More Than It Seems

by David Archer

  “Of course I do,” she said. “Just a minute.” She got up and went to get her computer, then brought it back to the living room. A minute later, she had two photographs on the screen side-by-side.

  “Take a look,” she said. “I got these out of the respective police department files. The boy on the left is Scotty, and the one on the right is Kenny. These are the photos the police were given when they disappeared.”

  Sam leaned over and looked closely at the monitor. “Good grief,” he said. “They really do look a lot alike. Everything, even the eyes, the nose, the hair—it’s all nearly identical. They really could pass for twins.”

  “Sam, you may be on to something. The thing is, wouldn’t Kenny’s parents have known if they got the wrong child back?”

  Sam started to speak, but Kim cut him off. “Would they?” she asked. “They probably thought their son was dead; if he seemed a little different when they got him back, they would probably just chalk it up to whatever happened while he was gone.”

  Sam nodded. “She’s right,” he said. “And that’s what I’ve been thinking about. Mr. and Mrs. Givens would have probably figured anything different about Kenny was just because of his being kidnapped in the first place.”

  Indie shook her head. “I’m not buying that,” she said. “I don’t care how long I was away from one of my kids, I would know them when I saw them again. And I would certainly know if the child I thought was mine wasn’t. When they took him home, if it was really Scott, he wouldn’t act the same at all, and there would be physical differences as well. Nobody can be a perfect double for somebody else, not even identical twins. They usually have some differences between them, and the mother would certainly be aware of them. Scott might’ve had a birthmark, or maybe Kenny did, but it would only appear on one of them. Or maybe it’s a mole, or a scar, even a missing tooth. A mother would have known about it and realized she was looking at a different child.”

  Sam looked at her. “You know, you could be right,” he said. “It didn’t hit me at the time, but Mr. Givens gave me a song and dance about how they wouldn’t take Kenny to counseling because he was afraid of letting a psychiatrist mess with his head, but what if he was afraid of something else? What if he was actually afraid the psychiatrist might figure out that he wasn’t really dealing with Kenny Givens?”

  “But wouldn’t they want to know?” Kim asked. “If they realized something was wrong, wouldn’t they want to know the truth?”

  “Maybe not,” Sam said. “Maybe they were just so relieved to have him back that they refused to see any evidence to the contrary. The last thing they would want is someone forcing them look at that evidence, right?”

  “I see your point,” Indie said. “Sam, what if it’s true? What if you really have found little Scott alive?”

  “Then it’s going to be quite a shock to several people. Steve, of course, he would be overjoyed, I’m sure. Kenny himself will probably be shocked, and I would imagine that Mr. Givens will have a rough time with it. After all these years, he may have convinced himself that it really is his son.”

  Indie looked at the two pictures again, then turned back to Sam. “What are you going to do, Sam?”

  Sam looked down at his own son sitting in his lap. “I’m going to wait for the DNA results on the bones we found in Jensen’s cellar,” he said. “If it turns out to be the remains of Scott Beck, then there’s nothing to do. If not, though, I’m going to have to figure out some way to find out for sure about Kenny.”

  Indie started to say something, but Kim suddenly held up a hand. “Sam,” she said, “Beauregard told me earlier today that this case is going to change your life forever. At first, I didn’t think he wanted us to tell you, but now he says you shouldn’t wait. He says that if you wait for the DNA results, it’s going to put you and others in danger.”

  Sam stared at her. “In danger? Do you mean I should tell Steve that I think Kenny Givens might really be his son? If I do that now and then the remains come back as Scotty, he could be devastated.”

  Kim shook her head. “Beauregard says those remains are not Scott. He’s not certain about Kenny, but he says you have to speak up now, right now, or something bad is going to happen.”

  Sam’s eyes were locked on his mother-in-law, but it took him a moment to speak. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I know Beauregard has been right over and over again, but this is at least four lives we’d be playing with. Steve and his wife, Kenny, his dad…”

  “Sam, Beauregard has never been wrong,” Kim said. “How many times have his warnings saved your life, or someone else’s?”

  Sam turned to his wife, but she was nodding her head in agreement. “Sam, she’s right. You can’t afford to ignore him, no matter what he is.”

  Sam nodded, then. “Yeah, you’re right.” He held Bo up and let Indie take him, then pulled his phone out of his pocket and touched an icon. “Steve? Listen, I hate to bother you when you just got home, but there’s something I need to talk to you about. Mind if I come over?”

  ELEVEN

  Twenty-Five Years Earlier

  When Edith shook the bed as she got up that morning, Steve's eyes came reluctantly open to glare at the clock. It wasn’t even five yet, and he had been planning on sleeping for at least another hour before getting up to take care of Scotty for another day. He turned to look at his wife, who smiled apologetically. "Sorry," she said. "I didn’t mean to wake you. Just getting a glass of water. Go back to sleep. I don't have to work today, so I'll deal with Scotty if he wakes up."

  Steve nodded, then closed his eyes and sank back into the pillows. He heard the soft footfalls of his wife as she left the room and felt himself slipping toward dreamland, hoping to fall back asleep soon. He’d almost made it when a sharp, panicked scream snapped him fully awake instantly.

  He leapt out of bed and was halfway down the hall before the sounds even registered properly in his mind, but his feet knew exactly where to go. He rushed toward his son's room and saw his wife immediately, standing just outside the door and covering her face. He slid to a halt beside her, panic welling up within him as he saw her horrified, glassy eyes.

  "Steve," she said in a trembling voice, turning to stare at him. She looked hollow and pale, so frail it seemed like she might shatter. "He’s gone. Scotty’s gone."

  Hardly daring to breathe and starting to feel suddenly nauseous, Steve turned to their son's room and stepped inside. Broken toys were scattered across the floor, looking trampled on as if there had been a struggle. The pillow was ripped and laying on the floor, and Scott's favorite teddy bear was lying forlornly under the bed. There was no sign of the boy, himself.

  Steve's eyes were drawn to the window, which was wide open, the curtains fluttering in a gentle breeze, and Steve immediately spotted the stain of red on the wood. Blood, he thought. There’s blood on the window of my son's room, the window I forgot to lock last night.

  Beside the window was a piece of paper, caught under a box of crayons. Steve didn’t notice when his legs gave out from under him, but he suddenly found himself on the floor, leaning against the wall as he listened to his wife’s sobs. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the blood stain, even when Edith started calling out for little Scotty.

  He didn't hear her call the police, and he didn’t even notice when she broke down in the hallway, sinking to the floor just as he had done.

  * * *

  The room was silent except for Steve tapping his foot against the wooden floor. The sound of a clock ticked on behind him, but it was muffled and too unimportant to get past the horrified haze that had been clouding his thoughts since he woke up to Edith's shriek and the discovery of his son’s empty room.

  Steve could hardly think clearly, his fingers wrapped tightly around the arms of his chair as he stared at nothing. He was thinking of Scott, thinking about their recent day at the park, but it was his oversight in leaving the window unlocked that was at the forefront of his thoughts. He vaguely rem
embered Edith's wracking sobs and scratchy voice as the police arrived at their house, and the gentle hands that guided him away from Scott's room. He didn't remember the drive that must have taken him to the station. He didn’t remember entering the station and blindly finding his way to his own office. Someone must have helped him, but he had no idea who.

  Detective Hank Nestor sat quietly across from him, letting him drown in his thoughts for a moment too long. Hank studied him quietly, his own face unreadable, and absently touched the wedding band around his finger.

  "Steve," he finally said, his voice calm and soothing enough to bring Steve back from the guilt and fear that had overtaken his mind. "You know we have to do this," Hank said, leaning back in his chair. Steve blinked at him for a moment, barely able to see him, but his mouth tightened as he noticed the hint of sympathy in his friend's eyes, and he nodded at last.

  Hank let him stew for a moment longer, slowly watching Steve pull himself back together. He was pale and more tense than Hank could remember ever seeing him before, but he no longer looked as if he were lost in some terrible nightmare, which was an improvement.

  "What happened last night?" Hank asked, knowing the reaction he was almost certain to get from Steve, but no angry or hateful look came his way, and that only worried him more. "Did anything seem out of place? Edith said you took Scott to the park—did anyone pay a little too much attention to him while you were out? Is there anything you remember being out of place?"

  Steve reached into a pocket, releasing his vise-like grip on the chair arm for only a moment, and took out a crumpled piece of paper. Hank watched patiently and quietly as Steve delicately placed the paper onto the table between them and smoothed out the creases.

  "I didn't see anything," he said at last, staring at the paper with a strange expression on his face. "But this was trapped by Scott's window. It was caught in the breeze when we—when we couldn't find him. Scotty was drawing a picture last night, but he wouldn't let us see it. He said it wasn't finished yet."

  "What was it?" Hank asked, leaning forward to try to see the picture he could just make out scrawled on the paper. "Is it something that might help us find your son?"

  Steve turned suddenly, jerking in his chair. "Where's Edith?" he asked, fingers twitching protectively over the paper as his eyes roamed listlessly around the room. Hank wasn't sure if Steve really couldn’t remember, or if he just wanted a distraction.

  Either way, Hank kept his tone even as he answered. "She's with Detective Melrose in the next office. They're going over what happened last night, just like we are, to see if Edith remembers anything that might help. Same thing we’re doing, remember?"

  Steve slumped in his chair. He looked so lost and forlorn that Hank hardly recognized him as the policeman, and later detective, he had known and worked with for the past couple of years. This broken man just didn’t seem like the Steve Beck he knew, and Hank didn't have a clue how to proceed around this side of his friend.

  "He knew," Steve said quietly. "Scotty knew and he didn't tell me. I didn't see it, but I should have, and if he had only told me…"

  "Knew what, Steve?" Hank asked carefully. "What did Scott know?"

  Silently, reluctantly, Steve slid the sheet of paper across the table toward the other detective. Hank kept a wary eye on him as he gently picked up the paper and looked at it.

  The drawing sprawled out across the paper was the work of a typical five-year-old, Hank thought. It had stick figure people standing around smiling under bubbly clouds and a scribbled sun that was streaming sunbeams across the page. It was simple, with four figures scattered around, three of them helpfully identified. Daddy, Mommy, Me.

  The fourth, however, was unidentified. It was off to the side, separate from the stick-figure family, and colored differently. This one was drawn with a dark red crayon, whereas the others were done with a happier pink one. The red figure wasn't smiling like the others, but almost seemed to be leering at them, the child’s limited artistic ability trying to convey the idea of the red guy watching the pink family.

  Hank furrowed his brow as he studied the drawing. It could mean anything, really. Maybe it was an imaginary friend that Scott had thought to add at the last minute. Maybe it was his babysitter, whom Steve had mentioned had been there at the park that morning. Maybe it was a friend Scott had seen.

  But maybe, just maybe, it was a hint that Scott had seen the man who took him, and he'd made enough of an impression to be added into the boy's drawing.

  * * *

  Hank stood up from where he had crouched beside Scott's bed, scanning the room as he made his way over to Steve, who was staring at the windowsill. Hank stepped up beside him and followed his gaze, his own eyes fixing on the bloodstain.

  "They haven't determined whose it is yet," he said quietly. "It may not be his. We might even get lucky and get a hit on the kidnapper."

  Steve leaned over the windowsill, looking at something other than the red splotch. Hank twitched his eyebrow, his eyes going to Steve's face before yet again following the line of his eyesight. The outside portion of the window stuck out of the wall, almost like a small ledge. The white paint was scratched in two places, and Hank wracked his brain to try to come up with any idea of what could have caused them.

  "My ladder," Steve said. "The kidnapper got it out of the garage and leaned it against the windowsill. The top of it scratched the paint."

  "It’s possible," Hank allowed. "But how did he climb back out with a five-year-old?"

  Steve hesitated. "Scott would've struggled," he finally said. "Even if it meant that the kidnapper might drop him, he wouldn't have let a stranger take him without a fight. If Scott did know him, he would've been suspicious that he snuck in through the window."

  "Maybe the suspect never meant to kidnap him," Hank said, crossing his arms and resting his chin on his fist. "Maybe they just wanted to break into the house, steal a few things. Just didn't realize that Scott was in here. Maybe Scott woke up; startled the suspect."

  "Then why not just kill him?" Steve questioned, hiding the quiver in his voice well, but not well enough to escape Hank's notice. He chose to ignore it.

  "Maybe he didn't have a weapon, or wasn’t strong enough to strangle or…" Hank, noticing Steve's expression, despite his best efforts to cover it, quickly changed tack. "So they just took him. Or maybe they didn't want to have to kill anybody. Was anything taken?"

  Steve shook his head, then paused. "Not really. Scott's baby blanket is missing, but I assume he had it with him when…" He shook his head again. "Why break in here to rob the place, only to run off with Scott?"

  "Maybe they weren't wearing masks and were worried that Scott would be able to identify them if they took anything, so they took him to cover themselves.” He let out a sigh. “Of course, the fact that they didn't take anything else could mean that it was Scott they were after in the first place."

  Steve shook his head again. "Even if they did change their mind, the average robber would at least take something of value. Nothing's missing, from Scott's room or anywhere in the house other than that blanket, and it’s not exactly valuable."

  "So maybe Scott was the intended target after all." Hank sighed again, rubbing his forehead. "Basically, we're back to square one."

  "In other words, we have absolutely nothing to go on," Steve said, his eyes firmly focused on the wall above the small, barren bed. "My little boy could be anywhere, with anyone."

  * * *

  Two Months Later

  "Steve?" Hank called as he entered the room. "The front door was unlocked," he said by way of answer when Steve spun around and stared at him. "You didn't come to work today, and you haven’t been answering your phone."

  "I was busy," Steve said vaguely, turning back to the wall opposite the door.

  "I see that," Hank said, pulling out a chair from the desk and easing himself in to it. "Quite the set-up you've got here." He looked around the room, taking in the various photos and notes tape
d to the walls. It was rather like the boards the task force set up when they were working on a case, but on a larger, whole-room scale.

  "You're still looking for him," Hank said quietly.

  Steve clenched his jaw, but didn't turn away from the wall, keeping his back to Nestor. "Of course I am," he said. "He’s my son. I'm not going to give up on him until I know what happened."

  Hank eyed his friend. "Steve." He sighed reluctantly. "It’s been two months. You know the chances for abducted children, I know you do. I hate to say it, I really do, but Scott was most likely…”

  "I know," Steve said sharply, cutting him off. "I know that children who are kidnapped are usually killed in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours, but he’s my son, Hank. I have to believe he’s alive. If I don't…" He paused and took a breath. "I'm going to act like he’s alive; I’m going to keep right on working his case, until the day I'm proven wrong, until I see absolute, incontrovertible proof that he’s dead. I won't like it, not in the least, but I'll accept it. I hope it never happens, I hope I'll be able to get him back alive—but I'm going to keep working my ass off to find him until there is no hope left."

  Hank stayed quiet for a moment, allowing Steve to study his notes and the photos of Scott's room. "Have you actually gone into Scott's room yet?" he asked. Steve stiffened and shook his head. Hank's eyes were drawn to a framed picture on the desk. It was the stick-figure drawing that Scott had done. "How's Edith?"

  Steve let out a sigh. "She’s threatening to leave me."

  "What?" Hank blinked in shock. "Threatening to leave? Why?"

  "She thinks he’s dead. She's been trying to convince me to let the case go, to allow myself to grieve. She doesn’t understand that I can’t accept it without proof."

  "Would you be able to handle proof?"

  Steve hesitated. "I don't know. But I have to have it, if I’m ever going to let this go. Edith doesn’t get that. She insists that our boy is just gone, and that I need to accept that. At first, she believed me. She believed that he was alive as much as I did; she encouraged me to keep looking for him. Then, two weeks ago, it was Scotty's sixth birthday." He paused. "That's when it changed for her. She… broke down. Cried for a week, wouldn't leave the house. Convinced herself that he was dead, that it was too late. After I refused to believe it, she said if I didn’t give this up, she would have to leave, that all I was doing was dredging up memories and not allowing them to be put to rest. She said I wouldn't let myself or her have peace—wouldn't let my son have any peace."