A Son's Tale

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  “Is he still in jail?”

  “No. He got out a couple of years ago, on good behavior. He’s married again, to some older heiress who has full control of her fortune.”

  “And he’s never tried to see Sammie?”

  “Nope. His wife can’t stand kids. Anyway, Sammie thinks he’s dead. I was divorced and had reassumed my maiden name before Sammie was born. I listed his father as unknown on his birth certificate. I figure I’m going to have to explain that to him at some point but it hasn’t come up yet.”

  “And once you divorced, your father acknowledged you again?”

  “Technically I’m not sure he ever disowned me. I don’t know whether or not I was ever written out of his will. Or, if I was, if I’m back in it. But no, I’m still not welcome in their home. Not unless I’m willing to move back into the house and allow him complete control over Sammie’s upbringing. And me.”

  “Surely he couldn’t expect you to do that.”

  Another glance from Morgan, this time meeting his gaze head-on, and Cal was angry all over again. This time at the man he’d spent the night trying to like for Morgan’s sake. “I’m certain that right now my father believes I am fully to blame, in whatever way, for Sammie’s disappearance. He doesn’t believe I’m capable of making sound decisions, proven by the fact that I’m twenty-nine years old and still an undergrad working for little more than minimum wage.”

  “You’re a single mom who works full-time and goes to school full-time, too.”

  “But, you see, I wouldn’t have to work at all, or go to school for that matter, if I’d only do what I was born to do and be a Lowen, representing the Lowen family on various charities and boards. If I’d married right I’d be living in luxury, and my father would have two-point-five grandchildren by now and would be molding them to follow in his footsteps.”

  “In today’s world? That kind of thinking went out a long time ago.”

  “Not really. Not in the society my father keeps.”

  “Was your father born into money?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “I don’t like having to watch my son walk out the door in shoes that have a hole in the toe. I don’t like lying in bed at night counting pennies in my head over and over, trying to find a way to make them add up differently. But no, I don’t miss a life of privilege. I’d rather worry about money than give up my right to think my own thoughts and live my own life. I love kids. And teaching and—”

  “Ms. Lowen?” Detective Martin was at the door.

  Cal helped Morgan up and they turned together to face the detective. “Yes?” Morgan’s voice held hope. And dread.

  “We’ve heard from our people at the bus station. There is absolutely no sign that your son was there. Either yesterday or today.”

  She held the door open and Cal followed Morgan inside. The three of them sat in the living room—Cal in the chair he’d dozed in, Detective Martin on one end of the couch and Morgan on the other.

  “Are you certain there’s no place else you can think of where Sammie might have gone? Any favorite place he’s visited in the past?”

  Morgan shook her head. “Not that I haven’t already told you.”

  “Have you checked the University of Tennessee?” Cal asked. “Maybe he’s hanging out around the basketball courts.”

  “We’ve been watching courts all over the city,” Martin said. “And baseball fields, too, just in case he shows up. We’re getting calls on the number we gave at the press conference, but so far all the leads have been false. Most of them usually are. We just wait for that one that isn’t.”

  “I can’t stand much more of this,” Morgan said, looking like she might be sick.

  “We’ve still got teams out canvassing, but if there’s anything you can think of, anything else we can go on…”

  Morgan’s cell phone rang. Probably Julie checking in.

  She pulled it out of her pocket and glanced down.

  Her head shot up and the frenzied look on her face as she stared at Cal had his heart beating faster. “It’s an unknown number,” she said. Her hand was shaking.

  “Put it on speaker,” Martin directed.

  Pushing a button on the cell and then another one, Morgan said, “Hello?”

  “Mom? It’s me, Sammie.”

  Martin stood. Cal sat forward. Morgan turned white. “Sammie? Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.” The little boy sounded tired, but not panicked. Or in pain.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m not far from home. I’m actually on my way there, but I wanted to call first to let you know I was coming.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On the corner of Vine and Banta. I’m borrowing some kid’s phone.”

  Morgan looked at Martin, who nodded and dialed her own cell. Speaking softly she gave Sammie’s location to whoever was on the other end of her call.

  “Keep him talking. A squad car is two blocks away and they are on their way to pick him up,” Martin told Morgan.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Just around,” Sammie said. “I had a plan, but then I saw you on TV with Grandpa, and I didn’t know what to do. I was just trying to show you that I was old enough to make it on my own… .”

  His voice broke. “I’m sorry, Mom…I swear, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  The boy was crying openly now.

  “I… You looked so weird and all and I…well, I’m in big trouble, huh?”

  “Yes, Sammie, you are,” Morgan said, but she was crying, too. And shaking so hard the phone was not steady at her ear. “I love you, sweetie.”

  “I love… Mom?” Fear entered the child’s voice. “There’s a cop car stopping right by me. Am I being arrested?”

  “No, Sammie, they’re bringing you home to me. Just get here quickly, okay?”

  “Maybe they’ll put on the lights and siren,” Sammie said earnestly. And then added, “That’d be cool. Before I get in trouble for life.”

  “They’ve identified him,” Martin said, her phone still to her ear. “He’s wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday and there’s another kid with him, on a bike. Let Sammie know that the officers are going to approach him.”

  Morgan did so. “Thank the young man for sharing his phone with you and go with the officers, Sammie.”

  “Okay, Mom. I’m in trouble, huh?”

  “Just come home, Sammie.”

  Cal stood as Morgan hung up. He walked with her to the front door, knowing that she was counting the seconds until she could hold her son.

  And when the squad car pulled up, lights flashing, and the small boy got slowly out of the backseat, his face solemn as he approached his mom, as Morgan flew down the steps and grabbed her son up off the ground, clutching him to her, Cal slipped away.

  He had a life to get back to.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MORGAN WAS SOUND asleep Sunday afternoon when the phone rang. She reached toward the nightstand next to her queen-size bed, trying to make contact with her cell phone, cracking her knuckles on the end table at the same time that she registered the leathery texture beneath her cheek. She was on the couch.

  With a quick glance at Sammie, who was asleep on the other end of the couch, his bare feet touching her, she grabbed the phone off the table, pushing the answer button as soon as she’d made contact with the device.

  Sammie had h
ad a rough couple of nights. She didn’t want him disturbed.

  “Hello?” She spoke in a whisper until she was outside the front door.

  “Morgan, honey?”

  Her stomach sank. She knew that tone of voice.

  “Yeah, Mom, what’s up?”

  Her father’s bidding, she knew that much. There’d be a price to pay for Friday night’s debacle.

  “I have a favor to ask you, sweetie.”

  “Daddy wants me to move home.”

  “No! Your father understands that you’re an adult and that you have your own life.”

  He’d finally come around? She couldn’t believe it.

  But then, miracles happened. She’d had proof the afternoon before when she’d felt her son’s skinny arms around her neck, holding on like he’d never let go, when she’d held his small body up against her heart and known that he was safe.

  “What, then?”

  “I want you to listen to me for a few minutes, honey.”

  A big red ant climbed down a step.

  “Okay.” The ant climbed back up. She’d have to get some spray. She couldn’t afford a professional exterminator right now. Not with school starting in another month.

  “You know I’ve always supported the idea of you having Sammie. And I’ve done everything I could to help you two make it all right.”

  Everything she could within the auspices of her father’s close oversight.

  “I know, Mom.” The babysitting over the years had helped. Her mother’s emotional support had helped even more.

  “I encouraged you to go to college.”

  “I know.” The ant circled around. Looking for friends? Didn’t ants travel in groups? All for one? The king of the hill?

  “And I’ve bought things for Sammie whenever I could.”

  Was that was this was about? The money her mother had given her son without telling her so that he could get the basketball shoes he’d wanted? The money he’d used to buy a cheap sleeping bag and other supplies for his bid for independence?

  “I know, Mom.” She didn’t blame her mom for Sammie’s running away. She blamed herself. He’d told her he was struggling. That she was holding him too tight. She should have trusted her son on the internet. If he didn’t visit any sites he wasn’t supposed to visit, he wouldn’t be prey to the dangers lurking there.

  She’d misjudged the degree of his discontent, had driven him to the point of feeling he had to prove he was ready for more responsibility.

  And she blamed Sammie, too. Whether he was right about her overprotectiveness or not, he was still underage, still her son and still answerable to her. He might not like her rules, but he was obligated to live under them.

  She’d made that abundantly clear to him over the past twenty-four hours.

  “You said you wanted me to listen to you, Mom.”

  “I…”

  The ant left again, disappearing over the curve of the step.

  “Tell her, Grace.”

  George’s voice, barely audible in the background, sent chills through Morgan’s entire being.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Oh, dear, I… It’s not like you think. I…I agree with your father, Morgan. This time I believe he’s right. I’m sorry.”

  “Right about what?”

  “Sammie’s too much for you, honey. He’s a boy. He needs firm control. A man’s guidance. He needs a father.”

  “His father opted out of the job, Mom, you know that. Surely you aren’t suggesting that I contact Todd?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Or that I find someone to marry just to provide a father for my son?”

  Her stomach was in knots. The ant was back. Still alone.

  “I want you to pack Sammie’s things and bring him home, Morgan. He’s a Lowen. He’s going to inherit this home someday. And the businesses, too. He needs, and deserves, your father’s guidance.”

  So this was about them moving home.

  “We’ve been over this a million times, Mom. I’m not moving home. You know that.”

  “Of course not, Morgan. That wouldn’t be best for Sammie at this point. Having you here would only make things more difficult for him.”

  What?

  “I’ve been up all night thinking about this, Morgan, and I think you’ll find that this is best for everyone. You, included. I’ll make sure that you see Sammie as often as you like—”

  “Within reason.” Her father’s voice could still be heard.

  “And you’ll have the chance you never had to get solidly on your feet. You’re only twenty-nine, Morgan. There’s still lots of time for you to settle into a life of your own without constantly worrying about bills and babysitting. You’ll be able to come and go and work around the clock if you want to. You can go out and date and travel and…”

  Morgan couldn’t find the ant. She couldn’t see anything but a blur of gray where the step had been. Gray rimmed in red.

  “You want me to give up Sammie?”

  “Just to your father and me, sweetie. That’s not really giving him up. He’d still be yours, still be in the family. Still be a Lowen. We’d just be helping you. Lots of parents do it, Morgan. You’ve done it all alone for so long. You deserve this chance to get ahead. And this way Sammie will be safe.”

  “No.”

  She had no argument. No rationale. So she hung up the phone.

  * * *

  CAL FILLED HIS FATHER in on the details of Sammie Lowen’s safe return. He slept for almost twenty-four hours. And then, late Sunday afternoon, telling his father he was going to the grocery store, he took his shopping list and headed out.

  But he made a stop first, at his fourth-floor office on the Wallace University campus.

  Cal never showed up at school in shorts and sandals, but he wasn’t there to work. The halls were silent in the building he had to unlock with his master key, adding to his sense of a world out of sync.

  He hit Recent Calls on his office phone without taking a seat and punched in the number as soon as it came up. Sunday afternoon, maybe the guy wouldn’t be available.

  “Miller.”

  “This is Caleb Whittier.”

  “I recognized the number, Mr. Whittier. Thanks for getting back to me.”

  Cal waited.

  “I’m calling regarding a case you were involved with in Comfort Cove, Massachusetts, about twenty-five years ago.”

  “I was seven years old twenty-five years ago.”

  “I’m aware of that, Mr. Whittier. The case involves a missing person.”

  Cal’s heart started to pound as something occurred to him—something that should have occurred to him from the very beginning. “Have you found Claire?”

  There was a rumble on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whittier, can you hold on a moment?”

  The line clicked before Cal could give his affirmative answer. He had to know.

  Somehow he’d worked it out in his mind that Emma would have contacted him if Claire had been found. She’d promised. They’d made a pact—before he and his father had become the bad guys: whoever heard first would tell the other before telling anyone else.

  But then, she’d been four at the time.

  A lot could happen in a quarter of a century.

  Was Emma even alive?

  Was Claire?

  Was his father finally in the clear?

  Or was he…

  T
he thoughts raced so quickly Cal could hardly keep track of them. Or reel in the unwanted ones.

  He’d made himself pretty hard to find. Maybe Emma had tried to contact him.

  “Mr. Whittier? Sorry about that. Had a situation here.”

  “Have you located Claire Sanderson?” Her body? Bones identified by dental records?

  “No, sir, we have not. I called to inform you that a box of evidence from the Sanderson case has come up missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  “Me? How could I possibly know anything about a box in police custody?”

  “Where’s your father, Mr. Whittier?”

  “At home watching television. It’s about all he ever does since you folks took away any hope he had of enjoying life.” Frank had been the only suspect in Claire’s disappearance. They’d hounded him until he’d left the state. And then the suspicion followed him from job interview to job interview.

  “Are you sure he’s at home?”

  “Yes. I just left him.”

  “You visit him often?”

  “Yes.” So many years of running—of hiding facts—came to the fore and Cal protected his father’s whereabouts without thought. He wasn’t about to tell Miller, or any detective, that his father lived with him.

  They’d changed identities for a while. Until it made Cal’s education suffer. But they never registered a car, or an address other than a P.O. box. Until Cal came of age and registered in his own name.

  His father had never been charged with a crime. But he’d been hounded until suicide had seemed the only alternative. For Cal’s sake, his father had run instead.

  Cal owed him.

  “Have you or your father been in Massachusetts anytime over the past three months?”

  “No.” Nor for the past twenty-five years, either.

  “To your knowledge have you or your father been in contact with anyone who has been in Massachusetts?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry to have to ask these questions, but it’s routine,” Ramsey said.