Accidentally On Purpose

by J. M. Snyder

  He would probably do just that, too. Alan wouldn’t put it past him. And the thought of seeing Jim again so soon is tempting, Alan has to admit.

  But no. He has to think of Brooks. He’ll see Jim soon enough, and will talk to him sooner. Best head home now and get some sleep.

  Heaven knows if things turn out tomorrow the way they did tonight, he’s going to need all the sleep he can get.

  Pocketing his phone, he puts the car into gear and eases away from the curb and into the night.

  * * * *

  When Alan pulls into his driveway, the first thing he notices is the porch light is off. He could’ve sworn he left it on earlier. Maybe Brooks turned it off when he came in?

  Alan gets out of the car and, force of habit, checks the door to make sure it’s locked before heading up to the house. On the way he almost stumbles over his nephew’s bicycle, which was left tossed against the porch steps. Alan kicks it out of his way with a growl. They’ll have to talk about that in the morning.

  Inside the house is quiet, at least. A lamp in the living room is on, throwing a cone of white light into the hallway. It’s enough for Alan to see by, and he steps out of his shoes, leaving them under the entryway table. Next he drops his keys in the cup on the table that’s there for just that purpose, then roots under them to see if Brooks’ keys are there, too.

  They are. Good. So he’s home, at least. Hopefully in bed asleep, given the late hour. Alan will check on the way to his own room.

  He starts upstairs, thinking he might stay up a bit, read a little; he isn’t all that tired. But somewhere between the first riser and the last, Alan’s second wind blows out, and he feels every day of his fifty-three years. Jim gave him quite the workout earlier. Alan wonders if every evening they spend together will end with them in bed. Not that he’s complaining, but maybe he should think about getting back into shape. He isn’t used to such vigorous exercise.

  At the top of the stairs are a pair of black jeans, legs twisted together. One sneaker is stuck in a pant leg; the other is kicked up against the railing that overlooks the downstairs. Farther along the hallway, Alan sees a wet T-shirt and his nephew’s favorite black hoodie, one arm turned inside out. An overturned drinking glass isn’t too far away, the carpet under it obviously damp.

  “What the hell got into you?” Alan mutters, collecting the boy’s things as he moves down the hall. The jeans are damp, too. So what, he spilled his drink and just stripped out of his clothes right here? Didn’t bother to clean up? To no one in particular, Alan mumbles, “He knows better than to pull this shit.”

  The bike isn’t the only thing they’ll be discussing in the morning.

  Alan considers dropping the clothes on the floor of Brooks’ bedroom—or, better yet, tossing them onto the lad’s bed—but the door is closed and he doesn’t want to be petty. He’ll address it after they’ve both had a good night’s sleep.

  So he deposits the clothes into the hamper at the end of the hall, then steps into the bathroom and turns on the light before setting the glass on the counter. His nephew’s room is across the hall, so Alan places the trainers by his door. There he hesitates, hand on the knob, listening.

  Silence. If Brooks is still up, playing on his phone, he’s being sneaky about it.

  Slowly Alan turns the knob, careful to avoid making any noise that might wake his nephew. He doesn’t open the door far, just enough to peek inside. In the ambient light from the bathroom, he sees the foot of the bed, blankets pulled up over a vague shape in the dark room.

  Sleeping. Good. Softly he murmurs, “Night, son.”

  No response, but he doesn’t expect one. He closes the door as carefully as he opened it, then crosses to the bathroom and turns out the light. His bed is calling.

  It’s been quite a day. A wonderful, beautiful, exhausting day.

  Alan hopes tomorrow is, too, and every day after.

  Chapter 19

  Morning comes way too early. Alan would like to go back to sleep, but he’s usually up shortly after the sun rises and his body sticks to routine, no matter how late it was when he went to sleep the night before. So he lingers in bed, one arm thrown over his face to block out the sunlight filtering through the curtains, and replays the evening he spent with Jim. It almost seems like a dream—maybe they only went to dinner and the opera, and afterwards Alan dropped him off and came home alone. Maybe he imagined the kisses, and the touches, and the sex.

  But when he tries to get up, muscles in his hips he didn’t even know he had protest. “Christ,” he moans, easing his legs over the side of the bed. “I got news for you, Jimbo. I’m on top from now on.” He might not need Viagra yet, but he’ll definitely have to take some Advil before they get busy again.

  In fact, he’ll take some now. There’s a bottle in the bathroom medicine cabinet, and he swallows four little brown pills in one gulp. Then he turns on the spigot in the tub as hot as it will go and pulls out the little button to turn on the shower.

  Fortunately the pills take away most of the pain, and the hot water limbers him up a bit. Once he dries off, he pulls on a pair of ratty lounge pants and a faded denim shirt so old, his elbows threaten to wear through the sleeves. He steps into his house slippers as he checks his phone—nothing from Jim yet.

  Yeah, because he’s smart enough to sleep in.

  Still fiddling with his phone, Alan heads out onto the landing. Part of him listens for the usual Saturday morning sounds from downstairs—Brooks pouring cereal, or chewing noisily, the TV tuned to cartoons or YouTube videos, or something loud and guaranteed to disturb Alan’s morning.

  But there are no sounds. Maybe Brooks is trying to keep it down to let Alan recuperate from his date? Or no…Alan sees the trainers are still outside Brooks’ closed door, so his nephew isn’t up yet, either. Maybe he had a late night, too. Who knows? Maybe Miss Kylie didn’t leave until mere moments before Alan pulled in.

  He considers knocking but doesn’t. Let the lad sleep in. And let me have some peace and quiet for once. Lord knows I could use it.

  Downstairs Alan makes a cup of tea—the first of many, he’s sure. As the Keurig warms up, he retrieves the paper from the porch and catches sight of his nephew’s bike still on the steps. Have to remember to mention that, but Alan won’t jump on the boy when he first gets up.

  If he gets up. Alan casts an uneasy glance up the stairs as he heads back into the kitchen. This isn’t like him. Brooks is usually awake by now.

  I’ll give him a half hour, tops. No reason he gets to sleep in when I can’t.

  Alan takes his steaming mug of Earl Grey to the breakfast bar, where he spreads out the paper to read. He glances at the headlines as he stirs sugar into his tea, then blows on the mug and settles on the local section. Idly he wonders if there’s a review of last night’s Carmen performance.

  A faint breeze swirls around his ankles, distracting him.

  The air is cool, almost cold, as if Alan brought the outside in with the paper. He hears the heat blowing through the register, so he shouldn’t be chilly. Unless someone turned down the thermostat.

  But it was warm upstairs. Strange that it’s cold in the kitchen.

  Casually Alan glances at the back door as he takes a sip of his tea, then does a double take. The door stands open a few inches—not much, but enough to cause the draft around his legs. “What the bloody hell…?” His stool scrapes against the floor as he pushes it back to stand.

  He approaches the back door, confused. Why’s it open? Better yet, who opened it? Brooks, must’ve, but when? The boy’s still upstairs asleep. Isn’t he?

  Closer, Alan sees what he first thinks are pebbles on the floor, the kind of clear, polished stones sold in pet shops for use in aquariums. Then he sees a few slivers, and realizes it’s glass. From the window in the door—the curtain flutters over a broken pane, the one closest to the door knob. Carefully Alan raises the curtain just enough to see jagged glass rimming the frame.

  What’s all this, then
?

  Window broken. Door open. Brooks didn’t do this.

  Did he?

  If the door was locked and he didn’t have his keys, Alan reasons, but then why not come around the front and ring the bell?

  Didn’t want to wake me up, maybe? But if this was him, why not clean up the glass and shut the door?

  Why not ask him yourself?

  “Brooks!” Alan calls, knowing full well his nephew can’t hear him all the way upstairs, especially with the bedroom door closed. He starts to shut the back door, then stops. What if this wasn’t Brooks?

  Go upstairs and clear this up. Then get him down here to clean this up.

  Good idea.

  Leaving the back door ajar, Alan sidesteps the glass and heads for the stairs. Halfway up, he calls again, louder this time. “Brooks!”

  No response.

  Then again, if he thinks I’m angry with him, he isn’t likely to answer now, is he?

  He takes a breath to calm down, and waits until he’s at the top of the stairs before calling out again. “Brooks? You up, son?”

  Still no response.

  Well, the door’s closed, so he probably can’t hear me.

  A few short steps brings Alan to Brooks’ room, where his nephew’s trainers still rest against the closed door. Alan raises a hand to knock but first leans closer to listen. He can’t hear anything on the other side. Either Brooks is still asleep, as Alan thought, or he’s actively trying to be quiet.

  And Alan knows he can’t be that quiet. Brooks always has his phone in hand, and it beeps and pings constantly with incoming texts.

  Or he isn’t in there at all.

  Alan pushes that thought away. Where else would he be?

  Rapping his knuckles against the door, Alan calls out, “Brooks? You up?”

  Nothing. Damn it.

  “I’m coming in,” he warns, reaching for the door knob. He waits a second, then turns the knob slowly, giving Brooks plenty of time before he enters. The last thing Alan wants to do is to walk in on the lad doing something he doesn’t want his uncle to see. Alan was fourteen once, too.

  “Brooks?” He eases the door open, then peeks inside. “You awake, mate?”

  The blankets at the foot of the bed haven’t moved since Alan saw them the night before. Then he thought he saw his nephew’s vague shape beneath them. But now he opens the door wider, stepping into the room, and sees the blankets are all bunched up at the end of the bed, making it look as if someone slumbers under them, even though the bed is empty. One pillow is still on the bed, but the other has been tossed on the floor. Clothes are everywhere, strewn around the room—pulled from dresser drawers, thrown from the closet, hangers empty or broken.

  Alan stares in disbelief. Brooks isn’t the neatest of kids, he’d be the first to admit, but this…this is slovenly.

  And Brooks is nowhere in sight.

  “Brooks?”

  Alan hears the concern in his voice and struggles to tamp it down. His nephew’s in the bathroom, or downstairs—just came from there, remember? He wasn’t there.

  But he didn’t actually check the living room.

  Because I didn’t hear him. I called his name at the back door, didn’t I? And he didn’t respond. So he isn’t down there.

  “Brooks!”

  He hollers this time, stepping back into the hall to check the bathroom. The door’s open; no one’s inside. His fingers begin to shake with adrenaline as he snatches the phone from his pocket. Unlocking the screen, he pulls up his nephew’s number, then hits Send.

  From the bedroom comes an indecipherable sound Alan recognizes as his nephew’s ringtone. Something contemporary, what Brooks calls hip hop. Alan doesn’t understand the appeal of such music, and suspects his nephew listens to it just to piss him off. At the moment, though, he’s glad for the sound—he lets the phone ring as he heads back into Brooks’ room to track it down.

  It’s coming from the blankets on the bed.

  Alan rummages through them until he finds the phone. Even though he knows it belongs to Brooks, he double-checks, turning it over to stare at his name on the lock screen. Incoming call: Uncle Al.

  Annoyance flickers through him. Brooks knows he hates that nickname.

  He hits Ignore, then hangs up his own phone. Where would Brooks go without this damn thing attached to his hip? And this early in the morning, too?

  Slowly he looks around the room. If he isn’t mistaken, everything looks rifled through. Brooks never lets his things get this bad. Unless…

  Alan thinks back to the clothing left haphazardly in the hallway when he came in last night. The spilled water, the glass dropped on the floor. And the back door—was it open then? He doesn’t know; he didn’t go into the kitchen, just headed right up to bed.

  What if it wasn’t Brooks at all? What if someone broke in?

  Was Brooks even here when Alan came home?

  Frantically he tears through the clothes, as if he might somehow find Brooks hiding beneath everything. He doesn’t, of course, and then he’s out the door and halfway down the hall, calling with real fear in his voice now, an emotion he doesn’t even try to hide. “Brooks! Dammit, this isn’t funny. If you’re downstairs…”

  But he isn’t. Alan checks the kitchen, the living room, the half bath in the hall. Brooks is nowhere to be found. And in the living room, the cabinets under the TV are open, cords pulled out, gaming systems and discs scattered about. Are all of the consoles here? Alan doesn’t know. Without Brooks, he isn’t even sure which systems they own.

  “Brooks!”

  This last is a strangled cry. Maybe he should look upstairs again. Or check the backyard. Or—

  Or call someone who can help.

  Taking a deep breath, he pulls out his phone again. This time he taps Jim’s number. The phone rings and rings, and rings, damn. How can he still be in bed at a time like this?

  Finally Jim answers, his voice thick with sleep. “Hey you,” he purrs with a sexy huskiness Alan recognizes from when he woke up earlier, when Alan was still over at his place. “What time is it? I was dreaming about you.”

  Everything threatens to tumble out, but somehow Alan manages to choke it back. “Jim.”

  Something in his voice must betray his emotional state, because Jim’s instantly awake. The sexy, sleepy voice disappears and his gruff detective voice rings out through the line. “Alan, what? What is it?”

  “Brooks,” Alan manages. Then, with a sigh, “He’s gone.”

  “Ran off again?” Jim asks.

  Again. If Jim only knew.

  Alan shakes his head, even though Jim can’t see the gesture. “His room’s been gone through, and someone broke a window in the back door. There’s glass on the floor, and I don’t know—”

  “Don’t touch anything,” Jim tells him. “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 20

  Alan is on the porch, arms crossed, when Jim Garrison pulls into his driveway, followed by two police cars. One parks behind Garrison’s unmarked vehicle, the other on the side of the road in front of the house. There are two officers in each patrol car, but Jim is by himself, and he reaches Alan first. He wears a suit, his hair combed back and neat, as if this is just part of the job for him. “Hey,” he says, offering a hand for Alan to shake.

  Alan wants more than a handshake, but the other officers are approaching and anything else will have to wait. So he uncrosses his arms and takes Jim’s hand.

  Jim envelopes it in both of his, as if he can somehow convey whatever it is he’s feeling to Alan through touch alone. In a low voice that doesn’t carry to the other officers, Jim asks, “How are you doing?”

  “Oh fine.” Alan hears the borderline hysteria in his voice but can’t do anything to stop it. “My nephew’s missing, my house was broken into, I don’t even know what might’ve been stolen, and to top it off, I woke up too early and haven’t had a proper cup of tea yet because the one I made earlier grew cold while I tried to find Brooks. How are you doing
?”

  “Better than that.” Jim squeezes Alan’s hand reassuringly, then turns to the officers now ascending the porch steps. “The back door’s been broken into, so Michaels and Logan, go through the kitchen and see what you can find. Check the backyard, the trash alley, anything you think of, and try to get me prints, if you can. Johnson, Coates, the boy’s room is upstairs?”

  The question is directed to Alan, who nods. “First door on your right, straight up. It’s a bit of a mess.”

  As the officers head inside the house, Jim frowns at Alan. “Did you touch anything?”

  Wincing, Alan admits, “I dug through the clothes on the floor looking for him, I don’t know. And the bed sheets, to find his phone.”

  “Okay.”

  “Which I picked up,” Alan adds. “And last night his clothes were in the hall and I picked those up, too. And a glass he spilled, that’s on the bathroom counter now.”

  Jim runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Okay—”

  “And his trainers,” Alan continues.

  “Alan!” Jim cries. “What part of don’t touch anything was unclear?”

  Alan shrugs, defensive. “It was before I called you! I didn’t know this would turn into a crime scene, now did I?”

  Jim holds out his arms as if he can somehow contain the situation. “Alright, okay. Calm down.”

  “I am calm.” Alan bites off each word, telling himself not to take this out on Jim. It isn’t his fault Brooks is missing.

  Jim places a hand on Alan’s arm, the touch comforting. “I know. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

  “I just…” Alan draws in a shaky breath and closes his eyes, clenching them shut before opening them again. “Thanks for coming. I didn’t know who else to call. And bringing the others…”

  “I called it in on my way over.” Jim slides his hand up Alan’s arm to the elbow, then higher, to the shoulder. “I told the detective on duty I’d pick this up for him. We’ll find Brooks. I promise.”