Jaden Baker

by Courtney Kirchoff

  Removing the crates took some time. Once the last division was removed, Madrid entered his quarry’s lair.

  The ground floor was mostly clear, and remarkably clean. A punching bag hung from the strongest beam of the second floor. Several trash cans had hoses and piping leading to them from the story above. Madrid’s eyes naturally followed them to the upper level. He couldn’t see much from this angle. There were no stairs. A ladder was tucked on the top floor, which was further confirmation that Baker lived here.

  Madrid requested a ladder, then climbed up.

  What greeted his eyes was shocking. It was a full-sized home, complete with kitchen, living room, bedroom and even a functioning bathroom. There were kitchen cabinets, shelves of food, and opposite that wall, bookshelves filled with books.

  “Whoa,” Dillard said, reaching the top and standing beside him. “This is unexpected.”

  “Yes,” Madrid mumbled as he walked through. “Call the team.”

  He had always known Jaden was intelligent, but what he found in that rudimentary apartment was more than intelligence, it was innovation. The way the bathroom functioned, how the kitchen sink operated, how every piece of furniture except the couch, was constructed not purchased...

  Among the things they found was a litter box. Jaden had a cat.

  Madrid read over the book titles on the shelves. Baker had books on advanced physics and calculus, as well as basic to advanced engineering. World and American history. Classics like Moby Dick, Dracula, Pride and Prejudice, David Copperfield, and Kidnapped, among others. His modern collection was more limited but still contained dozens of books.

  The books he understood. They allowed Jaden to escape the world to which he belonged. Where most people read books for recreational purposes, Baker took it to the next level. He depended on them for an escape, having nowhere else to go. The book collection reinforced what Madrid already knew: rather than form connections with real people, Jaden opted to bond with the fictional, delving deeper into fantastical worlds instead of dealing with his own. He imagined Baker on his days off, pouring over his books, blocking out the world around him.

  Madrid couldn’t help admiring Jaden’s thirst for knowledge. If he studied languages in addition to science and history, he did so for the pure joy of learning, trying to know the society he didn’t want to be a part of. Though a contradiction to the untrained eye, Madrid recognized this desperate seeking of knowledge and languages as a failed attempt to rejoin and connect with the world.

  Jaden Baker knew carpentry, having designed and constructed his own furnishings. That, above everything else, was the most fascinating. The game changed. The boy was looking for roots. Madrid was wrong: Seattle was Baker’s first and only destination. He had not traveled aimlessly, going from one job to the next. Seattle was his home.

  While the staff dusted for fingerprints to confirm Jaden had lived here, Madrid plucked a chemistry book from the shelf, and sat on the couch to read. He derived a sense of pleasure from it, sitting on Jaden’s furniture, reading his book, being where he had been, his long lost project.

  Jaden had written copious notes in the margins of the book, underlining and highlighting formulas he didn’t understand, or wanted to remember. Dalton had started him with the basics of chemistry, but this was advanced. Jaden had jotted his own notes, scribbled drawings of chemicals and formulations. The pages were filled with them.

  His cell phone rang, this time it was Sam. When he answered he heard static. He hung up the phone and waited for Sam to call again. The phone rang, but there was still static.

  Madrid closed the book and told Dillard he was leaving the building to take a call. Dillard pulled the contents of Jaden’s desk and organized the files and papers in a pile. A dozen other people inventoried everything in the building, analyzing how things worked, taking photos, removing books and boxing them away. There could be no evidence that Jaden Baker had ever been here.

  As he descended the ladder, Madrid noted three men on the bottom floor trying to peel a tarp from the ceiling, the base of the second floor. They assumed, Madrid included, it was a catch for anything that fell from the first floor, like water dripping from the bathroom, and would drain through the pipe to the garbage can on the ground level.

  He strode outside, walking across the street as he dialed Sam’s number.

  “Joseph?” Sam asked.

  “Yes, what do you have?” Madrid walked further from the building, his reception growing stronger.

  “Nothing yet, just checking in. What did you find?”

  “The boy’s been busy. His home is littered with books. I just found a chemistry book filled with his own calculations and notes. If he’s been studying on his own it means he’s too afraid to get help. That’s a good thing.”

  There was silence on Sam’s end for a moment. “What kind of chemistry?”

  But what kind Madrid didn’t say.

  A thundering explosion shook the ground, a brick and steel cacophony, sending shock waves through the air. Madrid was hurtled off his feet, flying fifteen feet, and landing hard on the sidewalk. A terrible pain raced down the back of his head and into his back. Eyes wide, he turned with his hand over his head, looking for the source of the explosion, covering his bleeding head with his arms, saving himself from the bits of debris now falling to earth.

  The brick warehouse was ablaze, flames curling out of every remaining window, black smoke billowing, and the high-pitched scream of burning wood, steal, and human flesh crackling through the hot, pungent air.

  thirty

  Libby insisted all computer work, including studying a map, could only be done properly with music in the background. Before leaving for lunch with her client, she gave him a selection of CDs to be played on the stereo should he chose to listen. To appease her, he told her to pick one for him, and she put on Bach, one of her favorites. One of his favorites, too. He grumbled when she left, recognizing the burning feeling in his gut as jealousy.

  With dramatic music in the background, and a pseudo-realistic landscape on the screen in front of him, Jaden planned. If it weren’t for the freezing winters, he would have loved to move to Alaska. The wild landscape and close proximity to Russia had its appeal. He knew islands like Hawaii were out of the question, as escape options were limited.

  Seattle had provided him a great many options. Because it was populated, there was a smaller chance of being picked out of the crowd; important when he was younger and wholly unfamiliar with current events and unable to be employed without raising questions. Now he was twenty-five, those issues didn’t matter.

  From what he knew about small towns (mainly from books), the smaller the town, the more closely knit the community. If a stranger arrived, looking for work and a place to live, they’d ask questions. He would stick out.

  Which limited him to cities, but not just in the United States. He spoke a variety of languages with varying degrees of fluency. When he took it upon himself to become as well versed as possible, he started with languages of countries in which he could most easily hide, countries with people who looked like him. He could live anywhere in Europe, the Slavic countries, and, because he had dark hair, possibly many more. Canada was only miles away. His light complexion and gray eyes were ill suited for Africa, Central and South America, India, and other Asian countries.

  Getting there was the real challenge. Smuggling himself aboard a freighter was plausible, but not practical, especially for the amount of travel time required. And what would he do once he arrived? He had no passport. At least in America, the country of his birth, he needed no proof of citizenship.

  So he considered big cities like Chicago, Phoenix, Houston and New York. New York’s immense size made it the most appealing, and, like Seattle, it was a harbor city. Getting out of the country would be easier from a port, if it came to that.

  Vancouver, British Columbia, also had its appeal. The climate was similar to Seattle; it was just north of where he was now. However, due to
its convenience, Archcroft was probably monitoring it, a thought which occurred to him as he stared at a photo of the glimmering city.

  New York then. It would take ages to travel by foot; a long journey, yet necessary. Hitchhiking was an idea, as people more menacing in appearance than he got rides hitchhiking. Surely someone would give him a ride.

  He planned his route, recording notes in his notebook, the same notebook containing sketches for various carpentry projects he hoped to one day build. A part of him wished he knew how to ride a bike, the other part wished he had one to ride. It would make the journey faster, easier, and more enjoyable.

  Libby came home as Jaden was taking a closer look at Michigan. Google estimated his walk to New York would take over thirty-seven days. He would need new shoes.

  “So, where’re you headed?” she asked, coming in to look over his shoulder.

  “New York,” he said. She had the scent of garlic on her breath. It smelled good.

  “Ah, yes. Pack your swim trunks then,” she said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Humidity. You’ll need gills to breathe. It’s so hot your arms will sweat.”

  “Ewww,” he said in a voice that suited her more than it did him. He shook it off and went back to Michigan.

  “Why New York?” she asked.

  “It’s big.”

  “That’s true. It’s jam packed with people. You sure you can walk that far?”

  “I don’t have too many options. I’ll hop as many trains as I can, hitchhike some, and walk. I’m not stealing another car,” he said, popping into street view to get a better idea of where he was going.

  “You stole a car?” she asked, eyes wide.

  “Yes,” he said flatly. “Two.”

  “Two cars?”

  “In under twenty four hours.” Based on her incredulous expression, this bothered her. “I’m sure both cars got back to their rightful owners. I didn’t wreck the first one, and I think the second one was okay.”

  “When was this?” she asked.

  “When I escaped. I needed to get out of the city so I stole some cars. I didn’t have time to walk across the Bay Bridge, and I don’t think I could have anyways,” he remarked, jotting more notes.

  “Well,” she said, smiling now. “I guess that’s what car insurance is for.”

  “I took less ostentatious cars than yours. You won’t have to worry about me stealing that Honda.” He finished taking notes. Real maps were essential for his trek.

  “You probably couldn’t handle my car,” Libby said.

  He chuffed under his breath. “Yeah, okay.”

  “You couldn’t. It takes mad skills to handle that little baby. Did you have lunch?”

  “I weaved in and out of rush hour traffic in a Ford while being chased by a helicopter, I can handle your bean of a car,” he said, finding himself smiling at her. “And no, I didn’t raid your kitchen.”

  She smirked. “What kind of Ford? You were chased by a helicopter?”

  “A Focus, and only for a little while.” He stopped himself from telling the full story and pushed away from her desk, taking his notebook.

  “Manual or automatic?” she asked.

  “Who cares?” he asked.

  “Me. Me cares.”

  He stuffed his notepad in his backpack. “Automatic.”

  “Oh ha, that’s not real driving.”

  Jaden sighed. “Well, no one taught me the rules of the road, so excuse me,” he said. Was this friendly banter? Was she bantering with him, even after her lunch with the client she’d flirted with on the phone? “How was lunch with that guy?” he asked.

  “Fine. We talked about work a little, then the conversation turned to how his kids are doing in school. How boring is that?”

  Jaden looked up. “He’s got kids?”

  “Yeah, who doesn’t?” she said, then gathered makings for sandwiches from her pantry.

  “So he’s a married family guy?” he asked, hoping it sounded casual.

  “Yep,” she said, not commenting on his tone or question.

  The jealous lion that had been pacing around his brain all day yawned and relaxed. There was nothing to worry about then. Not that it mattered. She treated whoever was on the phone with the same kind regard she showed him.

  “You want a sandwich?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “What about false names, have you thought of those at all?” she asked.

  “Sort of,” he answered. “I have a list. I’m not sure what to chose. Maybe I’ll rotate through all of them.”

  “No, pick one and go with it,” she said.

  He looked through the names in his notebook. He had written so many, how to chose?

  “I guess it has to be realistic, so you can’t be, like, Sirius Black. Which is a real bummer; you look just like him,” Libby said.

  Jaden didn’t know who that was and didn’t ask. He smiled and resumed his scanning. She stood beside him and ran her finger down the list. He was pleasantly aware of her close proximity.

  “Hmm. Those are interesting. Write them and decide which signature you like best.” She spread mustard on a few slices of bread then added roast beef.

  “How will that help?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Pick the one that comes the easiest. Maybe there’s some psychological reason one name would flow easier than another. It’s worth a shot.”

  He felt silly writing the names over and over, watching them form on the page. But her idea held weight. Nicholas Monroe wrote nicely. He told her.

  “Nicholas Monroe?” she asked, her nose scrunched. “Nick? I don’t see it.”

  “This was your idea. Nicholas Monroe looks the best.”

  She looked at the names he’d written down. “Yeah, but Nick Monroe? It’s not you.”

  “Well what is me?” he asked.

  “You’re a...” she looked at him as she put lettuce on his sandwiches. “You’re a...”

  He raised his eyebrows at her. “Yes?”

  “Yeah, see, you look like a Jaden to me. Or a Sirius Black.”

  “Neither of those are helping me right now. What about Christopher—”

  “Robin?”

  Jaden sighed.

  “Sorry,” she said. She put a second piece of bread on both sandwiches and slid the plate across to him. “It’s just that picking your own name is important.”

  “You suggested picking it based on signatures!” he said, chewing.

  “Yeah, well that’s when I thought you’d come up with a good name. Nick Monroe is not you. Neither is Christopher Robin.”

  “I wasn’t going to pick ‘Christopher Robin,’” he said through a mouthful of sandwich.

  “Sure,” she said, putting a hand on her hip. “What about Scott something?”

  “No,” he said, cringing.

  “What’s wrong with Scott?”

  “I think of tape.” He took another bite.

  “That’s ‘Scotch’ you dummy,” she laughed.

  “It’s close, though,” he said. “Howard Cline?”

  “Do you hate you?” she asked, giggling now. Once she calmed herself: “David?”

  He shrugged. That was a name he liked and had thought of before. “Maybe.”

  “Okay. First name a maybe. David goes with a lot of things and it’s not out of the ordinary. David, David... David Cameron?”

  “No, not Cameron. Sounds like a first name.”

  “David Carpenter?”

  Oh. “I like that,” he said. He finished the first sandwich and wiped his hands and face on a napkin she handed to him. “That’s not a name of a famous serial killer or rapist is it?”

  She laughed. “Not that I know of.” She whipped out her phone and searched for it, then frowned. “Never mind.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, what are the odds? Okay, moving on. David Summers?”

  “Not really thrilled with Summers, but what does the internet say?” he asked.


  She checked and nodded. “No serial killers came to the first page. We’ll chew on it. Write it down, let’s see how it looks.”

  He did, and Libby nodded in approval. “I like it. You want me to call you David the rest of the time you’re here?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. He wrote his own name, something he had not done in a while, since the third grade. Of all the names, this one looked the best, flowed the easiest. Despite wanting to shed the life of Jaden Baker, forget about everything that came before, the idea of changing his name was not as adventurous as he thought it would be.

  “How do you sign your name?” he asked her, shaking himself of the thought.

  She took the pen from him and signed Elizabeth James, embellishing the E and J. Then, inspired, she took the book from him and flipped to the inside cover, and wrote something. She winked and handed it back.

  He flipped to it to find a note:

  Happy trails and good luck to you, David S. May your journey find you well, and may you not get eaten by a bear. Best Wishes, Libby

  Jaden froze. He blinked and read it through a few more times, but his eye kept coming back to her name. Libby. Libby with two loops through the tail of the Y.

  It was like standing under a broken umbrella in a hail storm. He was pelted with facts and information he disregarded before, but now hit him.

  Libby with the curly Y.

  Libby with her bright blue eyes. Electric blue. Libby with her auburn hair. Libby who knew people in Archcroft. Libby who ran away from home because her two parents were absent. Libby with all her books...

  “Is everything okay?” she asked. “I was kidding about the bear. Well, I really don’t want you to get eaten by a bear, but you know...”

  He looked at her. Hadn’t he suspected all along who she actually was? And in the car from Seattle to here, on the ferry, hadn’t she said been particularly flattered when he said her name was pretty? Like she’d chosen the name Elizabeth James? Her face was familiar. Had he not suspected her the whole time?