Jaxon With an X

by D. K. Wall

  Back outside, he took a deep breath of fresh air and strode toward his car. He waved his hand toward the narrow road disappearing into the woods. The armored truck roared up the path in the lead, followed by a K-9 SUV and three patrol vehicles. David fell in behind them with the FBI agents taking up the rear.

  The tactical debate had been brief. Their background intelligence was sketchy, based on Jaxon’s story and Buck’s crude map. A highway-patrol helicopter had flown over the house to confirm its existence and location but spotted no movement below them and no smoke from the chimney. Unfortunately, they also saw no place to land, so access would be limited to a ground assault. Waiting on additional resources from another county or the FBI’s Incident Response Team might have been the safest option, but they dismissed the idea. If kids were in that house and needed rescuing, the risk was worth taking.

  Their only choice was going in fast and loud, so Matt would hear them coming. He would already have heard the helicopter and probably had discovered the missing boy, so their time was short. If he took off running, the K-9 could chase him down. And if he didn’t run, speed and surprise were the only advantages they had. Matt unfortunately knew every hiding place in that remote section of mountains, and they didn’t know any.

  Tree branches scraped along the side of the SUV as David fought to keep the vehicle in the ruts created by the vehicles in front of him. His radio crackled with Gilman’s voice. “I see it. House at a hundred yards. No movement. Everyone, lock and load.”

  They entered the clearing, the back doors of the armored vehicle flinging open before the vehicle came to a stop. The heavily armed men hit the ground running and spread quickly around the house. The K-9 SUV slid to a stop, and the driver jumped out with a Belgian Malinois straining against its leash and barking in excitement. The patrol vehicles blocked in the two-tone van. Their occupants, with shotguns in hand, fanned out around the perimeter.

  David barked into his microphone, “What you see, Gilly?”

  Gilman’s voice squawked back, “No movement, no sound in the house. Front door ajar. We have side windows covered. No rear door. We need to get a look inside, so going to break the windows.”

  “Go.”

  At the sheriff’s command, movement was swift. SWAT members on either side of the house stood and broke windows. With flashlights mounted on the barrels of their weapons, they scanned the interior.

  “Five. I’ve got a body on the floor. Repeat: body on the floor.”

  Gilman’s calm voice replied. “You have a bead on him, Five?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Movement?”

  “Negative.”

  “Adult? Child?”

  David held his breath as he waited for the reply. “Adult.”

  “Five, keep your bead. Three, can you see the whole room?”

  “Ten-four. All clear. Looks like a kitchen in back, but I can’t see for sure.”

  “Sheriff, we’re ready to breach.”

  David moved up behind a tree near the porch. “Watch your crossfire, gentlemen. Entry team, go.”

  With the men on the side windows covering the interior, two men mounted the front steps and pushed open the door. One went low and to the right and the other higher and to the left, their rifles sweeping the room as their voices boomed through the house. After a pause, David’s radio cracked with the first report. “Body on the floor DOA. Other rooms cleared.”

  David entered the house right behind Gilman and shined his light in the face of the body on the floor. The cold air had slowed decomposition, but the face of the man crumpled on the floor was still too bloated to positively identify. Besides, David barely knew Matt McGregor and hadn’t seen him in years. He could only guess it was him.

  “In here, Sheriff.”

  David stood and followed the voices into a cramped kitchen. On one wall was a wooden door. The screws holding the hasp were ripped from the wall, a remarkable feat for the boy to have accomplished in his weakened state. The cellar side of the door and frame hinted at the ferocity of his efforts to escape, with long scrapes and cracks in the wood from his attempts to scratch his way out, bloodstains marring the surface. The upper panel was shattered from the basement side, matching the boy’s description of putting his fist through the door. A clear, small, bloody handprint gripped the doorframe, probably left as Jaxon threw his thin body against the door to break it open.

  Two SWAT-team members eased down the steps, the flashlights on their rifles probing the shadows. David paused at the top step, his own flashlight picking up a glint on the tread. He looked down and saw it was a bloodied fingernail. He looked at the claw marks on the back of the door and shuddered. The poor kid had ripped it out in his frenzy to escape.

  He carefully stepped over it and descended into the darkness, gasping against the stench rising from the basement. The only light filtered through the narrow, shattered windows near the ceiling. The wind whipped in, chilling the room enough that they could see puffs of their breath. Following the powerful beam of his flashlight as it scanned the room, David took in the contents. A small pile of books was stacked neatly in one corner, including a dog-eared Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary. A crumpled blanket was near an indention in the floor. A metal pail filled with excrement was tucked in one corner.

  Most remarkable was what wasn’t there. No furniture, not even a thin mattress for comfort. No changes of clothing. No toys. No food. Not even a second bucket for fresh water. The books appeared to be the only luxury, and everything else was sheer depravity.

  The weight of the horror of the room made David tremble. He couldn’t imagine staying down there for an hour, even with the comfort of his thick coat and outdoor gear. He muttered, “How did that boy survive this place for ten years?”

  Gilman could only shake his head in reply.

  Revulsion enveloped David, and he had to get out, get to fresh air. He couldn’t feel his feet moving, though he heard his boots clomping up the steps as distant echoes in his mind. His eyes locked on the shattered open door above him. The kid had clawed his way out of the subterranean hell and then walked miles out to the interstate, all while David had finished paperwork in his office, eaten a warm meal, relaxed in an overstuffed recliner, and watched some Netflix. And when the first sightings had been broadcast over the radio, he had remained under the warm covers, not wanting to go out in the cold, snowy weather.

  He stopped and stared at the body on the floor of the main room. Tests would prove it, but he knew it was Matt McGregor, a man he knew existed, yet never suspecting the depth of his depravities. Most frustratingly, it was a man who would never feel the cold steel of handcuffs being snapped around his wrists, all because the sheriff had barely even suspected him.

  Jaxon had been cowering in that basement a decade ago while he had stood not a half mile away, having a conversation with his kidnapper. He hadn’t even thought to look around for other places to hide a boy.

  He stumbled across the porch and into the yard. He leaned against a large poplar tree and vomited, a first for him at a crime scene—it never happened even during his rookie year. But this was different. He wasn’t sick from what he saw. He was disgusted by what he imagined. Jaxon sat in the darkness, waiting on someone to come, on someone to rescue him. Kids came and went, lived and died, and David’s biggest worry had been how his divorce might affect opinion polls.

  He straightened and wiped his hand across his mouth. With a deep breath of fresh, cold mountain air, he turned back to where Roxanne and Agent Gonzalez stood, both carefully avoiding looking at him. He wanted more than anything to get into his car and leave but instead took a halting step toward them when his radio rattled to life.

  A young deputy’s voice came over the air. The man had been assigned to the perimeter of the clearing. “Sheriff? We found graves. God help me, there’s at least a dozen of ’em, maybe more.”

  38

  It was still dark outside when the elevator doors slid open and Connor walked out on
to the fifth-floor hallway. The night nurse at the station glanced up and scowled at the dog beside him. She opened her mouth as if to protest but paused and closed it again. With a shake of her head, she looked down at the records she was documenting and continued scribbling notes.

  Connor exhaled and reminded himself to look confident, as though the dog was supposed to be there. Claws clacked on the linoleum floor, Trigger’s tail slowly swaying to and fro as he sniffed the air. Convincing the dog to accept the service-dog vest had been a challenge. He had scratched and clawed at it and panted all the way over to the hospital. But his head was high as he sniffed the unfamiliar smells. He looked nearly as confident as a service dog.

  Almost at the end of the hall and successful in his smuggling routine, Connor was shocked when Jaxon’s room door opened and Nurse Sheila exited. She blocked their path and examined the dog. “And who might this handsome creature be?”

  Connor swallowed hard. “His name’s Trigger.”

  “Mmm-hmm. And I see Mr. Trigger is wearing a service-dog vest.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting security to round the corner. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We have lots of therapy dogs come visit patients. Volunteers take them around and just make people smile. You should consider it. After all, it takes a lot less training to be a therapy dog than a service dog. And it would keep a young man like you out of all sorts of trouble.”

  Connor gulped. “Good idea.”

  “In the meantime, seems the doctor wants Mr. Jaxon in there to get out of his room some. Walk around a little. Stretch his legs. Maybe even get some fresh air. I’m thinking a big brother would be better than some ol’ volunteer nurse helping him do that.”

  “Even better idea.”

  “Perfect. And you can take Trigger on those walks.” She looked down at the dog and smiled. “Just like a real service dog would.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She walked past them, humming “Who Let the Dogs Out.”

  Connor watched her go down the hall and reached down to rub Trigger’s head. “I guess we got away with it, huh?” He chuckled. “Sort of.”

  He turned and knocked softly on the room door before opening it enough to stick his head inside. “Morning, Jax. You ready for a visitor?”

  Jaxon was sitting up in the bed. The nutrient-rich IV fluid and three-meal-a-day routine had already added color to his pale complexion. His hair had been washed and trimmed by Heather’s stylist the night before. With the added bonus of a full night of sleep in a bed with pillows, and he looked like a new person. “Yeah. You bet.”

  “Good, because I have someone special with me.” He pushed open the door, and the dog bounded into the room and threw his front paws up on the side of the bed. His tail wagged with enthusiasm, a blur of yellowish fur. He chuffed softly and grinned with his tongue lolling across his jaw.

  Connor had expected Jaxon to lean forward and wrap his arms around the dog’s neck, but instead, he scrambled back in the bed against the rails on the far side. He drew his legs up tightly against his chest and wrapped his arms around them. His eyes opened wide, and a squeak slipped out of him.

  Shocked at the reaction, Connor sternly commanded, “Trigger, down. Sit.” The dog dropped his front paws to the floor, and his furry butt quickly joined them, the tail sweeping the floor slowly. He tilted his head over his shoulder and looked quizzically at Connor, a soft whine escaping his open mouth.

  Worried, Connor asked, “Jax, you okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you what I was planning.”

  Without taking his eyes off of the dog, Jaxon asked, “What’s that?”

  Connor looked from the dog to the frightened boy and back. “This is Trigger. He’s the dog I got after Duke died.”

  “Trigger?” Jaxon’s arms relaxed their grip on his legs, and he allowed himself a glance up at Connor.

  “I thought since he looks so much like Duke… I’m sorry, I didn’t think. Mom says I never think things through.”

  “He’s… just”—Jaxon looked around the room, appearing to be at a loss for words—“bigger than I thought.”

  “Bigger? Duke was almost as tall as you were when you… you know, disappeared.”

  Jaxon let his legs slide flat on the bed. “Sorry, it’s just… I can’t really remember touching a dog. Stories, yeah, but not for real.”

  “Let me take him back down to my truck, and then I’ll come back up and chat with you.”

  Connor picked up Trigger’s leash and turned for the door.

  “Wait.”

  He turned back to face his little brother, worried he had screwed things up by moving too quickly. But Jaxon was sitting up, eyeing the dog carefully. “He’s friendly? I mean, he won’t bite me or anything, right?”

  “No way. Trig’s a gentle giant.” He reached down and rubbed the dog’s ears, rewarded with an adoring canine look of affection.

  Jaxon inched his hand forward. “Can I”—he swallowed and continued—“touch him?”

  Connor eased the dog forward to the edge of the bed and told him to sit. He held an ear gently between two fingers. “Here. Feel.”

  The boy’s hand trembled as he reached out and let his fingers brush the tip of the ear. Trigger waited patiently as his hand ran down the ear and across the head. “I think he likes me.”

  “Of course he does. Trigger likes everyone. Well, except for the sheriff, but…” Connor shrugged.

  With his hand stroking the dog’s head, Jaxon looked up and smiled. “He goes everywhere with you?”

  “No, I wish. Most places don’t allow dogs.”

  Jaxon cocked his head. “Does the hospital?”

  A chuckle slipped out of Connor. “No dogs allowed.”

  “But how…?”

  “A friend of mine loaned me the service-dog vest. He bought it off eBay or something because his beagle isn’t a service dog, either. I’ve never used it before, but he told me places can’t ask, so I thought I would try. Worst thing that could happen is they make me take him home, and then he would sleep all day on my bed.”

  Jaxon looked up incredulously. “He comes inside? Sleeps on your bed?”

  “I forget how little you remember.” Connor settled into the chair beside the bed and let Trigger’s leash slip to the floor. “For me, I’d come home from school and find Duke curled up in your bed. Or on hot summer nights, Duke would decide I was too hot to sleep beside, and he’d pad across the floor and stretch out on your empty bed. When Duke died, I almost couldn’t stand how lonely our room felt. Your empty bed… no dog sprawling in mine… it was too much. I begged Mom to let me get another dog because I couldn’t sleep alone. It was too… vacant.” He rubbed Trigger’s shoulders slowly. “You don’t know how many tears have soaked into his fur. I don’t think I could have slept without him.”

  Jaxon leaned forward in the bed so his nose touched the dog’s. The two sniffed each other. “I get it. The worst nights were being alone. After Kevin died, being all alone in that place was hard. I wish I’d had somebody to keep me company.”

  The boys sat in the silence of the room, the hum of medical equipment a background to the sound of dog panting. Their hands stroked the fur as they were each lost in their memories.

  “Do you think,” Jaxon asked quietly, “he might get into the bed with me?”

  “Sure, if you ask him.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Pat the bed with your hand and say ‘up.’”

  Jaxon slid back against the far rail, creating a wide space. His hand gently tapped the covers beside him, the attached IV line bouncing in the air. “Up.”

  The dog turned his head and looked at Connor. “You heard him. Up.”

  Trigger sprang into the bed, tail wagging furiously as he licked Jaxon’s face. The boy giggled in delight and let his hands explore the dog’s thick neck and chest. After a few moments, Jaxon slid back onto the pillow. Trigger stretched out and rested his head on the boy’s chest.r />
  Connor grinned, his brother’s happiness warming him even as he struggled with the knowledge of the years of darkness between them. Trigger was one more bridge helping him heal. “I got one more surprise for you.”

  Jaxon looked up in anticipation. “What?”

  “Ready to see a sunrise?”

  39

  Exhaustion weighed on Heather as she exited the elevator and turned toward the hospital room. She nodded at the nurse at the station as she passed. The woman opened her mouth as if to say something but hesitated and smiled instead.

  Heather’s overnight shift had been a challenge, especially since she had never slept the day before. During her breaks, she slipped up to Jaxon’s floor and looked in on him. They chatted haltingly, getting reacquainted until she had to go back to her own floor.

  Her coworkers suggested she take time off. She had plenty of vacation banked—it wasn’t as if she had needed to take it before—and even a little money saved up. She was in a very different place than she had been when she was struggling to make ends meet in nursing school. She thought she might just take some time when Jaxon came home, but for the time being, it was as convenient to work, since they were in the same building.

  The other nurses understood and cheered her on, but they also pestered her with questions about what the police had learned so far. The Asheville TV station seemed to know as much as she did about the investigation, which in both cases was virtually nothing. Neither the sheriff nor the FBI had given her much information in their updates.

  She worked her full shift, clocked out, and rode the elevator to the fifth floor. As she approached the end of the hall, the laughter of the boys floated through the closed door and reached her ears, a magical sound that swept away her tired feelings. Jaxon was home, and from the sound of it, the brothers were making up for lost time. And so would she. Screw the bills. They would figure it out. Maybe she would let her friends do that online fundraising thing they had talked about on break. It couldn’t hurt.