by J. M. Snyder
Alan leans into Jim’s touch. I sure hope so.
* * * *
Jim follows Alan inside. “Take me through your day so far.”
Alan can hear the officers in the kitchen and upstairs. To be honest, he doesn’t want to revisit either the back door or his nephew’s room. All he wants is Brooks home, safe and sound, is that too much to ask?
But Jim’s hand presses against the small of his back, giving Alan some much needed strength. “Right, well, I came down for a cuppa.”
As Alan moves towards the kitchen, Jim’s arm eases around his waist, but it’s gone before the officers at the back door can look up and see it. Still, Alan appreciates the show of support. “I made some tea, got the paper—”
He turns back the way they came and nods at the front door.
“Got the paper,” he continues. “Came back, tea was ready, sat down to read, felt a chill, and looked up to see the door standing open. Thought Brooks did it, to be honest. But when I called for him, I got no answer, so I went upstairs.”
Jim places a hand on Alan’s back again—he can’t seem to keep his hands to himself today, and to be honest, Alan quite likes the attention. He lets Jim guide him to the staircase. “Go on,” Jim says, nodding upstairs. “Give me the tour.”
When they reach the upstairs landing, Alan points out the place where Brooks spilled the glass of water. The spot is still a little darker than the rest of the carpet, but just as Alan’s about to rub over it with his slipper, Jim stops him. “You’re sure it was water?”
Alan shrugs. “I mean, I can’t really say. It didn’t seem to stain, and there was no smell. What else could it be?”
Jim doesn’t answer. He takes a small notepad out of an interior pocket in his blazer, tears out a sheet of paper, and lays it down beside the spot. “I’ll have to get Forensics in here,” he murmurs, half to himself.
“It was only water, wasn’t it?” Alan asks.
Pocketing the notepad again, Jim takes Alan’s arm and guides him around the spot in question. “I’m sure it was, but we have to check out everything. You said there were clothes here, too? Where’d you put them?”
Alan points down to the end of the hall where the laundry hamper sits. “In there. I took a shower this morning so my clothes are probably on top—”
“A shower?” Jim asks, incredulous. When Alan frowns at him, he explains, “I told you to take me through your day. You started in the kitchen.”
“Well, I didn’t wake up there, did I? My bed’s up here.” Alan says. “I got out of bed and showered, dressed, then came downstairs. Damn it, mate, do you want to know when I took a piss, too?”
Jim sighs. “I don’t know what’s important and what isn’t unless you tell me everything. Starting from the moment you came home last night.”
So Alan does just that, this time beginning with noticing the bike abandoned on the porch steps. Jim places another piece of paper by Brooks’ trainers, then pulls a black glove from his pocket and tugs it on before rooting through the hamper. Alan points out which clothes he found on the floor, and then walks Jim through putting them in roughly the same places they were the night before.
Jim calls one of the officers out of Brooks’ room to photograph the hall. Then he ducks into the bedroom to get a quick look. “Show me what you did in here.”
Before Alan can speak, Jim places a hand on his chest and gently guides him back out into the hall. “We’ll close the door,” he says. “Show me how you opened it when you first got in, then again this morning.”
Alan wonders if all this isn’t a waste of time. Normally he wouldn’t be too worried if his nephew decided to go out for a bit—the lad is fourteen, after all, and will have his driver’s license soon enough. But his bike is on the porch, which means he either walked away or someone picked him up, and the trainers by the door seem to nix the walking theory. If he went out with a friend, though, Alan knows he would’ve left a note.
And taken his phone. And worn his trainers, and probably dug the hoodie out of the hamper, too. And then there’s the back door to consider.
To be honest, it’s the door that scares Alan the most. Even the mess of cables in the living room could be explained away—Brooks isn’t the neatest of kids. But he wouldn’t have broken the door to get into the house and then what, leave? Alan doesn’t think so.
So he does what Jim suggests, going through his motions from the night before and this morning, too. Jim doesn’t want Alan to root through the clothes or bedsheets again, though. The scene has been disturbed enough.
The scene. Just calling it that makes Alan anxious.
When Jim is satisfied, they leave the other officers to the task of cataloging the mess in Brooks’ room. Alan shows Jim the bathroom, where the glass on the counter is now bagged as evidence, and is about to lead the way back downstairs when Jim stops him.
“Where’s that door go?”
The innocuous door is shut, just as Alan left it when he exited the room earlier. “That’s mine,” he says now. “Brooks wouldn’t be in there.”
Jim raises a brow as if to say, Are you so sure about that?
Yes, actually—Alan knows Brooks isn’t in there. “He would’ve heard me calling his name,” he explains. “What, you think he’s hiding in there sniggering, like this is some sort of joke, or something?”
If that’s what Jim really thinks, he doesn’t admit it. Instead he nods at the door and asks, “Can we take a look?”
With an annoyed grunt, Alan admits, “This isn’t exactly the way I wanted to invite you into my bedroom.” But he opens the door wide to let Jim look inside.
To his surprise, Jim enters the room and stands with his hands thrust into his pants pockets as he gives everything a thorough onceover. Alan comes in behind him and, without thinking about it, closes the door. Now they’re alone again, finally, but unfortunately Alan’s in no mood to pick things up where they left them the night before.
Jim turns. “Hey.”
His voice is low and soothing. With two steps, he’s in front of Alan. His arms ease around Alan’s waist, pulling Alan closer.
The press of Jim’s body against his is more comforting than Alan imagined it would be. He kisses Jim’s forehead, then wraps his arms around Jim’s shoulders, hugging him tight.
“Don’t worry,” Jim murmurs into Alan’s shoulder. “We’ll find him. I will, I promise.”
Alan sighs. “I know, it’s just…I can’t stop thinking about that damn back door. Was it open when I got in last night? Was Brooks even in his bed when I peeked inside? I should’ve gone in—”
“Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” Jim tells him.
Alan gives him another kiss on the temple. “I know, believe me. I do. I’m just worried.”
“Of course you are.” Pulling back, Jim catches Alan’s hand in his and moves over to sit on the bed. He pats the mattress and Alan sinks down beside him. “Listen, do you have any idea where he might’ve gone?”
Alan shakes his head. Jim’s leg is a comforting warmth alongside his. “None, not without his phone. That thing’s practically glued to his hand.”
“Maybe someone came and picked him up?” Jim suggests, patting Alan’s knee. “His girlfriend—what’s her name?”
“Kylie.” Quickly Alan adds, “I don’t know her last name. I’m sure she’s in his phone. That’s who he was out with last night. But she’s his age. She doesn’t drive. Her mother was the one who took them to the cinema.”
Jim has his notepad in hand again, jotting down as Alan talks. “Kylie, okay. You don’t happen to know the code to unlock his phone, do you?”
Clueless, Alan shakes his head. “Sorry, no.”
Jim nods. “That’s okay. It’d save us some time, but we have experts who can figure it out. What about his mother? Your sister?”
Alan doesn’t understand the question. “What about her?”
“Could she have come and got him?”
“No, no way.” Alan shakes his
head, adamant this time. “She’s overseas—”
“So you said—”
“If she was back, she’d call me. I’d know.”
Jim nods again. “Alright. How about his father?”
“There isn’t one.” At the arched look Jim gives him, Alan explains, “I mean technically, yes, but I don’t know who he is. She never told me. I don’t think she ever told Brooks, either. Hell, for that matter, I suspect even the guy himself doesn’t know. I think it was someone she knew on base, but that’s about the extent of it.”
“Alright.” Closing the notepad, Jim slaps it against his leg, one corner of his mouth twisted in thought.
The way he looks at Alan is unsettling. “What?”
“I hate to say this…” Jim starts.
Alan’s heart lurches. “What?”
“Have you considered maybe…” Jim shrugs as he pockets his notepad, then makes an obvious effort to meet Alan’s gaze. “I don’t know, maybe Brooks left on his own.”
Alan lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. “Jesus, Jim,” he sighs, relieved. “I thought you were thinking he might be…you know…gone.”
Jim frowns, confused. “But he is gone.”
“I mean like gone gone,” Alan explains. “Like—”
“Dead?”
Alan gives a quick little nod, unwilling to say the word himself.
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean…” Jim’s hand finds Alan’s knee again, and this time he gives it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m talking walked out of here by himself.”
“Without his shoes or his phone,” Alan adds. “And his bike left out on the porch. The back door broken, his room a mess—”
“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“What are you talking about?” Alan asks. Then it hits him, too late. “Right. Wait.”
“Going out after curfew?” Jim offers. “That ring any bells?”
Alan hides his face in both hands. “God.”
Now it’s Jim’s turn to ask, “What? What is it?”
“That wasn’t Brooks,” Alan admits softly. “That was me.”
Chapter 21
Jim stares blankly at him. “You.”
“Me.” Alan runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it, then combs it down with his fingers. He looks at Jim, then looks away. He doesn’t want to have to admit this.
“You,” Jim says again.
Alan sort of shrugs and winces as he nods. Yes.
“How do you mean?”
Clenching his eyes shut, Alan groans. “Ugh, right. Well. See…”
He trails off and opens one eye, squinting at Jim. Who stares at him, waiting. He isn’t going to get by without a full explanation.
“So.” Alan takes a deep breath. Might as well admit it and get it over with. But first…“Promise you won’t get mad.”
“At what?” Jim asks. “Tell me.”
Fine.
“After I ran into you that first time at the café…” Alan sighs. “I mean, I thought you were attractive, okay? And I wanted to get to know you better.”
“Okay.” Jim draws out the word, suspicious. “Same here, but…?”
“No buts,” Alan assures him. “I liked you. I kept telling myself I’d come up sometime and just introduce myself, but you were always with your partner and, after a while, I began to wonder if you even remembered me. I mean—”
Jim laughs. “Oh, no worries. I did.”
“Yeah.” Alan feels his face heat up and he ducks his head, embarrassed. Absently he picks at a loose thread on his bedspread, unable to look Jim in the eye as he speaks. “See, Brooks is a big cinema fan, and he goes out almost every weekend with that little girl of his, and one night I was there to pick them up—”
“You know that isn’t breaking curfew, right? If there’s an adult with them.”
“I know. But some kids were hanging about, and another officer said he wasn’t going to take them home like Garrison will,” Alan says. “I thought he meant you.”
Jim laughs. “Let me guess. Overweight blowhard? Steve Harlen. He likes to take the mall beat and sit in the parking lot of Wendy’s filling up on fries and chicken nuggets. I’m surprised he even bothered to get out of the car.”
“He was trying to scare off the kids,” Alan tells him, “but they weren’t having it. After that, though, I started looking for you there, hoping maybe I could get a chance to say something without anyone else around. Then I ran into you a few nights later and we started talking—”
Jim smiles at the memory. “I remember. I still knew who you were.”
“Yeah.” Alan chews the inside of his cheek, stalling. This is going to sound so bad. “Brooks is a pretty smart kid, or maybe I was a little too obvious, I don’t know. I thought I’d just hang around the mall on the weekend and hope to run into you, but he saw right away how I felt about you, and really, it was he who came up with you taking him home after curfew.”
“So what’s the problem?” Jim asks. “It wasn’t your idea at all.”
“Maybe not exactly, but I didn’t discourage it.” With a sigh, Alan lowers his voice and admits, “Most of the time I drove him out there myself and dropped him off. And I paid him.”
That gets Jim’s attention. “What? You didn’t.”
Alan nods. When he speaks again, it’s in barely a whisper. “Ten bucks a pop. The last time, when you came in for a cuppa? I gave him fifteen.”
He closes his eyes, expecting an indignant outburst of some kind.
Nothing.
When one isn’t forthcoming, Alan winces.
Still nothing.
He looks up, only to find Jim staring at him. The expression on Jim’s face is unreadable.
Anxious, Alan asks, “What are you thinking?”
“Did you put him up to this?” Jim wants to know.
“This…”
“This disappearance,” Jim explains. “Leaving the back door open, making it look like a break-in. This.”
“No! No.” Alan shakes his head to emphasize the point. “I swear. I’d never—”
“But you did.”
“No,” Alan says again. “I mean yes, the curfew thing, yes. But not this. To be honest, it was Brooks’ idea for me to ask you out. Then we started talking on the phone every night, and we really seemed to hit it off—”
“I thought we did,” Jim admits.
“So there’s no reason to keep it up. I was just trying to get your attention before.” Alan sighs. “Brooks was just trying to help.”
“Hmm.” Jim’s lips are pressed together in a thin slit. He’s still staring at Alan, his hand on Alan’s knee as if he forgot he put it there.
Tentatively Alan asks, “Are you angry?” When Jim doesn’t answer immediately, he adds, “You are, aren’t you? I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” Jim says, a little too late. But he rubs Alan’s thigh quickly, as if trying to be reassuring. “No, I’m not. I mean, it isn’t like you did anything wrong, really. And it brought us together, didn’t it?”
Relief floods through Alan, and he covers Jim’s hand with his own. “Yeah.”
“Besides,” Jim says, “I should probably tell you—”
There’s a quick knock on Alan’s bedroom door, interrupting him. A moment later the door opens and one of the officers ducks her head inside. “Detective Garrison?”
Jim’s on his feet in an instant. “Be right there.”
She nods and steps back, leaving the door open. As Jim starts towards it, Alan catches his hand. “Wait.”
Jim half-turns, tugging at Alan, who stays seated on the bed.
“What were you about to say?” Alan asks. “You should probably tell me what?”
“Later.” This time when Jim tugs, Alan rises to follow. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”
Chapter 22
In the kitchen again, Alan sits at the breakfast bar, another cup of tea cooling between his hands as he tries to listen in on what Jim and the off
icers are saying over by the back door. He doesn’t want to be too obvious—and if he asked, Jim would probably tell him—but he eavesdrops anyway.
“There’s nothing outside,” one of the officers is saying—Michaels, is it? Alan thinks so. “No wrappers, no cigarette butts, no chewing gum…”
There better not be, Alan thinks darkly. It’s bad enough someone broke his window. If they littered out in his yard, he’s going to be pissed.
“What about footprints?” Jim asks.
The other officer, Logan, shakes his head. “No marks on the grass. There’s a sidewalk that wraps around the house, but it’s swept clean. Probably kept that way.”
Alan sips at his tepid tea. Damn straight it is. Just because it’s in the backyard where no one sees it doesn’t mean he can let it go to pot. He sees it; that’s reason enough to keep up appearances.
“Do we need to call this in as an Amber Alert?” Michaels asks.
He’s dusting the doorknob with a thick brush, probably looking for fingerprints. Even from where he sits, Alan can see the smudges of black powder on the brass knob. One more thing to clean when this nightmare is over.
Jim has his notepad in one hand, slapping it against the open palm of the other. As if he knows Alan can overhear him, he lowers his voice when he answers, “No, not yet. It doesn’t fit the criteria.”
“You don’t think the kid was abducted?” Logan asks.
Jim hesitates, then glances over at Alan, who meets his troubled gaze. Go on, say it. Alan hopes Jim can read the thought in his eyes. Tell them why.
He doesn’t. Instead he tucks his notepad away and simply says, “Let’s just wait and see for now, shall we?”
Then he steps around Logan and heads over to the breakfast bar, a tight smile on his face that seems frozen in place. Alan thinks Jim will pull out the stool opposite him to sit down, so he’s pleasantly surprised when the detective skirts the bar to stand beside him instead.
Taking another sip of his tea, Alan murmurs, “So no Amber Alert, huh? Brooks too old?”
“It isn’t that.”
Jim drapes an arm around Alan’s shoulders. The comforting weight rests there for a moment, then Jim rubs his hand down Alan’s back. Eventually it comes to rest on Alan’s hip, a casual touch out of the officers’ sight. When Alan shifts on the stool, Jim’s thumb digs under the waistband of his lounge pants to keep from falling off.