STOLEN

by DAWN KOPMAN WHIDDEN

  Marty looked at Jean and he could tell that she wanted to ask what was going on, but she waited until he hung up the phone.

  “The kid took off. Come on.” Marty turned to Frank who had come back into the room, “We need to put out an Amber Alert on the kid and get every available person out there looking for him.” Marty glanced over at the fax machine and saw the partial face of one of the subjects start to emerge. “Frank, copy those and text message them to my phone as soon as they’re done.” Marty didn’t wait to hear him answer as he and Jean hurried out the door.

  He contemplated getting a room in a roadside motel, taking a shower, getting a goodnight’s sleep, but now that he had the bike, he decided to do some exploring. He wanted to stay close to the hospital, so he followed an overgrown hiking path through the dense forest behind it. He had some trouble maneuvering the bike over rocks and sticks, but he managed to keep it upright. There were a few abandoned hunting shacks scattered in the woods, and he chose the one covered in moss and ivy growing up the walls. He walked to the back of the shack and chose to enter through a back window instead of the front door. He was disappointed to see all the windows were boarded up, but the boards that covered the windows were rotting out. He grabbed a fallen branch and tried to use it as a crowbar to pry the wood off. It snapped after the first try, and he tore up his knuckles when the back of his hand snapped back and hit the wooden barricade.

  His second try was more successful; and he managed to shimmy through the window and found himself in a fairly good-sized room. He was thrilled when he saw that the cabin was not completely empty. It had a small dorm-size icebox, but when he flipped the light switch, he realized there was no electricity, so it was useless. A narrow bunk bed was pushed up against the far wall and a musty looking sleeping bag sat on top of it. He walked over to the small, scratched up porcelain sink that was marred by brown stains circling the open drain. He reached over and tried to turn on the stainless steel water faucet. There was no water.

  “Shit!”

  He turned the handle back to the original position and decided to explore the rest of the cabin. He walked through a narrow doorway, which led into a small bedroom. A cheap-looking dresser stood against one wall. Touching it, he realized it was made of pressed wood. He shook his head in disgust. He preferred working with real wood himself, especially cedar, and creating pieces that he could be proud of. It was probably the only thing he could really do well. Give him a piece of cedar and he could create a piece of furniture that would last forever. Even the old man couldn’t deny him that; it was the one thing the old bastard would compliment him on. For a brief moment, he felt a sense of loss. The old man had his moments. Another memory flashed before him. He was eight years old and the old man was trying to make him shoot that old 22. “Yeah, he was proud of me then, too,” he said out loud in disgust. He shook off that memory and proceeded to explore.

  The next room was a tiny bathroom, just a toilet and shower. He walked down a narrow hallway and came to another bedroom, he held his breath, trying to ignore the musky smell.

  Two other bunk beds practically covered the entire floor space. A small closet was on the opposite wall and he opened it, and what he found gave him some sense of hope. A couple of t-shirts hung on the bar and he grabbed one. He pulled off the one he was wearing and quickly threw it aside and replaced it with the new one. While he was changing, he thought it was his own odor he caught a whiff of, but something was off, it didn’t smell like body odor. He took a deep breath and he inhaled one more time when he realized the smell was gas fumes. There was no mistaking the scent of stale gas. Looking down into the bottom of the small closet, he noticed a gray woolen blanket covering something. He lifted the woolen cover and underneath was a small gas generator. He unlatched the front door and dragged the generator outside, looking it over carefully for signs of damage and was satisfied when he found none. Now all he needed was some gasoline. He didn’t want to have to go back into town with the bike, because he was pretty sure the kid would have reported it stolen by now, so he decided to siphon the bike’s gas tank. Better he should have gas, he could manage with what the shack had to offer; all he had to do was siphon the gas, drop the bike off somewhere, and maybe get himself another vehicle and maybe some groceries. He pulled out the cash he had left in his jeans pocket. There wasn’t much left, just enough for a pack of cigarettes and a day or two’s worth of groceries. If he was smart and conserved, he would have enough gas to keep the generator going for a few days.

  An old garden hose lay in some weeds on the south side of the cabin. He picked it up and pulled out his pocket knife, and easily was able to cut a section of the thin hose long enough to siphon the gas.

  Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with fatigue. He was tired. He decided to take a quick nap and take care of the generator later.

  The temporary home that Sophie Harris had provided for the boy was only a few blocks away, not too far from the station, so Marty and Jean immediately headed there. They didn’t even bother to hit the siren since they were so close. The social worker was standing on the wooden porch, outside the home, with a stocky woman of about fifty years. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and she wore little makeup. Behind her were two toddlers hanging onto her pants’ leg.

  “I can’t believe this is happening. This never happened before. I just went in to get him a peanut butter sandwich, and when I came back into the room, he was gone. Gone! Just Gone!” There was no mistaking her reaction, the woman was distraught and in panic overload.

  Marty was afraid she was going to collapse; her hand went to her heart as if she was in pain.

  They walked up a few of the steps, but remained one below her. “Mrs.?”

  “Fiona, I’m Fiona Hunt. I am so sorry, this has never happened before. I just went to make him a sandwich.” She started to sob out loud.

  Sophie’s hand reached out to hold the woman’s trembling one, in an effort to calm her.

  “Mrs. Hunt, did he say anything while he was with you?” Jean asked.

  She shook her head no in response. “No, nothing. That sweet little boy just looked so sad. So sad.” She repeated between sobs.

  Marty let out a sigh. He looked around and tried to imagine in which direction Tristan would go. The streets were starting to fill with kids who had just been let out of the nearby school. This was going to be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

  “Was he dressed in the same clothes he came in, Mrs. Hunt?” Marty asked her, hoping somehow he managed to get some warmer attire.

  “They gave me some of the clothes they found, so he had on a fresh pair of underwear and a change of jeans. But, he was shivering a little and I thought he was cold; you know, maybe it’s a little damp in the house. It’s been pretty chilly, as of late, and this old house isn’t insulated very well, and my furnace isn’t working that wonderful. So anyway, I found a sweater that belonged to my son, he’s in college now; so I found one of his old sweaters, it was just a little too big, but it was warm. He gave me the sweetest smile when I put it on him.”

  She stopped for a moment, as though she was at a loss for words, and then the poor woman looked Marty in the eyes, hers glazed over with tears. “He smelled it. That little boy just kept putting the sleeve to his little nose and smelling it. It had been in a cedar chest we have, and I guess he never smelled that scent before. That sweet little boy kept bringing the sleeve of the sweater up to his nose and breathing it in, and then he would just smile, just smile.” She softly repeated the last two words.

  By the time they left, Marty thought that he had convinced the woman she wasn’t at fault and that they would find Tristan and return him safe and sound. Marty and Jean got back in the car and set about looking through the crowd of children for one curly brown-haired boy now wearing a butterscotch-colored knit sweater.

  Marty knew it wasn’t a logical response, and he told the woman she wasn’t to blame, but he wasn’t being exactly honest. He blamed her and was ang
ry that she was so careless as to let the kid out of her sight.

  “They are supposed to watch these kids and keep them safe,” Marty muttered, anger seeping into his words. Jean’s cellphone buzzed, indicating a call coming in as they headed in the direction they thought the little boy would go. From the corner of his eye, Marty saw her glance down at her phone and then bring it up to her ear.

  “Hi, honey. Whoa, wait, calm down.” Marty could hear the anxious voice of her daughter, Bethany, on the other end.

  “Look, I’m really busy, Bethany. Just tell him to report it and a uniform officer will write out an incident report,” Jean offered, as her eyes scanned the streets, looking for the missing little boy. Marty noticed that she rolled her eyes more than once during the conversation. When she hung up, she did it again, breaking out into a broad smile.

  “What?” Marty prodded her for the reason she looked so delighted all of a sudden.

  “I guess somebody up there really does like me. Apparently, someone just stole Dylan’s motorcycle.”

  Marty was about to ask her what was going on when his cell beeped, letting him know a text message was in. Frank had sent over the fax from Sanders, in Oregon. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the road, hoping that he would spot Tristan hiding amongst the crowd of children getting off a school bus, so he handed his phone to Jean. “Looks like the gunshot victim is Troy Blakey, or whoever he really is. So Shane Blakey is unaccounted for.” She lifted his phone up so he could see a photograph on the screen. The first mug shot was of Shane. He had a thick mane of dark blond hair that fell past his shoulders. His jaw was strong and defined. A large, distinctly-shaped scar, about two inches, marked his forehead just above his left eyebrow. His left eyelid slightly drooped, giving him a kind of lazy appearance. There was something about him that bothered Marty, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The next picture she showed him was of the man lying in the hospital. She was right, that was definitely the man they previously identified as Troy Blakey. Both photos were taken quite a few years earlier when the men were still in their teens. She read off the charges against Shane Blakey; nothing bad, just kid stuff. Shoplifting; and one charge of possession of drug paraphilia.

  There were no mug shots of Troy. The picture they were given was a photo enlarged from what appeared to be a high school baseball team picture. Marty was relieved, for at least the moment, neither of them was charged with violence or abuse towards children; but he was skeptical. Jean called Frank and asked him to put an A.P.B. out on the man they believed to be Shane Blakey, and added that he was presumed armed and dangerous; but Frank was on top of things, and he told her he just gave the order before she called. So now they knew the kid was out there, and this suspect was out there, but they didn’t know whether or not they were together, or if Tristan was with this man, was he safe? The whole situation was unnerving. Jean disconnected the call from Frank and sat back in the seat.

  “Marty, let’s go see Michaelah. She may be ready to talk to us. Frank just said that he spoke to the mother and the kid is talking up a storm.”

  Marty was pretty conflicted. He didn’t want to leave the search for the little boy, and he knew the whole police force was out there looking for him. Odds were he wasn’t going to be the one to find him. So, with a great deal of reluctance, Marty made a quick U-turn and headed towards the highway. They got onto the New York Thruway, and drove across the Tappan Zee Bridge, and continued south onto the Major Deegan Expressway passing the Taj Mahal of the Bronx, also known as Yankee Stadium. It never failed to impress him. This new stadium was an awesome sight and an architectural work of art, and it gave him such a feeling of pride since he was a diehard Yankee fan. As a kid, his dad used to take them at least once each summer to see the boys in pinstripes play. They still tried to get to the games; but their lives get so busy, and the television reception and pictures are so remarkable, it’s more convenient to stay home where there are no lines and no traffic to fight.

  Marty’s daydream faded, because before long that daydream became a nightmare as he slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision. They were in stop-and-go traffic heading into Queens on what used to be called the Triborough Bridge but was now called the Robert F. Kennedy. Marty knew it was crazy, but as they crawled along, at barely fifteen miles per hour, he peered into every vehicle they passed, looking for that little boy, knowing quite well that the odds were he was still somewhere near Mrs. Hunt’s house and hopefully not too cold, not too tired, and not at all hungry. He had forgotten to ask if Tristan was given anything else to eat before Mrs. Hunt left him alone, to get him the peanut butter sandwich. He comforted himself knowing that he at least had that cheeseburger the day before, and he hoped that would sustain him until they got him to a safe place.

  As hard as she tried to get enthusiastic about the hairstyles in the book, she found her mind drifting back to the scene at the hospital. She was startled when Tawnya tapped her on the top of her head. “Earth to Hope! Are you listening, sista? This is the one!” Tawnya, her friend and hairstylist, lifted the book up and tapped the picture on the right. The glossy photograph showed a beautiful model, her long dark hair in loose soft curls with a delicate pearled veil set on top. “Oh, I’m sorry, Tawnya, it is pretty.” Hope answered unenthusiastically.

  “What’s wrong, Hope? This should be the most exciting time of your life. You look like you just lost your best friend.” Tawnya pulled over a stool and looked at Hope’s reflection in the mirror. “You’re not getting cold feet, are you? I mean, if you don’t want the man, well, I will take him in a heartbeat. Well, I would if I wasn’t already married.” She smiled at Hope’s reflection in the mirror. She was waiting for Hope to return the smile and after a few seconds she realized she wasn’t going to get one in return. “This is serious; what’s wrong, sista? Tell me, what’s going on?”

  Hope dropped the magazine into her lap and nervously flipped the corner of the magazine’s page.

  “I know it’s silly, I know he’s nothing like Richard. I just wonder sometimes if I’m enough for him.” The conversation between the two women continued through their reflections in the mirror.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Hope, stop doing this to yourself. Richard was a complete dog; and you deserved so much more than that cheating son of a bitch. I know Marty, I have known him since grade school, and he is nothing like that first husband of yours. You are beautiful, and smart, and one of the most desirable women in this town—so stop this crap right now; and let’s decide on how we are going to make you into the most beautiful bride this town has ever seen.”

  Hope smiled, not quite convinced, but grateful for her friend’s lecture. She was about to pick up the magazine once more when something caught her attention in the mirror. She turned around quickly to see if she could spot it outside the spa’s front window. Nothing.

  She turned her attention back to Tawnya. “Okay, I think you’re right Tawnya. Let’s go with this one.” She pointed to the page her friend had suggested a few minutes ago. “I just feel silly going through all this, big wedding and all. I’ve been there, done that. It seems so elaborate.”

  “Yes you have, but Marty hasn’t. Give the man his day. I have never seen him so happy, Hope. I swear he is more excited about this wedding than you are. Do you think the Captain will be able to walk you down the aisle? Is he going to be up to it?” She toyed with Hope’s hair, simulating the look from the magazine. Hope laughed.

  “He swears that nothing is going to stop him and I believe him. I just hope he doesn’t overdo it trying to prove himself. It was a very delicate surgery and he needs to baby himself. We wanted him to go back to Mary’s to recuperate, but he insists on coming home, probably it is for the better. Mary’s house is always so chaotic with her brood. I’m going to take a couple of days off to stay with him when he comes home from the hospital. Marty was on vacation, but with this new case, he seems to have been recruited back to work, probably good for him and the Captain. He . . . .”

>   Once again Hope caught something in the mirror, again she turned around and saw nothing but her car parked in the lot. She stood up, handing Tawnya back the magazine. “Thanks, Tawnya. You always make me feel so much better.” She turned and gave the tall blonde a warm hug.

  “Just get out of here and take care of your man. He’s lucky to have you, and vice versa, sista!”

  A bell jingled when the door opened, and a new customer entered, holding the door open for Hope as she exited. She was feeling a lot better now than when she left Marty. Something about her friend Tawnya always gave her a little lift. The woman was like a Piña Colada on a warm summer day. So, with a new attitude, she opened her car door and got in. She got about thirty seconds down the road when she heard it.

  Somebody, or something, was in her back seat. She tried not to panic, but she immediately broke into a cold sweat. She nonchalantly stuck her hand in her purse and tried to dig out her cellphone. She couldn’t decide whether she should pull over and stop the car or just drive to the police station.

  She knew Marty would be furious with her, because there was a murder suspect out there somewhere, but she decided to pull over and stopped the car, thankful she was still in a residential area and not on the highway. Without looking down, her finger hit the numbers 9-1-1 and was ready to press down on the send button when she turned around abruptly and leaned over to see what was in the backseat. A pair of big green eyes stared back at her from under a blanket on the floor she left there last week when she had transported her mother’s dog to the vet. She had completely forgotten it was back there and hadn’t returned it to her mother.

  She didn’t know who was more startled, her or the boy.

  She unbuckled her seatbelt and opened her door and immediately got out and opened the back passenger door. She felt her heel slide a bit, as she realized she had stepped on a mound of very fresh dog feces.