by Robin Lyons
Maggie looked concerned. “I’m afraid it’s too late.”
The siblings were lost in their own thoughts for a minute.
Maggie broke the silence. “I started with Bobby’s stuff and want to stick with it until I’ve separated what I want to keep. What did you want to look through?”
“Mom and dad’s stuff, I guess.”
“Over along the wall.” She waved her hand in the general direction. “Mom kept Grandpa’s possessions over there.” She pointed to a far corner. “If you’d rather look through his stuff.”
Mac’s head turned to follow Maggie’s finger.
“And there’s a table lamp you can plug in to have direct light.”
“Okay. There’s a new girl at school. The one whose parents died in the head-on collision on the highway.”
Her eyes welled up. “That’s so sad. They didn’t even bring them to the hospital, DOA at the scene. She wasn’t at Blackstone before, but she is now?”
“Kinda weird. The girl attended Brookfield High School until the accident. Now she lives with a foster family in Blackstone Estates. They’ve never been foster parents before. That’s odd, right? Rich couple taking in a foster kid?”
“Not your normal foster home. How’s the girl?”
“She’s adjusting and is friends with—of all people—Kevin Jackson.” He waved his hand. “I don’t want to talk about work anymore. I’m going to dive into grandpa’s stuff.”
The house heat rose through the hatch, and the space heater spewed hot air. Both helped take the bite out of the cold temperature. Outside the wind howled, making the attic creak and moan.
Mac pulled boxes marked ‘Dad’ close to him. He hadn’t seen his mother’s familiar writing in many years. Her distinct and perfect penmanship always impressed him.
He popped the top off the first box and found clothes. He recognized a few pieces, his grandpa’s flannel shirts, and slacks.
Mac pulled out his grandpa’s gray coveralls and shook them out sending a dust cloud against the wall.
“Check it out. Grandpa’s coveralls. Remember, before he got sick, he wore these all the time?” He held up the garment for Maggie to see.
“I do remember. Mom must’ve hauled all of the stuff from his and Grandma’s house over here.”
“Hmm,” Mac mumbled, “Weird. I don’t recall her taking stuff up and down the ladder to get it up here. Do You?”
“No. I was probably in nursing school, and you were a teenager with a job.”
“I suppose. Do you want to keep any of Grandpa’s clothes?”
“Not really. Take what you want and set the rest near the hatch.”
Mac placed everything except the coveralls back into the box, replaced the lid and pushed the box toward the hatch. Next, he opened a smaller box.
He found a few old photos of his grandpa in the army and of him in a baseball uniform when he played on a farm-league. Mac stared at the photos of his grandpa as a young man.
“You okay over there? You’re not making much noise.” Maggie’s voice roused him from his trance.
“Yeah, I was looking at some old photos of Grandpa.” He held up a handful. “He was a handsome guy.
“That’s where you got your good looks.” Maggie chuckled.
Mac found a small wooden box that looked handmade. He turned it over and saw his grandpa’s initials. Made sense. His grandpa was a carpenter by trade. He enjoyed whittling and creating anything from wood. Mac thought about the miniature pig his grandpa whittled for him when he was a kid. He’s carried that pig with him all over the world.
When Mac opened the tiny box, he saw a folded piece of paper with his name on it in his mother’s perfect writing. He opened the note and began to read his mother’s message.
Dearest, Son,
It’s Thursday, June 28, 2006. If you’re reading this, it means I outlived your father and kept my dad’s belongings safely stored in the attic. If your father survived me, he’d have burned dad’s things, and you’d never have known about this note.
Secrets. Parents always have secrets they can’t bear to share with their children. Things they’ve done and regretted, mostly in their teenage years or twenties. Mine was in my forties. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you this while I was alive. I was too ashamed. Over the years, I confronted your dad several times about your suspicion. He always flew into a rage and went on a bender which made me believe he did do something terrible. He finally admitted it tonight—he said he’d done to Grandpa precisely what you thought he had. He warned me if I told anyone he’d deny it. Sixteen years later we now know the truth. I wished I could have recorded him somehow. You’ll just have to take my word that he confessed.
Poor dad. He must have suffered.
Right now, your dad’s passed out after drinking himself into oblivion. The truth must have been too much for him. Tomorrow, when I’m at church to help organize the rummage sale, I’m going to confide in a friend. When I get home, I’m going to pack my bags and call Maggie so she and Bobby can pick me up. I’m leaving your dad. I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth about why I left your dad, but I was afraid you’d kill him. I wasn’t afraid for him, I was scared for you. You were right all along, such a smart young man at seventeen.
I love you with all my heart, Mom
Bewildered, Mac choked out the words, “Maggie. Come here. You have to read this letter from Mom.”
Maggie scrambled to her feet and made it to Mac’s side in three giant steps. Mac handed the note to her. After reading a few lines, tears began to stream down her cheeks. When she finished, she dropped the paper on the dusty floor and began to sob.
“That son of a bitch.”
They both jumped when they heard Lindy say, “Can we make popcorn?” Standing on the top rung of the ladder, Mac could only see her head.
“We’ll be down shortly. Microwave popcorn’s fine.”
Maggie’s huge eyes stared at Mac.
“I don’t even know how to process this,” she said.
“I know what you mean. I’m done up here for today.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
They quickly turned off the heater, the lights and scurried down the ladder like two kids in trouble for snooping.
Before Mac left, he sat next to Lindy on the sofa. He helped himself to a few pieces of popcorn. “You put M&M candies in your popcorn?”
“MmHmm.” She smiled.
“Hey, birthday girl, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How do you communicate with friends nowadays?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was your age, I called my friends on the telephone because we didn’t have texting. How do you chat with friends?”
“I text. Older kids use something called DayJabber. Mom won’t let me do that.”
“Moms are like that. What’s DayJabber?”
A website you go on and talk with friends. Every night at midnight it resets and deletes your previous conversations.”
He stared at his niece.
She made air quotes with her fingers. “DayJabber” She smiled. “You jabber for the day, and then your conversation’s gone.”
“Okay, I’m getting it. Sort of.” He leaned over and kissed his niece on her forehead. “Thank you and Happy birthday.”
Walking to his truck, he wondered if Brandi communicated with friends on DayJabber.
Chapter 18
Crosby’s wife Kim burst through the study door. He paused the video he’d been watching.
“Really, Crosby. You’re watching videos again?” His wife stood a few steps inside the study, her hands firmly placed on her hips. Her pregnant belly protruded from her small frame like she’d swallowed a basketball. To look at her as she walked away, you almost couldn’t tell she was expecting their first child. From the front, there was no doubt.
“I thought since we didn’t have plans I could knock out a few more videos.”
She stomped her
foot. “You never have time to talk to me anymore. I hate that you have this speaker club thing. It takes too much of your time.”
“Babe. It’s extra money. And I can’t quit mid-semester. If you don’t want me to continue, I won’t sign up for it next year.” He closed his laptop and moved to the leather sofa and patted the spot next to him. “Come here. What would you like to talk about?”
He saw his wife physically relax as she waddled toward him. She yammered about the items she’d purchased for the baby and what they still needed.
The clock ticked off ten minutes, then twenty. Crosby grew tired of the baby talk.
“I start seeing the doctor weekly now. It won’t be long before the baby’s born. Are you getting excited to see our daughter?”
“It seems surreal to me.”
His wife leaned in and kissed him.
“You know I have to get the videos graded sometime. If I don’t get back to work, I’ll have to stay up late to get them done. You don’t want to go to bed alone, do you?” He gazed into her eyes and gave her the best ‘loving husband’ face he could muster.
“Okay. Hurry up.” She attempted to push herself up from the sofa that almost swallowed her up. “Help me, please.”
He pulled her up from the sofa, swatted her behind as she began to walk away which made her giggle. “Since Monday’s a holiday, let’s go for a drive tomorrow and spend the night?”
“I don’t want to be that far from the hospital.”
When she shut the door, it felt like she sucked the air from the room. Crosby stretched his arms high into the air, touched his toes a few times and decided to mix another drink before he resumed grading videos. Sometimes the kids droned on enough in their assigned tasks to put him to sleep.
After returning from the alcohol cabinet, he settled into his captain’s chair behind his desk. Crosby opened the laptop, put in his earbuds and clicked the play arrow on the video he was watching before his wife interrupted.
With a glass of rum and coke in hand, he leaned back in the chair and lifted his feet onto the desktop.
The student delivered a Winter Pruning and Fire Prevention presentation at a county Master Gardener’s meeting. Three more videos to watch and he’d be done.
Crosby finished viewing the videos, shut down his computer, rattled the ice in his glass and drained the last few drops of his drink.
On his way to drop off his empty glass in the kitchen, he stopped by the alcohol cabinet and made himself one last cocktail. Filled his glass halfway with vodka added a splash of coffee liqueur and topped it off with a splash of milk. He downed the nightcap in two big gulps.
Chapter 19
Mac sat at the table in his kitchen alcove eating a late dinner when his sister called him. He was spent from the Brazilian Jiu Jitsu he taught every Sunday evening.
Roxy slept on her pad in the corner.
On his way home from the gym, he’d picked up some tacos from Tres Esposas. He was one taco and half a beer into his meal.
The sudden movement of him fishing his phone out of his pants pocket roused Roxy. She jumped up in full protection mode.
Maggie was calling.
“Hey, Sis.”
“Are you watching the news?” Her voice, rushed and breathy.
“No. I just got home from jiu jitsu.”
“Turn it on. A young boy’s missing from Blackstone Estates. He might be one of your kids.”
“Okay.”
“Call me when you know more about what’s happening.”
“Okay.”
Mac and Roxy went to the living room and waited for the evening news to appear on the TV screen.
“This is a Special-Breaking News Report. We’re down the street from the Haspel home in Blackstone Estates where eight-year-old Donny James, from Vallejo, California, and his parents were spending the weekend with Donny’s grandparents. Donny hasn’t been seen since two o’clock this afternoon.” The reporter, amped up, talked fast. “According to the police, Donny said he was going outside to play. Thirty minutes or so had passed when his mother went to check on him. But she couldn’t find him. The family quickly began searching the neighborhood.”
Mac called his longtime friend and fellow special operations airmen, Detective Jason Marten. Jason answered quickly, “Mac.”
“Hey. Are you on this missing boy case?”
“No. Why?”
“I want to join the search for the boy. Do I just show up?”
“I’ll make a call and get back to you in a few minutes.” The line went dead.
Mac texted Maggie: The boy’s from Vallejo, not Blackstone Academy. Visiting his grandparents.
Maggie: I just heard that. So sad.
Mac: I’m waiting for Jason to call back. I’m going to help look for the boy.
Maggie: Oh, my gosh, you’re awesome.
Mac: I’ve been teaching Roxy how to track a smell. But she’s getting pretty good.
Maggie: Really?
Jason’s call appeared on his cell phone.
Mac: Be right back.
“Jason.”
“Just show up. Look for the canopy, that’s the staging area. Take a good flashlight and extra batteries.”
“Thanks, brother.”
Mac disconnected, cleaned up his dinner mess, put on a pot of coffee and hustled to his bedroom to change into warmer clothing.
Maggie texted: What’s happening?
Mac: Going to join the search. I’ll text later.
Maggie: Okay. Be safe.
At most twenty minutes passed since his sister called him about the missing boy before he was on his way to Blackstone Estates. He’d made himself a thermos full of coffee plus an extra travel mug for the road. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to smell beer on his breath and assume he was drunk. He felt no level of impairment from the half bottle of beer he’d consumed with his tacos.
Roxy sat at full attention in the backseat of his truck. Ready for an adventure.
A line of cars waited for clearance to enter the upscale gated community of Blackstone Estates. Mac hadn’t been in that area since he’d gone with Jason to Randall Jackson’s home. Not a pleasant experience. He hoped this trip turned out more positively.
After he told the security guard he was there to help with the search, the guard gave his automated speech he’d apparently said a few times. “Right on Goldstone. Left on Sandstone to the end at Limestone. Park where you can. You’ll see the staging area. It’s a large canopy.” The uniformed man stepped back and waved to the vehicle behind Mac.
As Mac approached the end of Sandstone, an older low-ranking volunteer police officer stopped him.
Mac powered down his window. Roxy whimpered from the backseat.
The volunteer leaned down and looked in the truck. “Are you a resident?”
“No. I’m here to help in the search.”
“Make a right there.” He pointed to the street in front of the barricade. “Park where you can, but don’t block anyone’s driveway. The staging area’s at the end of the road.” The officer turned away from Mac and pointed in a direction.
“Thanks.”
Mac followed the orders and several blocks away found a spot along the curb where he parked.
Roxy sensed something exciting, although her definition was a bit skewed. Exciting could be anything from a ride in the truck to a raw turkey neck.
They walked briskly past large, pricey homes. As Mac got closer to the action, the street became more populated. Large tables manned by men and women—some in law enforcement uniforms, others in civilian clothes—crowded under an over-sized pop-up canopy.
The neighborhood felt somewhat familiar to Mac.
Mac had participated in several search and rescues throughout his years in the air force. This was his first civilian search.
When Mac told an older woman why he came, she hugged him. “Bless you.” Her eyes showed surprise when he asked if Roxy could smell something from the boy.
He downplayed Roxy’s level of competency because he didn’t know how she’d perform.
The elder coordinator slid her arm into the crook of Mac’s arm and walked him to the front door of the boy’s grandparent’s home.
Mac couldn’t believe his eyes as they approached the stately home—only two houses down from the Jackson’s home. Bad luck neighborhood.
A man who looked the part of a butler answered the door. They stood on the large front porch and explained what they needed. Mac heard crying and voices inside the home.
Mac paid attention to the cycles of the moon. A cold, dark night, he knew the moon wouldn’t rise until after midnight.
As he and his elderly companion waited for someone to return with something from the boy, she told him he needed to search with another person. They didn’t allow anyone to search alone. Roxy didn’t count.
A man about Mac’s age, dressed in casual clothes, opened the door. Concern was etched on his face. He held out a small zip up hoodie. Mac accepted the garment. He looked into Mac’s eyes and squeaked out the words, “Thank you,” before he shut the door.
The search coordinator introduced Mac to another guy, looked to be in his fifties. Mac let Roxy smell the hoodie and gave her the command to find it. Up until now, the various items he’d hidden had been somewhere inside or outside his house.
Roxy pulled him down the street. He knew Brookfield Creek ran along the backside of the houses where the Haspel home was located. The same creek ran behind Mac’s home. He knew the steep ravine led to the creek which flowed by a large undeveloped greenbelt between the estates and town. Neither of the two locations were places an eight-year-old should play—especially in the dark. Roxy was headed straight for the greenbelt.
The lights from all the people searching for young Donny lit up the darkening sky.
“Are you part of the search and rescue group?” His fifty-something search partner asked.
“No. Just wanted to help.”
“You have a search dog?”
“Nope. She’s an amateur sleuth.”
Mac could feel the man looking at him.