toward the upstairs windows like giant fingers.

  But I’m not studying the tree for its beauty. I’m following the canopy up and back toward the house, gauging the distance between the outermost branches and Sammy’s window. Could he have grabbed on to one with a flying leap? Possibly, but no way those outermost branches would have supported his weight. Even if he did somehow manage to grab on, he would have swung like Tarzan straight into the hard Georgia clay.

  “Mrs. Huntington,” someone yells up from the gate, and I sprint down the hill on bare feet. People are lined up on the other side of the fence like cat
tle, a sea of bodies with cameras for faces, recording my every move.

  “I’m looking for my son,” I say, panting. I’m all too aware of the lenses pointed at my head, of the stuttering chatter of camera clicks capturing my frantic face in full-color, high-resolution images. “Did any of you see him? I think he came out of the upstairs window.”

  This prompts an explosion of conversation, every journalist hurling a response at the same time. I try to sort through the jumble of words, but it’s impossible. There are too many of them speaking at once.

  I point to one, a tall blonde in a blue-and-white wrap dress. “You. Did you see him?”

  She shoves a microphone through the rods of the gate. “Mrs. Huntington, there are rumors that it was your son, Sam Junior, who disappeared from Camp Crosby in Dahlonega. Can you—”

  “Did you see a little boy jumping out of that second-story window or not?”

  The woman blinks at me, but she doesn’t say a word.

  Her colleagues launch a new barrage of questions, but I turn and run full speed up the hill to the house. I don’t spot either of the guards, so I veer to the right and follow the path that leads to the backyard. The mulch is sticky under my feet but a million times softer than the ground underneath, sunbaked clay packed harder than concrete. I run as fast as I can in bare feet, dirt and twigs tearing at my soles.

  The trail spits me out in the backyard, and I skirt around the pool, my gaze skimming the crystal clear water with my heart in my throat. I’m thinking of my Sammy, falling in and hitting his head. Of his body, bobbing around the bottom. But the only thing I find in the pool is the automatic cleaner.

  I stop at the edge of the terrace. I search the yard for movement, scanning the shrubs that form a border with the neighbors for a fleeting-deer flash of scrawny limbs. Nothing.

  “Sammmmmmy,” I scream.

  There are only so many places in this yard for a person to hide. Crouched down behind the built-in grill. Pressed between the outdoor fireplace and the stockpile of firewood. In one of the garbage cans lined up along the garage. High in the branches of the magnolia tree. I check everywhere I can think of.

  I’m on the terrace when Gary trots around from behind the garage, his big chest huffing with effort. “Did you find him?”

  “No. He’s not here.” I shove my hands in my hair and turn in a circle, my mind tripping over itself.

  Gary swipes a sleeve across his forehead. “You’re sure he’s not still inside?”

  A burst of commotion coming from the house sends my pulse spiking, and I whip around to see Sam running out the sliding glass door. His gaze lands on mine, and his naked fear sends ice shooting through my veins. “Where have you looked?” One question for the both of us.

  “The yard’s clear,” Gary says.

  My gut cramps. “The reporters down at the gate didn’t see him, either.”

  “Check the camera feeds,” Sam says, and thank God for the dozens of them perched in strategic positions around the house and yard, one of the many questionable perks of being mayor. Though I’ve always hated the thought of someone watching my every move, I’m awfully glad for them now. If Sammy went anywhere through the yard, it’ll be captured on tape. We’ll know which way he went, if he went alone or was being dragged.

  Gary jogs for the house, dodging my mother, who’s standing at the far end of the patio with her palm pressed to her mouth.

  “Where’s Diego?” Sam says.

  I shake my head, indicating I haven’t seen him. Fear kicks the air right out of me. “Oh my God, Sam. What if he—”

  “He didn’t.”

  I don’t know which “he” Sam is referring to—our son or Diego or the kidnapper—but Sam sounds certain so I don’t argue.

  He slides his iPhone from his pocket, punches at the screen, then holds it to his ear. After a strangling silence, he says, “Darryl, I need your help. My son’s missing.”

  And suddenly, I’m back at the camp, stumbling out of my car on that muddy field, wailing for my son. I only thought those two horrible hours were a false alarm—two days too early, a hundred miles too far removed. This time it’s real, the moment reliving itself in stunning authenticity. You can’t cheat tragedy twice in three days.

  “How long has he been gone?”

  Tears sting my eyes. When I left him sulking on his bed, it was before nine. Now it’s nearing nine-thirty. Long enough to run into traffic on West Paces Ferry or busier Northside Drive. Long enough to be shoved in a trunk and carted halfway to the next state.

  I lean over, bracing both hands on my knees, and try not to throw up.

  “Stef. How long has Sammy been gone?”

  Nausea shimmers in my stomach, and I glance up. “A half hour, maybe more.”

  Sam relays my answer to the chief of police, then starts doling out orders. “Send over every patrol car in a ten-mile radius. Get them to work in concentric loops starting at our house and working outward. Description is four feet tall, with dark curly hair and glasses, last seen wearing a white T-shirt and black basketball shorts. We think he’s on foot but we can’t be sure.”

  Sirens wail from somewhere far away, moving closer.

  My heart pounds, the liquid churning in my ears as my mind beats out one thought.

  He’s gone. Sammy is gone.

  KAT

  55 hours, 23 minutes missing

  I’m running through the forest behind the camp.

  The woods are thicker than I remember, wild and uncontrolled. Tall trees pressed tight with monster shrubs, their limbs locked in a prickly embrace—I shove my way through. Thorns tear at me, snatching at my clothes, my hair, my skin, long, tenacious fingers grabbing at me like skeleton claws. I thrash my way through, then pick up the pace, weaving through the tangled trees. I am searching for something, but I don’t know what.

  I punch through the brush and emerge in a clearing. The forest is cooler here, deep and unfamiliar. I stand in the middle and turn in a full circle, filling my lungs with the sweet, drifting perfume. I’m trying to get my bearings, but it’s impossible. I’m lost and yet entirely unafraid. I sink onto the carpet of lacy ferns and wait.

  Somewhere above me, high in the canopy of trees, a bird sings.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  I twist around, and there he is. My Ethan, standing under a giant rhododendron. The branches are dripping with orange flowers, the limbs arching around him like a vault. I take in his curly hair, his crooked glasses, his thin frame and bony shoulders, and joy, light and unfettered, fills my chest like feathers.

  “There you are,” I say, laughing.

  He smiles. “Here I am.”

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “I know.” Ethan steps into the clearing. His feet are bare, but his pajamas are pristine. Not a speck of mud on him anywhere. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

  I watch my son pick his way through the underbrush, and there’s something important I’m supposed to remember. Something essential I need to say. If only I could think what. I pinch the skin of my underarm, trying to wake myself up, but I’m locked in this dream.

  “Where?”

  Ethan cocks his head, stepping right up to me. His glasses glint in a milky ray of sunlight. “Where what?”

  “Where are you, sweetie?”

  “Mom. I already told you. I’m right here.” He touches a finger to the center of my chest. “I’ll always be right here.”

  I open my eyes and he’s gone.

  * * *

  A knuckle raps against the passenger’s window of my car. Mac, watching me through the glass. I pop the locks, and he slides in. He smells freshly showered, the soap and aftershave mingling with the two Starbucks coffees he’s got cupped in a giant palm.

  When I called requesting a face-to-face, Mac suggested a Waffle House near the
station, but I couldn’t face a restaurant full of people laughing and shoving food in their faces like it’s any other Sunday morning. I couldn’t bear the station, either, a building full of cops who’ve seen and know too much. We settled on here, a lesser-traveled corner of a strip mall parking lot just off 285.

  “You okay? I knocked like three times.” With his free hand, he pulls the door shut with a soft click. For such a big guy, his movements are surprisingly gentle.

  I shake off the last remnants of the dream. “I’m fine, just tired. I haven’t been sleeping much.”

  I’m not fine. I’ve barely slept at all since Mac beat his fist against my door. Whenever I do manage to drift off, my dreams transport me back to camp, to searching for Ethan in endless, empty woods. I don’t know what’s worse, this constant state of exhaustion, or waking up to find I’m stuck in a nightmare.

  Today is day three, and the logical part of me knows what that means. Three days missing means Ethan’s body is lying in a ditch somewhere, or slithering around the bottom of a swamp in something’s belly. Three days, and now I can think of nothing else. He’sdeadhe’sdeadhe’sdead.

  Mac hands me one of the cups. “I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got you a cappuccino. I hope that’s okay.”

  The smell churns my stomach. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  He rests his cup on a knee. “So the reason we didn’t find the tent in Andrew’s house is because it was returned. We checked with REI and they confirmed it. He got his money back almost two weeks ago.”

  I shake my head, not because I don’t believe him, but because I don’t want to. “But Andrew hates camping. He hates the outdoors. Why would he buy a tent if he wasn’t planning something?”

  “He claims your separation was making him feel alienated from his son. He was looking for an activity they could do together. Apparently, Ethan was unimpressed.”

  My eyes burn, but I’m too angry, too let down to cry. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy talking myself into believing Ethan was with Andrew. It was the least hideous of the possibilities, Andrew the least monstrous of the monsters. The slim chance that Ethan might be with his father is how I’ve survived these past three days, and I’m not ready to let it go.