by D. K. Wall
The doctor sipped his coffee. “Based on his weight and height, twelve would be a reasonable guess… if he were healthy, which he’s not. This boy’s been subjected to years of malnutrition stunting his growth. Properly fed, I expect he would be several inches taller and thirty to forty pounds heavier.”
“So he’s thin, but that doesn’t mean he’s older, though, right?”
“We see other signs.”
The sheriff asked, “Like what?”
“For one, Sheriff, he’s well through puberty.”
“But some kids do start early, right?”
“Sure, some kids. A kid with a healthy diet in a conducive environment. But not one as malnourished as our patient. His poor nutrition levels would have delayed puberty’s onset.” The doctor fiddled with his stethoscope. “Besides, we also see signs in his bone structure and muscle development, what muscle there is. And, very importantly, his teeth.”
“Teeth?”
“He has all of his adult teeth.” The doctor crinkled his face in disgust. “At least he had them all. The kid hasn’t seen a dentist in years, if ever, and is missing several teeth, either knocked out or fallen out from lack of care. Anyway, they all come in by twelve or thirteen, and they have been in for a while, so he’s certainly older.”
“So he’s at least thirteen, maybe fourteen.”
The doctor crossed his arms. “There’s more, Sheriff. What is really notable is his wisdom teeth are starting to come in. That rarely happens until at least fifteen or sixteen years old.”
The pen in David’s hand shook as his hands trembled. He whispered, “Fifteen or sixteen? Are you sure?”
“Can’t pinpoint it exactly, and the boy isn’t talking, but, yes, I’m reasonably sure he’s in his mid-to-late teens. My best guess is fifteen to seventeen.”
David leaned against the counter and stared up into the ceiling lights. Did I screw up all those years ago? He forced himself to focus on the case. “How bad of shape is he in?”
“He’s not in immediate physical danger, if that’s what you want to know.” Dr. Queen motioned for the sheriff and deputy to follow him into one of the examination cubicles and continued in a hushed tone. “Hypothermia and frostbite presented as his biggest acute problems upon arrival. I thought he was going to lose some toes or fingers, but circulation is improving, so I think we can save them. We’re still cleaning his feet from lacerations and abrasions, a direct impact of walking so far without shoes. Several other injuries, but nothing life-threatening. Minor cuts, which he appeared to sustain crossing through the woods. His hands are bruised. He has broken fingers and a sprained wrist. A couple of fingernails have been ripped out, which certainly creates additional infection risk. I’ve seen guys in here after bar fights with less damage to their hands.”
“You think he fought with someone?”
“More like with something. His hands are full of splinters, as if he was hitting something wooden. And those missing fingernails suggest clawing at something.”
The sheriff curled and flexed his fingers, imagining the pain. “Perhaps like he escaped from somewhere?”
The doctor flinched, his already pale skin going even whiter. “Possibly. Certainly would explain some of the injuries. Wherever he was, it’s good he got away from it. His long-term injuries suggest a quite abusive background. He’s got dozens of scars on his arms, legs, back, chest, face… everywhere, really. We’re still cataloging them. Burn marks on his chest and arms consistent with cigarettes. Multiple cuts never healed correctly, including a nasty jagged one on his face that should have had stitches but never did. X-rays have revealed multiple old broken bones that never healed properly. Cracked ribs. His jaw and nose were broken at some point, probably more than once. And a spiral fracture of the left arm indicates being yanked around by the arm. And, of course, the missing teeth I’ve already mentioned. This kid has been subjected to physical abuse in the worst way imaginable. Not just once, Sheriff. Repeatedly and over many years.”
David scribbled the list in his notepad, his pen bearing down harder and harder on the pad as anger welled up inside him. Like most police officers, child abuse cases bothered him more than almost any other crime. He really didn’t want to hear the answer, but he had to ask the hardest question. “Molestation?”
“I’ve only done a cursory exam so far, but no obvious physical signs of recent sexual abuse. Even with a more extensive exam, though, anything less than recent would be hard to spot physically. That information, unfortunately, will come once he starts talking to us.” The doctor shook his head and sighed. “Hate to sound like a cheap TV commercial, but wait—there’s more.”
“What else?”
“When I said ‘malnourished’ earlier, I wasn’t specific enough. We’re talking severe malnutrition. In the immediate past, this kid hasn’t eaten in days. I mean, absolutely nothing is in his stomach other than what your deputy gave him. We can get plenty of food in him here, and we’re adding supplements through IV’s, but I’m more concerned about the very long-term deficit we have to overcome.” Dr. Queen looked toward the closed curtain surrounding the boy’s bed. “I don’t mean a kid living on chips, candy, and colas like we see a lot here in the county. I’m talking a long-term deprivation—a total lack of food. I haven’t seen anything like it since dealing with famines in the Peace Corps.”
Just like this doctor to do something goody-two-shoes like volunteering in the Peace Corps, the sheriff thought. Maybe his volunteer work earned him some student loan forgiveness. At least, he believed that’s how that worked. Maybe that’s why he was in Millerton, too, to work in rural America like it was the same as some third-world country. He chased the thoughts out of his head and said, “The kid’s lucky to be alive.”
The doctor pursed his lips and nodded. “Now, Sheriff, I’ve told you everything I know. What am I missing? I get it you have a mystery to solve, but why are you so hung up on the kid’s age?”
David tucked his notebook away and leaned against the counter. There was no point in avoiding the question and not telling the doctor. Millerton was a small town. He wasn’t the only person who was going to make the connection. Better to be forthright. “It’s probably not him, but the name’s the same.”
“As who?”
He lowered his voice. “Ten years ago, we had a six-year-old boy disappear. Absolutely no trace whatsoever, no witnesses, nothing particularly concrete.”
“And you think this is him?”
David paused. “No, not really, because it doesn’t make sense. But…”
“But?”
“The name, Jaxon. One of the first writing assignments kids have in school is to print their name, and Jaxon did it with flying colors. He was quite proud of it. And he knew the spelling was a little different, so he was always telling people how to do it… Jaxon with an x. People remembered how he said it. So when this kid used that exact phrase with my deputy…”
The deputy’s skin paled while listening. “I remember that case. I was in middle school, so I didn’t know him or anything, but everyone talked about it. My parents wouldn’t let me out of their sight for weeks. But I thought that kid had been killed.”
The sheriff grimaced. “We thought so, too, but only because we found no evidence he was alive.”
The doctor set his coffee cup on the counter. “You suspected kidnapping?”
“We suspected everything. At first, we thought he had wandered off and gotten lost. We searched around the city park, near the trails, and up into the mountains, but not a clue. We searched ravines and creeks, thinking maybe he had fallen and been hurt. Without any clues, not even torn clothing on brush, it became more likely something heinous had happened. We interrogated sex offenders and searched their homes. We questioned everyone the kid knew, including teachers, his minister, friends.”
Deputy Patterson said, “I thought his dad did it?”
David grimaced. Of course the deputy believed that. Everyone in town did. Because I believ
ed it. “He became our prime suspect. No alibi. Claimed he couldn’t even remember where he had been. A long history of drug and alcohol abuse. Found evidence the kid had been in his trailer and car, but that only proved he violated his custody agreement.”
“I thought he went to prison for it.”
“He went to prison for drug charges.” David crossed his arms. “The fact is, we didn’t have enough of a case other than circumstantial evidence. But if that is the same Jaxon in there…”
Dr. Queen finished the thought. “He might be able to tell you what really happened.”
11
The smell hits me and makes my mouth water. A warm, salty-broth aroma wafts through the air, overpowering the chemical smells of the emergency room.
The curtain pulls back, and a new person waltzes in with a glowing smile. “Good morning, young Mr. Jaxon. Everyone calls me Nurse Sheila.”
Reticent—inclined to be silent or uncommunicative in speech.
It’s another good word, and my reticence crumbles in the face of her cheerfulness. She’s a larger woman in outlandishly colorful scrubs. Her voice is warm and cheerful, wrapped with an infectious laugh. I can stay silent against the deputy and the doctor, but I can’t resist her. “You’re another nurse?”
“Why, yes, sir. Or at least I was. Or maybe I still am. Oh, I don’t know. I retired and stayed home all of about three weeks and was bored out of my mind, so I came back here as a volunteer. When I heard a young man had been in this emergency room all morning and hadn’t eaten because they were waiting on the cafeteria to open up, I knew where I was needed. So call me whatever you like, but I’ve got food.”
She places a steaming hot bowl, the source of that mouthwatering smell, in front of me. “This here is my chicken-noodle soup. None of that store-bought stuff for you. No, sir. Vegetables from my garden, canned for the winter months. Chickens that hunt and peck in my backyard until they stop producing enough eggs. Even the noodles, I make by hand. My grandchildren”— she says “gran-chitlin”—“beg for this when they come visit.”
I inhale deeply as I reach forward to grab the bowl.
“Careful, honey, or you’ll burn yourself. Can you handle the spoon with that IV? Or are you left-handed?”
I study my bandaged left hand and the IV line snaking out of my right hand. “I don’t really know if I’m left-handed.”
She cocks her head. “Which hand do you usually hold your spoon with?”
“I’ve never held a spoon. We didn’t have them.”
“Lordy.” She sits in the chair and slaps her hands on her meaty thighs. “Forks neither?”
I shook my head.
“Lordy,” she repeats, wrapping her fingers around my spoon. “Well, I don’t want you hurting that hand no more, so whatcha say I feed ya?”
I can only nod in confusion as she fills the spoon, holds it in the air, then leans forward to let me sip it. When the liquid flows into my mouth, the flavors explode. I close my eyes and hum in satisfaction. The broth is rich and salty, filled with shredded chicken, thick egg noodles, and chopped carrots, celery, and onion. I’ve never tasted anything so wonderful.
Within minutes, I hear the clank of the spoon on the bottom of the empty bowl. I flop back against my pillow and smile. “That was delicious. Thank you.”
“Why, you’re welcome, young Mr. Jaxon. You still hungry?”
I can’t remember anyone ever asking me that question, at least not anybody who could actually do anything about it. He certainly never cared or asked. No way can I get more. “I’m okay.”
She squints then bursts into her big smile. “You just being polite, ain’t ya, boy? You just give me five minutes, and I’ll be back with something else. And you’re gonna love it.”
I lie on my pillow with my eyes closed and listen to my stomach gurgle. The deputy’s sandwiches were good, but that soup was heaven. I can’t imagine what other delicacies await.
The curtain swoops open again, and Nurse Sheila reenters with a steaming sandwich on a paper towel. She sets it down in front of me, and a rich buttery smell fills the air. “Now it ain’t much, but my grandchildren”—“granchitlins” is a word I’ve really got to look up in a dictionary—“love my grilled-cheese sandwiches. Lordy, my own kids are grown, and they love my grilled cheese. Ain’t no slices, neither, because it’s all shredded to make it melt nice and smooth. Extra-sharp cheddar for flavor, American for that gooeyness to hold it all together, and just a touch of mozzarella for stringiness. And, of course, a good swipe of mayonnaise—gotta be Duke’s, cause there ain’t no other kind. And a thick slab of butter on the outside of the bread before throwing it all in a cast iron skillet. And yes, sir, I keep all those supplies down in the volunteer break room.”
I barely know anything she’s saying since we never had cheese, much less types of cheese. If he couldn’t grow it, harvest it, or hunt it, we didn’t have it. But when I bite into that steaming sandwich, the rich, melty goo explodes in a rainbow of taste. I close my eyes and chew slowly, both wanting to swallow to fill my grumbling belly and not wanting to swallow so I can keep that enchanting flavor on my tongue.
“Do you like it?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. It’s… it’s… I don’t want it to end.”
“No hurry here, Mr. Jaxon. You just take your time. Best part of being retired is I ain’t got nowhere to be.” She settles into the chair and begins humming. She isn’t going to try to take my food if I don’t finish it quickly. No rats poke their heads up, hoping to steal some crumbs. I bet I could even set the sandwich down on my tray, and it would stay there, waiting for me to pick it up again. Pure luxury. With each bite, I close my eyes and feel deliciousness engulf my mouth.
All too soon, only crumbs remain on the napkin. I pick up as many as I can with the fingers of my good hand and swallow them. I never know when the next meal will come.
“I take it you liked it, young Mr. Jaxon?”
“Yes, ma’am, best meal I’ve ever had.”
“Oh, honey. That’s just a simple sandwich. We’ll get you a real breakfast shortly, as soon as the cafeteria opens up.”
Startled, I look at her in surprise. “Another grilled cheese?”
“Well, no, a man can’t live on grilled cheese alone, though I guess he could try. How about some scrambled eggs and bacon and grits and toast all whipped up special for you? Then maybe I’ll make you another grilled cheese for lunch. How does that sound to ya?”
“Wow.” I lie down on the pillow and smile. “I’ve never had such good food.”
“What about your mama? Didn’t she cook for you?”
I roll my head so I can see her. “I don’t remember.”
She clasps her hands together. “You don’t remember what she used to cook for you?”
“No, ma’am.” I shake my head. “I don’t remember her at all.”
She turns her head away from me, but not before I see tears fill her eyes.
12
“Doc, I need to see the kid.”
The doctor looked over at the closed curtains sheltering Jaxon’s bed. “He’s scared and in pain. I’ve given him a sedative, so he’s probably going to be out for a while. Maybe if we give him a little time.”
“We don’t have time.”
“Why not?”
David held his hand out with a single finger in the air. “First of all, if that is the same Jaxon, that means he’s been held somewhere for the last decade. Anyone who did that could easily have other kids. What do you think he would do to them once he figures out Jaxon is gone?”
The doctor blanched. “I didn’t think about that.”
David raised a second finger. “The second problem is the rumor mill. Small towns know everything. The kid’s name was broadcast over the police radio, and someone with a scanner heard it. I’m not the only one who is going to make the connection. The last thing we want is for his family to hear from someone else.” He added a third finger. “Which brings me to a problem very close to y
ou. The Jaxon who disappeared ten years ago? His mother is a nurse at this hospital.”
“A nurse here?”
“Yes. Heather Lathan. You know her?”
“It’s a small hospital, Sheriff. We all know each other. Night shift in surgical recovery on the third floor.”
“How long do you think it’s going to be until she hears about who you have here in the emergency department?”
The doctor raised both his hands. “Got it. But I’m still not sure he’s going to speak to you.”
“Maybe not, but he’ll talk to her.” David motioned to a heavyset woman in colorful scrubs who had been going in and out of the boy’s room.
Dr. Queen pursed his lips. “If anyone can win him over, it’s Sheila.”
When Sheila joined them, she wasn’t as enthusiastic. The warm, jovial caretaker morphed into a staunch protector of her young charge. She crossed her arms and studied the sheriff with an icy look. “The last thing that boy needs is a bunch of police questions. He needs time to heal.”
“Agreed. But I need to figure out where he came from so I can make sure no other kids are in trouble. That’s it.”
Sheila squinted and studied the sheriff before spinning on her heels. She took off at a brisk walk toward the curtained room. David followed on her heels, but she stopped him just outside the curtain and held up her hand. “Wait,” she commanded then slipped inside.
He stewed in the corridor, frustrated to be kept outside when he needed—needed—some information, but he reminded himself to be patient. He could hear Sheila whispering to the boy, too quietly to be understood out in the corridor on the other side of the curtain. The boy’s mumbled replies were equally impossible to decipher.
Fortunately, Dr. Queen had gone to handle the heart-attack patient, whose loud protests continued to rattle the room. David hoped the doc would be held up for a while and stay out of his way. Nurse Sheila was enough of an impediment.
