Boy, 9, Missing

by Nic Joseph

  “Picture your parents’ home, the kitchen or the dining room. Any room you remember. Can you do that, Francis?”

  Suddenly, I could see it. Fuzzy images of my parents’ dining table. The bread rolls. The shiny silverware. The salad bowl.

  “Okay,” I said. “Yes, I can do it.”

  “Good, tell me where you are.”

  “I’m at the dinner table,” I heard myself say, the words tumbling out of my loose lips. “I’m sitting down…at the dinner table.”

  “Good,” I heard her say, her voice soft and rhythmic. “Now we can begin.”

  • • •

  Grandpa Zach had brought me back downstairs to the living room, where there was a cluster of family members. My mother and father were still nowhere to be seen—I’d caught a glimpse of my father trailing behind another cop half an hour earlier, asking something about Sam, but then he was gone. I sat on the couch, where my grandfather had left me, and we stared at each other, him at a complete loss for what to stay to a thirteen-year-old who’d just lost his little brother.

  About ten minutes had passed when a cop walked into the room and leaned over, whispering something into my grandfather’s ear. He looked up sharply. “Kate?” he asked, and he looked back at me. “Francis, I’ll be right back, okay? I need to check on your mother. Just stay right there.”

  I nodded, because there was nothing else I could do, and he hadn’t invited me to come with him, so obviously, she didn’t want me there.

  I sat there for a few minutes, the oppressive heat suffocating me, and I yanked at my itchy sweater, which was now even more of a prison than it had been earlier in the night. After a few more minutes went by without any sign of Grandpa Zach, I stood and inched out of the living room and into the kitchen.

  Nobody saw me. Nobody noticed. The patio door was cracked open from all of the traffic over the last hour. I pushed it farther open, just enough to wedge myself out, and I stepped out onto the back deck. It was freezing, and I sucked in a breath. Still, it was better than being inside in the dank, stifling heat.

  Our house was aglow—I could see the lights of the police cars around the side of the house—and even though I was outside in the crisp air, I still found it hard to breathe. I moved away from the house and toward the steps. In the moonlight, I could see the first step, and it felt like if I just let my foot drop down onto it, I would be getting somewhere, and I’d have a chance.

  “Going somewhere?”

  I spun around and saw the detective who’d been upstairs in the bathroom—the one who’d tried to protect me from seeing Lucas’s body—standing there, watching me. He was perched in the doorframe, one hand on the glass, and he waited for me to respond.

  “No,” I said, shrugging and spinning around.

  “You should be inside.”

  “I was hot,” I said as a shiver ran through me, and I folded my arms over my chest.

  “Here,” he said. He reached up and unwrapped the scarf from his neck and held it out to me. I hesitated and took it from him, wrapping it around my neck.

  I watched him carefully in the moonlight. He’d been nice to me all night, watching me more closely than anyone else in the house, and I wanted to stay outside with him, where at least I could breathe, a little.

  “You’ve probably seen a lot of those, huh?” I asked.

  He peered down at me, and I folded the scarf tighter around my face.

  “A lot of…you mean like your brother?”

  I nodded.

  “I have,” he said. “It’s my job.”

  “Isn’t it scary?” I asked. “I wouldn’t want that job if you paid me all the money in the world.”

  He looked back over his shoulder—the way I did when I didn’t want to get in trouble for something—and then moved closer to me. “It’s no walk in the park, that’s for sure,” he said. “But there’s a reason I do it. It’s because when bad things like this happen, the families deserve to know why. They deserve the truth. And someone has to be there to sort through it all, right? You can’t do it; your mom can’t do it; your dad can’t. So they call people like me.” He shrugged and straightened up. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  As he stood fully upright, the porch light struck his face, and my eyes focused on his collarbone. At first, I thought I was just looking at a shadow, but as I peered at the dark spot at the base of his neck, I realized it was something more.

  The shape had been covered by his scarf all night, but as he leaned back in the light, I could see it clearly: the dark lines of the bird’s head, its beady eyes.

  A raven.

  The detective followed my gaze and put his hand to his throat. “Let’s go back inside,” he said, and it took me a moment to respond.

  “Okay.”

  As we stepped through the door, he reached out his hand for his scarf. “Thanks,” I said as I handed it back.

  “No problem,” he said, winding the black-and-red-checkered scarf around his neck, burying the bird once again.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I opened my eyes and found myself sprawled in the same chair, staring up at the fluorescent lights. I wasn’t moving at all, but the room was spinning around me, and I held tightly to the armrests. I had the sudden urge to stand, to shake it off, and so I did, immediately stumbling back and knocking into the chair behind me.

  “Whoa,” a voice said, and a second later, Christine was by my side. She was standing over me, helping me back down into the chair, an expression of concern on her face. “Not too quickly.” I tried to move again, and she placed a hand on my shoulder. “Really, Francis, you should stop moving.”

  It sounded like a good idea, and I stopped.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I swallowed and tried again.

  “Francis?”

  “We have to go,” I finally croaked out. “Now.”

  • • •

  I was certain Christine did not fully understand my fragile state—otherwise, she would have taken the wheel. As we sped toward Detective Younger’s house, the steering wheel slid beneath my fingertips, and I knew that at any moment, it could slip free, and we’d go crashing off the road.

  I pressed the gas pedal as far as it would go, my heart lodged in my throat.

  “You must think I’m an idiot,” Christine said, and I turned to make eye contact. “How could I have let this happen?”

  “Alex must have told Younger about the plan in the park,” I said. “You couldn’t have known that.”

  “Do you think he’s still alive?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It depends on what Younger’s motivation was for taking him.”

  “What if we’re wrong?” she asked. “Is that possible?”

  She was asking the questions that were flowing through my mind, but I didn’t want to admit it.

  “We’re not wrong.”

  I made a turn into a large subdivision, and we both leaned forward, looking for the address.

  “There it is,” she said. “6255.”

  I turned to Christine to ask that she wait in the car, but she cut me off. “If you think for one second I’m going to sit here and do nothing when Matthew could be inside…”

  I opened my mouth and closed it. I shook my head. “No,” I finally said. “Of course not. Let’s go.”

  We got out of the car and quietly closed the doors. Walking quickly between a couple of houses, we moved toward the backyard of one of Younger’s neighbors. We walked through the lawn, stepping carefully in the dark. When I reached the end of their backyard, I hit a short, white fence that was easy enough to pull myself over. I turned back and helped Christine.

  We moved into the backyard of Younger’s home and walked cautiously toward the patio. Climbing the steps, I was careful to stay in t
he shadows, and Christine followed suit. I needed to know who or what we’d face inside before we made any more moves. Most of the lights were off, except for a few on the first floor. We walked closer to the patio door, and suddenly, I saw movement inside. I stopped, and Christine crashed into my back.

  “What?” she hissed, and I held up my hand for her to wait.

  A moment later, a figure walked by, tall and muscular, and I knew it was him. He was home. I looked around to see if he was with anyone else, but he appeared to be alone.

  “He’s there,” Christine said, and I nodded. I could hear the fear in her voice. I realized we’d both been hoping the same thing—that Younger wouldn’t actually be home.

  This made things a lot more difficult.

  “Should we call the police?” Christine asked.

  I hesitated.

  “It’s time to call them, Francis. Think of the best- and worst-case scenarios.”

  I thought about what Delroy would say when I called him and how upset he would be if I were wrong.

  But what if Matthew really was inside?

  I nodded and pulled out my cell phone, moving back from the patio door to dial Delroy’s direct number.

  “Francis,” he said as he answered. “Is everything okay?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “I think I know where Matthew Farr is.”

  “You what?”

  He was completely silent as I explained as much as I could. Delroy let out a string of expletives before saying he’d make some calls and get someone out there immediately.

  “If you’re wrong,” he said before we hung up, “I hope you know how much you’ve jeopardized this case. I told you to stay out of it and leave it to us.”

  He hung up on me, and I stood there shaking for a moment, unsure of what to do.

  Christine cleared that up for me.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “Shouldn’t we wait?”

  “Matthew could be inside. You didn’t drive out here to wait.” She shook her head. “I sure as hell didn’t.”

  I opened my mouth to stop her, but she was too quick. She turned around, and before I could stop her, she marched up to the patio door and banged on it loudly with her fist.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Christine!” I called out, but I was too late, and she stood there, shoulders back, ready to pounce.

  A few moments passed, and I racked my brain for what we would say when he answered. We waited, shivering, and suddenly, Younger appeared at the door, squinting out into the darkness. He didn’t see us at first—he seemed to look right through us, a scowl covering his face. He was wearing a T-shirt, and the top of the raven peeked out from beneath it. As his eyes adjusted, he frowned, his gaze settling on me. He reached down to unlock the patio door.

  “Francis?” he said, stepping back for us to enter and looking up at me in surprise. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Do you have him?” Christine asked.

  He froze and frowned again in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “The boy,” I said. “Matthew Farr. You kidnapped him that day at the park. Where is he?”

  “You’ve lost your mind,” he said, and he turned to look at Dr. Christine. “Who are you?”

  “Christine Sharpe,” she said. “Where’s Matthew?”

  Younger looked back at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re making this up. Where’s your proof?”

  “What about the fact that you attacked Sam Farr twenty years ago,” I asked. “You left that out when we met. How’s that for proof?” I scanned the inside of his home for any signs of Matthew. I wanted to pounce, to jump at him, to claw, but I needed something else, one more clue that I wasn’t wrong.

  He looked shocked, and for a moment, I wondered if I really was losing it. Maybe I was so desperate to find another explanation, even after everything my father had done, that I’d latched on to the first person I could find to cover up my father’s sins.

  Maybe I was just as biased as the rest of the Lansing Police Department.

  Then, Younger glanced briefly at the other side of the room, toward a corridor that led to the front of the house.

  It was barely noticeable, and if I hadn’t seen it, I may have backed down.

  But I saw in that flicker the one thing that removed all doubt of his guilt: his calculated but desperate search for an escape. In that quick scan of his eyes, I saw—I felt—the intense need to flee. I did it every time I was in a room that was too small or too crowded: a quick assessment of my surroundings to determine what it would take for me to get out.

  To get away.

  Younger brought his eyes back to me and took a slow breath. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Sam Farr told me a man attacked him a long time ago, a man with a huge tattoo on his collarbone,” I said, stepping closer. “Before he described it, I never knew what I’d seen that night.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “When you gave me your scarf. I saw something on your neck. But I didn’t know what it was until he told me about the man with the raven tattoo.”

  He put one hand up to his neck, and he clenched his jaw. He didn’t move, but the surprised expression on his face softened, giving way to something else.

  Something sinister.

  He blinked but didn’t respond as he dropped his hand to his side.

  “Where’s the boy?” Christine asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said softly for the third time. But his voice had changed. He was no longer pretending to be shocked or outraged at what we were saying. He was almost…

  Gloating.

  He cleared his throat. “Now, I was making some dinner, so if you’d please leave…”

  He turned to walk back into his kitchen.

  “The cops are on their way,” Christine said to his back, and he stopped in his tracks.

  He turned back to face us, his composure broken.

  “To do what?” he asked. “They have no evidence.”

  “They’ll search this place from top to bottom,” Christine said.

  “They can’t do that,” Younger said, shaking his head. “You need due cause for that.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt to have the captain of the Lansing Police Department on my side,” I said. “He knows a few people.”

  Something flitted across Younger’s face, a rage he couldn’t hide. “Fucking ungrateful cops,” he muttered angrily, and he balled up his fists and then uncurled them.

  “Hope you don’t have anything to hide,” Christine said.

  His jaw moved quickly, and he blinked rapidly before closing his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them, he swung his arm and knocked everything from the top of his counter. A pot, his coffeemaker, and a few knives dropped to the floor. He paused, breathing heavily, and we all stared at the sharp knives.

  He was stronger than both of us, but he was outnumbered.

  I knew he was going to run a full second or two before he did. Before we could react, Younger turned and took off into the house, bolting at full speed out the other side of the kitchen and through the small corridor.

  We ran after him, knocking into the kitchen chairs and each other as we raced into the hallway. We paused at the edge of a long, dark hallway leading toward the living room, and a staircase that led to the second floor. I heard a noise near the front of the house, and I moved toward it, Christine a step behind me.

  I paused and turned around. “You should check upstairs,” I said.

  “What?” she hissed. “I—”

  “Matthew may be up there. Please.”

  She nodded quickly and raced up the stairs. I took off down the hallway, listening for any sounds at all.

&nbs
p; The hallway ended near the front of the house, and I emerged between the living room and a small dining area. It was dark, the only light being the moonlight that streamed in through the windows. I held my breath as I crept slowly through the main living area, my gaze darting to every corner for any sign of Younger. Before I knew it, I’d made a slow circle back toward the kitchen.

  Shit.

  Where did he go?

  I drew in a breath at the sound of sirens in the distance; the police were almost here.

  Should I head outside?

  Flag them down?

  I hesitated. We did need backup, but the cops would take their time when they got on the scene, time we didn’t have, demanding an explanation about why Christine and I were here in the first place.

  Younger would be far away by then. I walked farther into the kitchen, back toward the patio door.

  Had he gone outside?

  I hadn’t heard the door open, but it was possible. My face was pressed against the glass when I heard a noise behind me.

  It was the sound of a door being closed, softly. I spun around and moved back through the kitchen, toward the dark corridor where I’d just been.

  I searched along the wall until I found the door.

  The garage.

  Someone had just gone inside.

  I put my hand on the doorknob.

  Steeling myself for what I’d find, I quickly pushed open the door.

  Darkness.

  My heart was pounding as I stood there, my eyes peering around the dark shapes in the large, open space.

  Had I imagined it?

  Was Younger out here?

  I moved farther into the garage, pushing the door closed. If he wasn’t already out here, I needed to be alert if he did come in.

  I kept my eyes trained on the car—I couldn’t see around the other side of it, but from where I stood, it seemed like the back passenger-side door was open. I was about to walk over to it when I stopped, remembering the last time I’d been trapped in the dark.

  I needed light before I did anything else.

  With one hand outstretched, I began to walk along the wall, reaching for the light switch. In the scant moonlight, I could see a bulb in the middle of the garage, but it was too high for there to be a cord—the switch had to be somewhere on the wall.