The Thirteenth Child

by David Dean

  Fanny looked down upon the author of his own family’s destruction, the man who, in a state of drunkenness, had revealed to his teenaged daughter that he had named her after Fanny Hill, the heroine of a classic pornographic novel of the eighteenth century.

  The final straw had been at his long-overdue disciplinary hearing, to which he had arrived half an hour late and stinking drunk, proceeding to chastise the college president for his intellectual flabbiness. He had been dismissed, becoming not only unemployed and unemployable in academia, but a pariah, shunned and looked down upon, an intolerable fate for a man such as he.

  Her mother had died of cancer a few years later, though Fanny secretly believed that it was somehow self-inflicted, that she had just given up. A simple, plain woman, she had been slowly crushed by her husband’s appetite for self-destruction.

  “You weren’t fired because of me,” Preston snapped, “It was because of budget tightening. It happens everywhere, all the time—nothing to do with me.”

  “That’s right, Pop… nothing to do with you. I just happened to be the one they let go. And you’re right too about the budget cuts, happens all the time, everywhere, especially when you’re not senior staff… like me… now… at the library.”

  Preston opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “Pop, I’ve put up with a lot over the years because you’re my dad and you don’t have anyone else… and for some reason that isn’t very clear right at this moment, I still love you. You don’t deserve it, and you don’t do much to earn it. But I’m at the end of my rope with you now. ‘We’ can’t afford for me to lose this job, and I’m not going to… period.”

  Taking a deep breath, Fanny added, “You cause one more scene at the library and I’ll put you out on the street. Do you understand me? You can go live at that hobo camp off the railroad tracks… no one there will give a damn what you do. Or what you have to say, for that matter—you wouldn’t like that.”

  Preston looked up at her from beneath his brows. He had met some of those men in his travels. He knew how far he had yet to fall and felt a shiver of fear at the prospect.

  “Do we have an understanding?” Fanny persisted.

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  They regarded one another across the table. He knew she had given up a lot for him… possibly a husband and children of her own. More than she should have.

  Snatching at the newspaper, Preston began to study it with feigned interest. After several long moments of silence, he heard Fanny rise from her chair and begin to clear the table. When the water began to splash into the deep porcelain sink he chanced a look—she was involved in the wash-up and had finished with him. Throwing the paper up once more as a screen, he found that he was looking at a headline that read, “Child Missing From Wessex Township.” The image of the strange boy’s face only inches from his own suddenly returned to him, and he shuddered at the memory. He had nearly succeeded in convincing himself that what he had seen in the schoolyard had been a hallucination.

  Tossing the paper onto the table top as Fanny went to her room to prepare for work, he called after her, “I may have seen something important the other night, Fanny. So I’m going over to the police department today and give them the benefit of my observations; see if I can’t get this missing child business cleared up for them!

  “That police chief of theirs seems like an idiot, from what I’ve seen of him. Why’s he been mooning around the library recently, anyway? He’s no reader, by god!

  “Anyway, I’m sure he could use a little help, and since I’m on sabbatical from the public library, I may as well offer my services.”

  Fanny, having turned on the shower in the master bathroom, heard none of this.

  ?

  Nick stared at the phone with a hollowed-out gaze, its ringing a shrill alarm to his already frayed nerves. Between every ring, the silence returned to his large, cluttered office like the aftermath of thunder, seeming to darken the room with its quiet possibilities. He had hardly slept a wink thinking of the Guthrie’s terror and grief, of Megan’s long, long night someplace without them. He had prayed for the first time in many, many years…prayed that she was still alive…still unharmed.

  The phone rang once more and Nick reached out, lifting the receiver. A relief dispatcher, brought in to help handle the volume of calls generated by the Guthrie search, said, “Chief, I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a man in the lobby down here who’s making a real fuss about seeing you. He says he knows all about the missing child and will not be…” She paused to get her words right, “… he says he will not be fobbed off on some lackey.” She took a breath; then added, “The sarge says you’ll know him when you see him. He’s an old drunk around town.”

  Sighing, Nick massaged his forehead with his free hand. Situations like this always brought the cranks out of the woodwork. By rights, he should have Mister Howard thrown out of the building, as he felt certain that this was the identity of his high-handed visitor… the language was a dead giveaway.

  Then he thought of the lovely woman at the library who had begun to increasingly haunt his thoughts, and hesitated. He could not bring himself to deal with Fanny’s father in quite such a fashion. Besides, he rationalized, what else was he really doing? What did he have to go on that he could afford to discard any potential source of information without first properly investigating it? Also, it was undeniable that Preston Howard roamed through the area like a wraith, both day and night. Who knew what he may have seen.

  “Ask the sarge to bring him around to the interview room and I’ll meet him there. Thanks.” Placing the receiver back in the cradle, he rose from his chair. The splendid autumn sky outside his windows looked as brittle and clear as crystal, the pinkish streaks burnt away by a white sun that seemed far too distant. He thought of Megan Guthrie and wondered if she were witnessing the same dawning, then shuddered.

  He hoped the old man wasn’t too drunk at this hour of the morning.

  ?

  The room in which Preston had been left to wait was small with but a single door. He noted a camera mounted high up in the corner of the ceiling, its lens pointing directly at the plastic chair he had been none-too-courteously instructed to occupy. Attached to the cinder-block wall next to his left arm was a metal pipe similar to a towel rack but sporting a single handcuff dangling from a steel cable about a foot long. With a smile at the camera he rose and quite deliberately took the chair opposite. Preston noted with unease several puzzling smears marring the institutional green of the wall above the bar. He calculated that they were at about head level with a sitting man. Feeling his palms grow damp, he shifted in his seat.

  If Chief High-and-Mighty did not show up within the next two minutes he was leaving, he promised himself. He glanced up to check the time on the wall clock in order to begin his countdown and was disappointed to find none. As he no longer owned a watch, he recognized at once the designed limbo of the near-featureless room.

  Dropping his gaze to the worn, curling linoleum, he began to wonder why he had bothered to come in the first place. What business was it of his when people misplaced their children? What did he really care?

  The liquor store was due to open soon, he reminded himself, unconsciously running the fingers of one hand across his dry lips. He would come back later, after a little fortification, he decided—his memory worked better with a little lubrication in any case. He rose to his feet just as the door was thrown open, his escape blocked by the large frame of Chief Catesby.

  Involuntarily, he took a step back, bumping his head against the wall. He grimaced in pain. At the same time, he derived some satisfaction in seeing the policeman look confused for a moment at not finding him in the “suspect’s” chair. The grey-blue eyes slid quickly to him, however, and Preston felt the official scrutiny like the promise of violence.

  Straightening up, he refrained from rubbing the back of his head. “I didn’t care for my assigned seat, officer. I am here as a concerned citizen, not as
a defendant.” He stopped himself there as the policeman eased the door shut behind him. The small room grew smaller still and Preston felt his heart speed up.

  Leaning across the table, the big man offered his hand. “I’m Nick Catesby,” he opened. “Thanks so much for coming in, Mister Howard. I understand you have some information regarding our missing child.”

  Preston allowed his hand to be seized and released, then answered, “Professor Howard, officer. I am still a PhD in English Literature, though I’ve retired.”

  The younger man’s face suddenly lost its animation, and Preston could see now that he was a mature man in his early forties, and a very tired man at that. He indicated for Preston to sit down and did so himself without waiting.

  “Now,” Nick resumed, as if Preston had said nothing, “we’re kind of pressed for time here. What can you tell me?”

  Preston sat a little straighter in his chair. He could see that the chief had little faith he was bringing anything worthwhile to his table. “I can assure you, officer, that my time is valuable, as well. Even so, I’ve taken it upon myself to attend to my civic duty and report my findings to you… should you be interested, of course.” He sat back, folding his thin arms across his narrow chest.

  Nick roused himself, a look of pain briefly creasing his brow. Attempting a weak smile, he said, “Of course we’re interested, Professor. Please go on.”

  Preston grinned back, pleased with his small victory. “I may have seen the abductor of this little girl that’s gone missing—Megan Guthrie, I think the paper said. He was a boy—very odd looking, clearly indicative of the shallow gene pool we have around here.”

  “You saw this… boy… actually abduct Megan?” Catesby leaned forward on his elbows. “How exactly did he do that?”

  Preston faltered, “Well, I didn’t exactly see the actual act… just the prelude.”

  “The prelude…?” Catesby repeated.

  “I’m not sure why I missed that part… I got groggy for some reason, and closed my eyes for a few moments.”

  “Had you been drinking?”

  “That was not the reason—something came over me—low blood sugar probably. Do you want the facts, or not, officer?” Preston asked with a raised patrician brow and as much bravado as he could muster.

  Catesby appeared to think this over; then said, “Go on then, tell me about this boy. Where exactly did you see him?”

  Preston caught himself wringing his hands; then yanked them apart. “In the schoolyard, of course,” he answered.

  “When was this?” Catesby asked.

  “Night before last,” Preston answered.

  “How old do you think this boy was?”

  “Oh, I don’t know… I’m bad with kids’ ages… never paid them much attention, you know—thirteen… fourteen, maybe?” The chief seemed to be weighing something in his mind.

  “His name?” he continued.

  Preston looked up alarmed. “I don’t know his name, for god’s sake. I christened him Gabriel for lack of one. He’s just some little retarded boy… didn’t I tell you that already?” He couldn’t actually remember if he had or hadn’t.

  “You named him?”

  Exasperated, and feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Preston shot back, “It was a literary allusion that just sprang to mind; not a crime the last time I looked!”

  “What was he wearing?”

  Preston tried hard to recall. “A green tee shirt, I believe, none-too-clean. A pair of filthy black jeans… they were both too small for him by half.”

  His face thoughtful, Catesby sat in silence for several long moments; then asked quietly, “Did you ever know a kid named Seth Busby, Professor? Seven years ago, he was last seen wearing a green tee shirt and black jeans.”

  Preston’s mouth opened; then closed once more.

  “The night Megan went missing was the anniversary of his disappearance,” Nick continued.

  “I can see that you are trying to make some kind of connection,” Preston managed. “But I failed to follow your logic… if there is any.”

  “You just described the clothes Seth Busby was wearing when he was last seen, and you’ve already told me that you were in the school yard the evening Megan vanished.”

  “Yes, but I also said that there was a…”

  “… A boy,” Catesby cut him off. “A boy only you have seen… a boy that you’ve named Gabriel for some reason that’s not really clear to me. That’s a fairly unusual set of circumstances, don’t you think, Professor?”

  Again Preston’s mouth opened, then closed, but no sound came out.

  ?

  “I did it,” Becky Mossberg stated emphatically, having spotted Nick before Fanny did, “but I’m not gonna give up any details without being roughed up a little.” She turned to face her desk mate. “Look who’s back to visit again, Fanny!”

  Fanny’s head snapped up from her task to find Chief Catesby looming over their shared desk. He looked uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed. He was in full uniform with navy blue trousers sporting a gold stripe down the pants legs. The shirt was a French blue that Fanny thought suited his smoky blue eyes very well. There were signs that his once-athletic build was softening with age, but he still carried himself with the careless ease of a much younger man. He appeared tired though, shadowy around the eyes, slightly pale, and in need of a razor and a hair brush; his wavy hair tossed about on his head as if by a strong wind.

  Nick was taken off guard by Becky’s forwardness. He was in no mood for levity, so he answered, “Actually, I was wondering if I could speak with Ms. Howard for just a moment.” He turned his eyes to her.

  Becky glanced at her desk mate, saying, “Of course you can! She’s very helpful, isn’t she? Have you already finished the ‘87th Precinct’ series, Chief? I’m sure that Fanny here would be more than happy to direct you to some other books that you’ll enjoy.” Fanny flashed a warning look, but Becky happily ignored it. “Isn’t that so, Fanny dear?”

  Fanny was unable to lift her face to see what Chief Catesby’s reaction to all this might be. “Well,” she heard Catesby say, “Maybe so… the thing is I need to talk with Ms. Howard alone for a few minutes… it’s not exactly library business.”

  Now she did look up, but only to find him studying their desktop and its scattering of papers and books, almost hiding the keyboard of her computer. A grinning papier-mâché Jack-o-lantern perched on the corner, honoring the season.

  Snatching up her purse from the back of her chair, Becky exclaimed, “Police business, is it? I’ll just take a trip to the little girls’ room and powder my nose.” She winked broadly at Fanny, then clattered down the stairs and was gone.

  Silence descended in her wake, and it was only after several uncomfortable moments that Nick said, “She’s got a wicked sense of humor, doesn’t she?”

  Risking a glance at him, Fanny smiled weakly, answering, “You should have to work with her… she never quits. I’m sorry, Chief Catesby, it’s just that she wants… thinks that…” she trailed off, realizing that any attempt at explaining her friend’s motives would only cause more embarrassment for them both. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”

  “Yeah,” Nick answered, “if you’ve got a few minutes. I wouldn’t have come to your place of work, but I’m pressed for time. Is here okay?”

  She nodded.

  Looking around at the second floor reading areas to ensure that no one was within listening distance, he found only a scattering of patrons, all too far away to hear anything. Several were studying the large, uniformed officer and their librarian, but their eyes went quickly down as he swept the room with his gaze. Satisfied, he pulled Becky’s chair out from behind the desk and rolled it next to Fanny’s work area. Sitting down with a sigh, he glanced over his shoulder at the empty stairwell, and began.

  “By the way, could you call me Nick? It always makes me feel like an old man when people I went to school with call me chief.”

  Fanny s
miled. “But we didn’t go to school together, Nick.”

  “Technically, that’s true,” he answered, “but, we were in the same school system at the same time. You were in the middle school when I was at Wessex High.”

  Fanny felt her cheeks warming, “My goodness, you certainly know the people in your township. I didn’t think you knew I even existed back then.”

  “My little brother, Stephen, had a crush on you back when you were both in the middle-school band. You gave him one of your wallet-size class photos and it was taped to the mirror in our bedroom.” Nick smiled gently in reminiscence. “It may be there still. My mom keeps that room like a shrine—nothing changes.” Nick’s smile grew a bit more. “You were a cute girl… I don’t forget cute girls… even ones my nerdy little brother had a crush on.”

  “Your mom must miss him,” Fanny offered. “It must have been so hard on her… so hard on you all.”

  Nick turned to her as if just remembering she was there. “Yeah,” he said, “it was hard… who would’ve thought the third clarinet of the award-winning Wessex Middle School Band would join the Marines as soon as he turned eighteen—much less get killed in that dust-up in Panama?”

  “I couldn’t believe it either,” Fanny answered. “No one could. I cried all day when I heard about it. He was very sweet.”

  “Yeah,” Nick agreed, “he was.” Shrugging, as if to shake off the memories, he turned to the subject at hand, “Fanny, I need to ask you a few questions about your dad. Would you be willing to answer them?”

  Fanny sat up, her eyes widening at the mention of her father. “Has he done something, Nick? Is he in trouble?”