A Change in Altitude

by Cindy Myers

  Sharon wondered why Alina wasn’t angry with her father. After all, Joe was the one who’d made the decision to move; this was all his fault. But maybe admitting that her father was to blame hurt too much for the girl. A sibling felt less like a part of yourself than a parent whose approval you’d spent all your life seeking.

  “Let’s go into the kitchen,” Sharon said. “I’ll make coffee.”

  He followed her into the small room and waited while she measured grounds into the coffee maker and filled the reservoir with water. When she’d started the machine and turned to face him, he asked the question she’d been dreading. “Do you have any reason to believe your ex-husband would hurt your son?”

  She gripped the edge of the counter, the ridge of tile digging into her palms. “I don’t think so. Or maybe I don’t want to believe so.”

  “How old is your son?”

  “He’s fifteen.” The age she’d been when she had him—the idea seemed shocking, even to her.

  “When was the last time you talked to him—Adan, is that his name?”

  “Yes. It means ‘little fire.’ He was such a lively baby.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that threatened as she remembered her firstborn as an infant, always alert and curious, eager to explore the world.

  “I know this is hard. Take your time.” Josh’s voice was so soft and soothing. When she opened her eyes, he regarded her with a calm compassion that washed over her like a healing balm. She released her hold on the counter. Now was no time to fall apart. She had a job to do; she had to find her son.

  “The last time I talked to him was last week, so . . . five days ago?” She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure it was Wednesday.”

  “Did you call him, or did he call you?”

  “I called him. It was about nine in the morning here, before I went to work, so eleven there.”

  “How did he sound?”

  She wished she could lie and tell this kind man that she’d had a wonderful conversation with her son, that he’d been glad to hear from her and told her he missed her and he loved her. It was the kind of conversation she’d imagined having when she’d given Adan the phone, but the reality was much harder to acknowledge. “He was annoyed. He was angry with me for leaving, and he didn’t want to talk. But he said he was fine, and he never mentioned that they’d moved, though my neighbor tells me they’d been gone at least a week by that time.”

  “Did your husband ever mention wanting to live someplace else? Did he have friends or relatives he might have gone to?”

  “Joe wasn’t in contact with his family. They were somewhere in the Midwest—Iowa or Nebraska or someplace—but he hadn’t spoken to any of them in years.” That was something they’d had in common, a desire to cut all ties with the people who had raised them. She felt physically ill when she thought that Adan might want the same thing when it came to her.

  “And friends?” Josh prompted.

  “All his friends were with him.”

  Josh’s puzzled expression required an answer. She tried to sort out the right words to explain the strange life she’d lived too long. “Joe believed in doing things for himself, in being independent. When we first married, that meant planting a big garden and making our own furniture and stuff. But over the years, he gravitated toward more extreme groups. He began stockpiling food and ammunition. He spent a lot of time online, reading about various conspiracy theories. He became more and more paranoid, believing horrible, ridiculous things about the government. He met others who believed the same things, and about five years ago, they decided to all live together in a kind of compound on some land they bought in upstate Vermont.”

  She sighed. Now that she had put some time and physical distance between herself and all that had happened, she saw how naïve and complacent she’d been. She’d told herself it was her duty to follow her husband and look after her children and yes, she’d been drawn in by the picture Joe had painted of their little family making a way for themselves, living life on their own terms, free of the interference of anyone else. “He made it sound like paradise. Our own little Eden. We moved out there and built a house and barn. We planted a garden and hunted for meat, and I homeschooled the children. I thought everything would be all right.”

  “And these friends moved there, too.”

  “Yes, a man named Wilson Anderson. He was a little older than Joe and had been in the military. The navy, I think. He had a lot of tattoos he said he’d gotten in the service. And there was a couple from Russia—Earl and Oksana Petricoff. They were older, too, and not very friendly. There were two other couples originally, but they moved on after a few years. I think they didn’t like Wilson and Joe telling them what to do.”

  “So, your husband and this Wilson were the leaders of the group?”

  “Yes, he liked that—being in charge.” Joe was not a physical bully—he’d never raised his hand to her or the children. But he’d raised his voice, and he knew how to use words as weapons, belittling the opinions of others, dismissing their concerns or beliefs. With his words he’d reduced them all to lesser beings than himself. Away from his sphere of influence, Sharon could see how much power he’d wielded over them all—how much power she’d given away to him. The realization made her feel sick. How could she have left her son behind to endure that? How had she allowed Joe to convince her that she was doing the right thing in abandoning her oldest child?

  Josh made no comment, and tension built as the silence lengthened. Josh said nothing, and his face betrayed no emotion beyond quiet concern. Finally, he spoke. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us locate your son?”

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, pushing aside the grief and guilt that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to be strong. She had to focus on Adan, on helping him. “Wherever they went, it was probably more remote even than where we’d been. Joe wanted to be off the grid and off the map, he used to say. He wouldn’t use cell phones because he believed the government could use them to track people. He wouldn’t register to vote or buy a hunting license or renew his driver’s license.” They hadn’t paid taxes in years, but then, they’d had so little income she hadn’t thought it mattered.

  “You said he spent time on the Internet. Do you know a name he might have used on the conspiracy group Web sites?”

  “He called himself Badger.” Badgers, he’d explained to her, were wild and fierce loners, who fought off even much larger attackers to protect what was theirs. No mention of the badger’s mate and children; they were on their own.

  “That’s a place to start, then. We can go on some of the sites and see if he’s posted, maybe track him that way. He probably hasn’t left the country. Even if he has legal custody of your son, he’d need permission from you to take him overseas or into Canada. He might be able to slip into Mexico, but it’s a long way from Vermont.”

  “He wouldn’t have gone to Mexico. He was horribly prejudiced, and despite his hatred for the United States government, he thought of himself as a true patriot.”

  “We should contact the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and alert them. They can start circulating Adan’s picture. And I’ll talk to the police in Vermont. They may know something.”

  In her heart, she knew all of these actions were unlikely to be of much help, but having a plan made her feel so much more steady on her feet. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I left him there?” she asked. “How could a mother abandon her child to that kind of life?”

  “It’s not my place to judge you, Sharon.”

  “Why not? I judge myself every day.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and choked back a sob.

  “Hey, this is not your fault.” He gently pulled her hands away from her face, his arm tight around her shoulder, supporting her.

  “How is it not my fault? I left him. No wonder he hated me.”

  “Split custody isn’t that unusual in divorce,” he said. “And plenty of teenage boys would cho
ose a life of freedom running around in the woods over days spent in the classroom. I probably would have at Adan’s age.”

  “Yes.” She tore a paper towel from a roll on the counter and blew her nose. “He said he wanted to stay with Joe, and Joe wouldn’t agree to the divorce unless I let Adan stay. I didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t feel I had a choice.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you did.”

  “My lawyer told me Adan was old enough to choose—that a court would grant Joe custody anyway, even if I tried to fight it. I didn’t have the money to do that, in any case.”

  “You don’t have to justify your actions to me.”

  Maybe not. But she was still trying to justify them to herself. “I couldn’t stay with Joe anymore. I hadn’t loved him for years.” She glanced toward the living room; Alina still sat on the sofa, huddled against the cushions, staring into space. She lowered her voice. “Wilson was after Alina. He hadn’t done anything yet, but I’d caught him with her in the barn.... Joe didn’t see anything wrong with it. That’s when I knew I had to go.”

  “Your ex better hope I never meet him in a dark alley.”

  The anger behind the words touched her even more than his previous compassion. No one else had cared what happened to her for so long—maybe never, really. She had to turn away to keep the emotion from showing on her face. “What do I need to do now?” she asked.

  “Nothing yet. Other law enforcement may contact you for more information. And if you have a picture of Adan, I’ll need that.”

  “Of course. I have a photo album in my bedroom.”

  He waited while she retrieved the photo. “It’s a couple years old,” she said when she handed him the snapshot a friend had taken at a picnic. “Adan is taller now, and his hair is longer, past his shoulders.”

  “This will be fine.” He tucked the picture in his pocket. “I’d better go now. Do you want me to call someone to stay with you? Jameso?”

  If her brother came, what could he do? She’d headed to Eureka with the idea that Jameso would look after her, the way he had when they were kids. Because all the other men who’d been important in her life—her father and her husband—had told her she wasn’t capable of looking after herself, she’d believed them. She shook her head. “I’ll be all right now. Thank you. You’ve already helped so much, just coming here tonight.”

  “Hang in there. I’ll let you know what I find out.” He squeezed her shoulder, a brief, reassuring gesture. She walked with him to the door, then stood at the front window and watched until the taillights of his car were no longer visible.

  She felt like someone coming out of anesthesia after surgery. Away from the belittling words men had showered her with all her life, she was finally waking up. She felt new pain, but she was alive and building up her strength. She had to take care of herself and her daughter; no one else would care as much about them as she did.

  “It feels so great not to have to sit at the library all afternoon,” Alina said as she peddled hard after Lucas up the slight hill leading to the Eureka County offices. She squinted into the bright sun, and a breeze blew back her hair, bringing the scents of cedar and vanilla, which Lucas had explained was the smell of ponderosa pine trees. Just ahead of her, Lucas stood on the pedals of his bike to blast up the steepest part of the hill, long legs pumping, shoulders straining against a black T-shirt with the logo for the Drive-By Truckers, which he said he’d borrowed from his mom’s boyfriend.

  “I’m glad your mom finally lifted your punishment,” Lucas said, when she joined him at the top of the hill. “I was waiting for you to do this.”

  “Thanks.” She slid off the seat of the mountain bike Uncle Jameso had said she could use as long as she liked. “And thanks for your help with the science project. I never would have gotten an A without your help. I don’t know anything about rockets.”

  “You’d have done all right. You’re smart.” They walked their bikes into the gravel lot in front of the brick building that served as courthouse and clerk’s office for tiny Eureka County.

  She liked it when he said things like that. Her mother told her all the time that she was smart and pretty and good, but mothers always thought those things. No one else had ever given her compliments, not and really meant them. “Do you know where we go to find out about your house?”

  “Miss Wynock said I had to ask for the tax records in the clerk’s office.” He held the door open and they stepped into a wood-floored room flanked on one side by a long counter.

  “May I help you?” A sandy-haired woman with a long face and deep grooves on either side of her mouth asked.

  “We’d like to see the property tax records for 116 Pinion Lane . . . as far back as you have them, please.” Lucas looked the woman in the eye and spoke firmly and politely, his voice, which was still changing and had a tendency to break and rise alarmingly at times, modulated to its lowest bass.

  “And why do you want that information?” the woman asked.

  “My parents just bought the property and as a housewarming surprise, I’m researching its history. The librarian told me this was the place to start.”

  “Oh, she did, did she?” The lines around the woman’s mouth deepened. She turned to Alina. “Who are you?”

  “I’m his friend. I’m here to help.” She had to force herself not to fidget. She hated adults who looked at kids as if they were all about to steal or break something.

  “The older records are not computerized,” the woman said. “They’re filed in ledgers, which are quite old and fragile.”

  “We’ll be very careful.” To Alina’s surprise, Lucas pulled a pair of thin white gloves from his pocket. “I’m used to looking through rare books in the library’s collections, so I know how to handle them,” he said. He handed a second pair of gloves to Alina. “You don’t want the oil from your hands getting on the paper.”

  The woman clearly didn’t know what to say to this, but she soon recovered. “I’m not allowed to show that information to minors.”

  “The property tax records are public records,” Lucas said. “They’re not X-rated or in any way unsuitable for children, though most children wouldn’t be interested. I am and if you won’t show them to me, I’ll ask Mr. Paxton to file a request with the court. You could be charged with obstruction, or at the least your boss probably wouldn’t appreciate the judge’s attention on this office.”

  The woman looked ready to spit nails. Alina had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Lucas, with his round glasses and serious expression, plus his formal manner of speaking, looked like a kid lawyer. He also sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Mr. Paxton was the lawyer who had offices over the Last Dollar Cafe. He looked more like a biker than an attorney, but Alina guessed he really was one, because as soon as Lucas said his name, the woman behind the counter turned white, then red.

  She opened a half door at one end of the counter and motioned them through. “I’ll show you where the records are kept, but you’ll have to find what you need yourself,” she said. “I have other work to do.”

  “Thank you.”

  They followed her into a windowless, musty room that was scarcely bigger than a closet. The clerk switched on the light and pointed to shelves of thick, leather-bound books. “The records are arranged by year, beginning in 1887, when the county was established. Properties are listed according to their legal description, not by address. Be sure to put everything back the way you found it.”

  With a stiff nod, she left them, leaving the door open behind her. Alina moved closer to Lucas. “Do you know the legal description of your folks’ place?” she whispered.

  “No, we’ll just have to read through everything until we find it.” He leaned forward and squinted at the top row of books. “Let’s start with 1966. That’s the first year Adelaide shows up missing in the Women’s Society scrapbooks.”

  Alina slipped on the gloves and helped him lift down the massive book. It was probably tw
o feet high and almost as wide. When they opened it, she let out a groan. “How are we going to read this?” she asked, staring at line after line of spidery handwriting.

  “It’s not too hard after you get used to it.” He pointed to the top of the page. “This must be the legal description—section and lot numbers from when the town was platted. If we can figure out how it’s organized, we can turn to the part of town where the house is located and find it that way.”

  “Or we could look for the name, McCutcheon.” She pointed to a column on the left side of the page. “This looks like it might be listings of the property owners.”

  He nodded. “I think you’re right. Come on. Help me look.”

  Lucas was right; after a while the handwriting wasn’t so difficult to make out. Whoever had written this was neat, and wrote with a lot of extra curlicues, but it was like cracking a code. She skimmed over numbers and looked for names, nodding when Lucas should turn the page. Ten pages in, she spotted it. “There!” She pointed to a line halfway down the page. “Cecil McCutcheon. That’s him.”

  “And there’s the lot description.” Lucas wrote down the section and lot number while Alina hurried to pull down the book for 1967. He helped her wrestle it down, and they opened it to the page for the McCutcheon home. Lucas took notes, and they moved on to the next book. Within half an hour, they’d examined the records all the way up to 1969, when the Gilroys became the owners of the house.

  They replaced the last book on the shelf and returned to sit side by side at the little table. “The house didn’t sell until three years after Mrs. McCutcheon disappears from the Women’s Society yearbooks,” Lucas said.

  “So did Mr. McCutcheon kill her and bury her body in the garden and live there three more years?” Alina said. “In a small town, people would have noticed.”

  “Maybe he told them she’d gone to stay with a sick relative.”

  “Not for three years.”

  “Maybe they divorced.”

  “Maybe . . . but that would have been a scandal, too, I bet. People didn’t divorce as much back then.”