Boy, 9, Missing

by Nic Joseph

  It had taken a few moments for his face to register, but when it had, my first instinct had been to hide. I’d whipped around quickly, facing the front of the line, and swiped my credit card without a glance at the total. I couldn’t have borne it—the questions about where I’d been, or why I hadn’t called, or what had happened with Reba. I just couldn’t.

  As I’d made my escape, my shoulders hunched over my shopping cart, I’d snuck a peek back at the line. I’d almost crashed into a family of four when I’d seen what my father was doing.

  He was in the same place, but he’d picked up a magazine. Not just any magazine—from the collage of faces on the cover, I could tell it was Us Weekly or People or something else he’d had no business holding.

  Which could have meant only one thing.

  As he positioned the magazine in front of his face, I’d realized he’d seen me too.

  And he was avoiding me as much as I was avoiding him.

  And as much as I didn’t deserve to feel sorry for myself, I did. Until that day, I’d been telling myself I’d go by to see him at some point, but all those empty promises flew out the window the day I saw him ducking behind a picture of Taylor Swift.

  • • •

  About ten minutes after I left Amy in my apartment, I pulled into the parking lot of my father’s aging apartment complex. The grounds were dingy and unkempt, the light coat of snow unable to hide the bits of trash that littered the premises. Stealing an assigned space, I jumped out of my car and jogged quickly over to the front door.

  A handwritten Apartments for Rent sign was taped to the inside of the glass, the scribbled phone number barely legible. I pressed the buzzer to Alex’s fourth-floor unit.

  Nothing.

  I waited a few seconds before pushing it again, letting my finger linger on the buzzer.

  Come on, Alex.

  The last time I’d come to visit—hell, had it been six years?—I’d pushed the buzzer for nearly five minutes before he’d answered. He’d been “in the shower.” When I’d gotten upstairs, the place had smelled like a disgusting mixture of rotten food and weed, and it had been clear that Alex hadn’t taken a shower in days.

  I was about to push the buzzer again when I saw movement. Through the glass, I watched the elevator at the end of the hallway open and a tall, muscular woman walk out.

  In full Lansing Police Department uniform.

  I drew in a breath and pulled back from the glass, spinning around to face the parking lot.

  Shit.

  Without giving myself time to hesitate, I walked back down the stairs, hoping I was walking neither too fast nor too slow. I imagined the cop’s eyes trained on my back, watching me, wondering where I’d come from and why I was rushing away from the building.

  Slow down.

  I walked back to my car and opened the door as casually as possible. I could see out of the corner of my eye that the cop had opened the front door and was now standing on the front steps, peering in my direction. I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. At the first stop sign, I made a right, hoping the officer wasn’t still watching me.

  Delroy had cops at my dad’s place.

  Which meant that Alex was probably nowhere around.

  “I’m not sure why people hate us so much,” I’d heard my father say to my mother one evening when I was ten or eleven.

  “They don’t hate you. They don’t hate cops. They hate that you have the ability to stop them from going about their lives, to speak to them when they don’t want to be spoken to, to judge them.”

  “To protect them. Do they hate that part too?”

  “No, but they hate what comes with that.”

  I turned into the alley behind my father’s building, staring straight ahead as I navigated through the overflowing garbage bins. If I let my eyes rest on them for even a second, I knew the itchy feeling of disgust would come over me, and I didn’t have time for an episode.

  It took me a moment to recognize the back of his building, and when I did, I hit the brakes. Pulling into a space across the alley, I shut off the car and stepped out onto the gravel. With my head down, I moved quickly and deliberately up the staircase of a neighboring building, making sure to keep my eyes straight ahead.

  “If you don’t want to be noticed, just move with purpose.” It was one of the tips my father had doled out during my “awkward year” in middle school. “Nothing sticks out like a person who lingers, who hesitates. You’d be surprised at how much you can get away with just by moving quickly, talking louder, and pretending you know what you’re doing.”

  I continued up the staircase and stopped, turning to look casually at the back of my father’s building. Shielding myself behind a large column, I scanned his back door for any signs of the cop I’d seen out front. The steps outside my father’s apartment stood out like a sore thumb on an already bruised hand. He’d hung faded, light-blue sheets around the perimeter of his small deck for privacy, but as the wind blew them apart, they exposed a cluttered, crowded space that was obviously being used more for storage than anything else.

  I had to find a way inside.

  I could come back later, but what if the cop was still there? Besides, I had plans with Amy, and I needed some time to convince her that she had plans with me. My gaze dropped down to the third floor and the second, in search of anything or anyone who might be out of place.

  There.

  The thing about being around cops so long is that you know how to spot them. A man in a faded black leather jacket and ripped jeans stood between the second and third floors of the staircase, leaning over the side, his elbows braced on the railing. In his hand, he held a Big Gulp, and he let the straw dangle in his mouth as he cased the alley. I pulled back even farther.

  Two cops?

  For a “person of interest”?

  Delroy was a lot more concerned than he’d pretended to be. I walked back down the stairs and into the alley again. Crossing it quickly, I hugged the garages behind my father’s building, praying the cop couldn’t see me from his vantage point. There was no way Delroy had three cops watching my father’s building, right? The apartment itself had to be empty. Waiting for an opening, I peeked around the corner of the closest garage. I saw almost instantly what it would be. The cop was in the same place, but he’d begun to move. A slow bob, back and forth, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  I knew that dance.

  I’d done it many times: after too many beers at a concert, or in the middle of a crowded bar when the bathroom was just too far away.

  Come on…

  After a few minutes, the cop straightened, turned, and walked quickly down the stairs. He looked over his shoulder in my direction, and I darted back against the garages. I counted slowly to ten and leaned forward again. The cop was walking between a pair of parked cars toward a shaded corner of the alley. He’d already started unzipping his pants.

  I moved toward the staircase of my father’s apartment building. The cop couldn’t see me, but he would be able to hear me if I made too much noise. Without letting myself think about the absurdity of what I was doing, I slipped out of my shoes and walked in my socks up the stairs. I held my breath the whole time, and when I got to the top, I breathed carefully out of my mouth, listening for any sounds.

  Nothing.

  I pushed past the billowing blue sheets and stepped onto the small deck.

  Navigating the chairs, boxes, and piles of junk, I went over to his kitchen window. Bending down, I peered inside. Nothing. I tried the back door and wasn’t surprised to find it locked, but maybe…

  On the ledge outside of the kitchen was a small, empty planter, which my father had left there to hide his backup key. He’d told me about it the last time I’d visited.

  “I’ve locked myself out so many times, Francis,” he’d slurred, shaking hi
s head. “Landlord charges me $75 each time. Each time!”

  “Why don’t you give me a spare set,” I’d said. “That way, I could—”

  “Could what?” he’d asked sullenly. “Fly here from New York to let me in? Hell no. You don’t need to be able to come in here anytime you want. Besides, I fixed the problem. I hid a key out on the deck.”

  I hadn’t felt the need to tell him he’d just given me access through that admission. I’d seen the key under the planter on the way out. Somewhere between the whiskey and the wine, he’d gotten sloppy with things like that. If I was honest with myself, I knew the moment I saw it that one day I’d have to use it to let myself into my father’s apartment, and it wouldn’t be a good day when that happened. Though, to be fair, I’d suspected more of a “locked up for a drunken bar fight” scenario than a “kidnapping of a nine-year-old child.”

  I lifted the planter, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw the key was still there. The old key and cold lock took some finessing, but I was finally able to open the door and quietly step inside.

  I slipped my shoes back on and walked slowly into the kitchen, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior. My stomach flipped as I walked through the rooms. There was junk everywhere, piled on top of itself. Paper towels and plastic bags. Trinkets and garbage, all littering the kitchen table and the hallways. I stepped into the living room and froze when I saw a large suitcase on the couch, half-empty.

  He’d been packing?

  I balled my hands into fists as I walked farther into the apartment, letting my gaze rest on the dingy furniture, the musky smell of dust and old food filling my nostrils.

  Damn it, Alex.

  The place was a mess, but it was clear the cops had done a number on it too. Desk drawers were open, the cushions on the sofa tossed aside. They were looking for something, and I had a feeling they hadn’t found it.

  But I knew one place to look that they didn’t.

  When I was a child, my father always hid things in one place, and one place only.

  “I want something heavier,” I’d heard him say once to my mother as he inspected a large oak dresser at a furniture store.

  “Heavier?” she’d asked. “What’s the point of that?”

  “It’ll just…look nicer, believe me. You know, more expensive,” he’d said, turning and giving me a wink. He knew I’d seen him hiding some cash under his dresser a few weeks earlier, and it had become our little secret, one I found exciting to keep from my mother.

  It was worth a try.

  I walked into the bedroom and was immediately overwhelmed by the feeling that I wasn’t supposed to be there, in his most personal, private space. Taking a deep breath, I put both hands on my father’s dresser before digging my feet into the carpet and pushing.

  It didn’t move an inch. I took a deep breath and tried again, lifting just one corner, then the other, until I was able to shimmy it back along the wall a few inches.

  There.

  A small, perfect square had been cut in the carpet. I knelt down and tugged. Beneath the carpet, there was a hole in the floorboard, not much bigger than my hand. Steeling myself, I leaned forward and put my hand inside.

  My fingertips brushed against what felt like crumpled papers, and I pulled out the contents.

  A stack of cash—not much.

  A few crumpled receipts.

  And an address book.

  I flipped open the book and scanned the pages. There were only a few addresses and phone numbers listed, one for Raymond Banks, the prosecutor in my brother’s case. I also found an address for a place listed only as “Cabin,” in Swatchport, Illinois.

  Swatchport?

  I’d heard of the small town; it was just thirty miles or so outside of Chicago.

  I left the money but picked up the receipts and the address book. As I stood up, I unrolled one of the receipts and peered down at the boxy, blue-and-white logo at the top of it—it looked like the letters C and S, framed by a thick rectangle.

  I squinted at the small text and began to replace the carpet with my foot when I heard the sound of a door opening—followed by footsteps as someone hurried into the apartment.

  Shit.

  Chapter Six

  The footsteps were fast and confident, and my mouth went dry. There wasn’t enough time for me to move the dresser back into place. I finished pushing the carpet down and moved quickly against the wall, shielding myself from the hallway outside the bedroom door.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” a male voice said loudly. “I’ll do one more walk-through, and Lewis will stay out front.”

  Damn.

  It was one of the cops, probably Big Gulp, and there was a good chance Delroy was on the other end of the line. I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed that it wasn’t my father. The cop’s footsteps got louder as he neared the bedroom, and I flattened myself against the wall.

  Was he coming in here?

  What would I say?

  And what would Delroy say when he found out?

  I panicked, sliding down onto the carpet. I rolled to the side of the bed farthest from the door. With my body flat on the musky, filthy carpet, I waited, blood pumping furiously through my body.

  A second later, I heard another sound.

  Urine—hitting the toilet bowl.

  Again?

  The cop was humming to himself, and I knew it was my only opportunity before he did his final check. I stayed low to the floor and crept around the bed. Peering into the hallway, I could see the man standing with his back to me in the bathroom, since he’d left the door wide open. I crept slowly out into the hall.

  Creak.

  The floorboard squealed beneath my foot, and I froze, my gaze fixed on the back of the cop’s head. My mouth was open, and I continued to take in short, shallow breaths, praying he wouldn’t turn around.

  But Big Gulp didn’t move, didn’t even stop his stream. I took a deep breath before continuing. I hit the kitchen just as the toilet flushed. I slipped quietly out the back door and navigated the stacks of junk on the back porch before racing down the stairs, not stopping to look back as I bolted toward my car.

  • • •

  On the way home, I sent Amy a text, asking her what she wanted for dinner. It took her a few minutes to respond.

  Not hungry.

  The fridge was packed with the groceries I’d purchased the day before, but I knew I had a better chance of getting in some quality time if I brought home something quick and easy. I took a detour and stopped at Duo’s Pizzeria, a small mom-and-pop shop that doled out a free two-liter with every large pizza.

  I walked through the front door of my apartment around eight o’clock, more exhausted than I’d been in a long time. My attention immediately went to the patio door, which was patched poorly with a large piece of heavy-duty plastic. It did nothing to stop the cold evening air from whipping around the living room.

  There was a handwritten note from Frank on the counter, promising he’d be back the next day for a more permanent fix.

  I put the pizza down and opened the box. I’d tried to call Amy from Duo’s, but she hadn’t answered, so I’d gone with half meat, half veggies. It seemed like a safe bet in case she didn’t eat meat anymore.

  Hell, I didn’t even know whether or not she ate meat.

  I walked through the apartment to her room.

  “Hey, you here?” I called out when I reached her door. I could hear what sounded like a radio. I knocked gently on the door, and it partially opened.

  Amy was sitting on her bed, her computer in her lap.

  “Hey,” I said again. “I brought some dinner home.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said, not looking up from the computer. She took a moment to angle the screen away from me, just slightly.

  “Oh…” I said, standi
ng at the door. “Well, come on out and try it anyway. I got pizza. I didn’t know what kind you liked, so I got half sausage and pepperoni, half green peppers.”

  I felt like I was talking a lot.

  “Amy.”

  “What?” she asked, looking up again, pressing a key as she peered at the screen. “I’m really not hungry. Besides, I don’t eat pizza anyway. Thanks, though.”

  “You don’t like pizza?” I asked, frowning. “I didn’t know that.”

  “No, I just don’t eat it.”

  “Okay…” I said. I lingered for another moment and finally stepped back out into the hallway. I pulled the door gently behind me and was almost back in the kitchen when I heard a voice.

  “Sto bene.”

  The voice was mechanical, and it wobbled out of the computer, making me pause. I’d inched back closer to Amy’s door when I heard her repeat the phrase quietly.

  “Sto bene.”

  I walked quickly to her door.

  “What?” I said, pushing the door open slightly.

  She looked up at me, her face covered in annoyance, and the voice on the computer spoke again: “Di dove sei?”

  Amy reached out and pressed something on her keyboard, and the sound stopped. “What’s up?” she asked.

  “I thought you said something.”

  “Nope, I didn’t.”

  I hovered by the door for a moment. “Was that Italian?”

  She blinked, and I got the sense she was uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Yeah, I’m just…just doing a little practicing,” she said.

  “Oh, okay,” I said, stepping forward. “When did you start doing that?”

  She shrugged a little, and it was clear she wanted the conversation to be over. “I don’t know, Dad,” she said. “Just a couple of weeks ago. I’ve always wanted to learn a new language.”

  “I thought you were taking Spanish at school.”

  “Dad.”

  “Yeah, no, I mean, that’s great,” I said. “You’re going to need it when you go to stay with your mom. I get it.” I cleared my throat. “Hey, by the way, since tomorrow’s really the only day we’ll have to hang out before school starts, I thought maybe we could do something fun. Maybe go play mini golf like we used to. You’re not a kid anymore, so I don’t have to let you win though.”