by D. K. Wall
She pushed open the door and stood transfixed at the scene. Connor was sprawled sideways in the chair, his legs draped over one of the arms and his feet dangling. Trigger was lying in the bed, wagging his tail as he licked Jaxon’s laughing face.
“What is that dog doing in here?” she demanded.
Connor turned to her and displayed the aw-shucks-just-having-fun grin that always came with his mischief. “Looks to me like he is licking Jaxon’s breakfast off his face.”
“You know what I meant. How did you get him up here without anyone stopping you?” She spied the service-dog vest through Jaxon’s fingers as he caressed the dog, answering a part of her question. “Where did that vest come from? You know he isn’t a service dog. That isn’t right, Connor.”
“I don’t know. He sure seems to be doing a good service making Jax happy, so I think he’s a service dog.”
She had to smile at the truth in that. The boy sitting in the hospital bed was as different from the one the day before as either were from the boy who had disappeared so many years ago. The puckered scar crossed his face, but the skin around it glowed. He appeared to have already put on some much-needed weight, filling out his gaunt cheeks a bit. Shining from the previous evening’s shampooing, his hair was no longer knotted and tangled.
Most importantly, his smile warmed the room, even with the missing teeth. The worry creases in his face were smoothing out to reveal the smooth skin of an adolescent.
“Well, you’ll get to explain all of that to the hospital when they catch you. And remember, I work here.”
“Nurse Sheila has already seen him. She said they want Jax up and walking the hallways today, and Trigger could go with him for support.”
“She does know he isn’t trained for any of that, right?”
Connor blushed. “I don’t think we fooled her at all. She didn’t care and even said they have therapy dogs visit, and they do the patients a lot of good. Said I might oughta consider volunteering.”
“Sounds like Nurse Sheila. She always had my number when I trained under her.” Heather chuckled. “You know, Con, a lot of my patients look forward to their visits. You should do it.”
She stepped forward and ruffled the grinning dog’s head. “I’ve got to agree—he looks like he belongs.”
Jaxon looked up, his eyes shining brightly. “So he can stay?”
She shrugged. “Until the hospital complains, yeah. But he has to go home when Connor leaves. Deal?”
“Deal,” the boys said together and laughed. Connor reached out his hand balled into a fist, and Jaxon responded with a fist bump.
“Connor took me to see a sunrise!” Jaxon exclaimed.
“What? Where?”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Connor explained. “Nurse Sheila got us a wheelchair, and we rolled down to the waiting room on the east wing. We didn’t leave the floor, and she was with us the whole time.”
Her eldest son had always been impulsive. She had told him many times that she thought his motto was “act first—think later.” Rather than being scolded by the words, he laughed them off. But he was finally maturing.
She looked at the dog and grinned to herself. Okay, he was somewhat maturing. Still, she had to trust him, especially with Jaxon. “So what’d you think of it?”
Jaxon’s eyes widened. “It was amazing. Like purple then pink and rays of light sparkling. It was… was… magical.”
“Wow. Sounds wonderful. Maybe I can see one with you.”
“Con said he would come take me again tomorrow. Come see it with us.”
Connor sprawled back in the chair, his hands clasped behind his head and his legs dangling. A bright grin was spread across his face. She was warmed by their camaraderie. Her family was back together.
“I think I will.”
40
They make me laugh, but that makes me sad too. I know I will disappoint them some day because they want me to be sweet, innocent, six-year-old Jaxon who disappeared from that park so many years ago—the little kid who loves french fries, curls up with Connor and reads, sleeps with a dog in his bed, and rides his bicycle.
But I’m not him. I can’t ever be him. I know the stories, but I don’t know how to be Jaxon. The only person I know how to be is Teddy, a kid who grew up in a cold, dark dungeon doing whatever it took to survive until the next day.
I watch the two of them bantering. She pretends to be angry at Connor for bringing Trigger into the room, but she isn’t really mad. She doesn’t slap him across the face or pull his hair or push him down and kick him.
And Connor brushes it off like her scolding doesn’t matter when I can tell he wants to please her. They can be that way because they have each other. And always have had each other.
I don’t belong with them. I don’t fit.
I have—had—Kevin, the only brother I’ve ever known. All those years, we huddled together for warmth, swapping stories and making up adventures. Playing games with sticks and pebbles. Reading the dictionary in the light from the little windows. That’s real.
Sitting in a bed, getting three meals a day, laughing at corny jokes, and scratching a dog’s ears can’t be real.
They want me to remember my life before. So do the doctors and nurses and the psychiatrist who comes by and talks.
But I can’t remember before. My memories—my real memories—start in that dungeon. Whoever and whatever I was before that nightmare began is tucked away so deep that I don’t think I can ever unearth him. I’ve got him carefully compartmentalized and buried like one of those graves I dug.
Before is nothing but stories we told each other to distract ourselves from the hunger, the pain, and the despair. We told and retold them so many times they became nothing more than tales. My before is no more a reality to me than Kevin’s before—or Joey’s or Chad’s or Mike’s or Jimmy’s or Dave’s or that of any other kid who shared our existence. The stories told of each other’s parents and friends and siblings became as powerful and life-sustaining as our own, so our own personal before became meaningless. Before is more dream than memory.
I wish my before was as real to me as it is to these people. I really do. Not just for them, but for me. I’ve never been as happy as I’ve been these last few days. And I don’t want it to end.
I wonder if maybe I was happy before, but I don’t know. They tell me I was, but I don’t know how they would really know. I don’t remember playing with friends, fighting with my older brother, throwing sticks for dogs, or riding bikes. I don’t even think I know how to pedal a bike because I can’t remember riding down a hill with the wind whistling through my hair.
I want what they are offering. A brother. A mother. A father, even if he isn’t perfect. A dog to sleep in my bed. A bed with covers and clean sheets and pillows.
I want to get up every morning and watch the sun rise.
Mostly, I want to forget that place I lived in and the things that happened there. I don’t ever want to think about it again.
But the sheriff and FBI agent won’t let me forget yet. They stop by my room and ask me to verify it’s him. They show me a photograph of his rotting face, and in a glance, I know it is.
I can’t catch my breath. The air in the room is gone. My vision grays. The room swims. My hands shake. Sweat rolls down my face. All I want to do is run. Connor’s arm around my neck anchors me. I can only stammer, “It’s him.”
The sheriff’s face is filled with concern as he takes the photo back from me. “His name was Matthew McGregor.”
“Matt.” I whisper his name for the first time since I escaped. I hadn’t wanted to say it out loud for fear it would somehow summon him. I don’t want him to find me and drag me back.
“Don’t worry, Jaxon. He’s dead. He’ll never hurt you again.”
Yeah, he will. He’ll haunt my dreams forever. “Did you shoot him?”
“Uh, no. He was already dead.”
That makes no sense. How does a monster just die? “How?”
Yeah, it matters how he died. He doesn’t deserve to die that easily. He deserves to suffer as much as Kevin and all the others.
The sheriff looks around, blinking. He’s struggling with what to say. “Your description was perfect. You led us right to him. The burned-out house. The trailer. The road. The van. The house. Even the basement was exactly how you told us.”
Of course it was. Why would I lie about that? What else don’t they believe?
“We also found the graves.” He nodded toward Roxanne. “The FBI is sending a specialized team. It’s called an Evidence Response Team. They’re going to help us exhume the bodies.”
Exhume. I always liked that word in our dictionary games. To disinter. Dig up. To bring back from neglect or obscurity.
Like me. I’ve been exhumed, not that differently than Kevin will be. They will exhume his body too. “Why not leave them there?”
Connor pulled me close. “So they can go home to their families. They deserve that, not to be left out there in the woods.”
“But how will you know who their families are?”
Agent Porter came to the side of the bed. “DNA testing.”
DNA. Nucleic acids that are usually the molecular basis of heredity. That’s one of those words where the definition doesn’t really help you understand what it means. “How does DNA tell you who the family is?”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “Everyone’s DNA is unique, but it’s also based on their parents’ DNA. So we can take DNA from them—their hair, for example—and match it to a database of missing children. That match tells us who they are and who their family is.”
“You have everyone’s DNA?”
“Most missing kids, yes. Really old cases are tougher because the protocols were different then, but now we collect DNA on every missing child.”
“So all those kids, the ones who came through there… You’ll be able to match them and find their families?”
“Yes, we should. As long as they were reported missing.”
“But what good does that do? You’re just telling their parents they’re dead. Don’t they already think that?”
“Think about your friend Kevin.” She ran her hand through Trigger’s fur. “He disappeared like you did, and his family is left wondering what happened. Don’t you want Kevin’s family to know what happened to him? Maybe you could even meet them someday and tell them what a great friend he was to you and what a comfort he was. Wouldn’t that be great?”
I look around at them standing in my room and realize they don’t understand. I don’t think it will comfort Kevin’s family to find out their son is dead. I don’t think his family will like it at all. I survived, and he didn’t. I think they will hate that. And I think they will hate me.
41
David watched the elevator-floor indicator count down as they descended. “That poor kid.”
Roxanne said, “He’s luckier than the rest of them. At least he got away.”
The sheriff nodded and looked down at the floor. “The look on his face when he saw Matt’s photo… sheer terror. I’ll dream about that for a long time.”
“He’ll probably have nightmares about that man for the rest of his life. We can only hope he’ll find a way to put him out of his mind, and that’s going to take a lot of support and counseling.”
“And a very supportive family, which he’s lucky to have. Connor is so devoted to him, protective like a big brother should be. Heather is strong and independent, used to working hard to get what she needs. Even the dog, not that there is any chance in the world he’s a service dog”—David grinned—“is going to be there for him every step of the way.”
The elevator reached the ground floor, and the doors slid open to reveal Harold Lathan waiting to go up. The collar of his fleece-lined denim coat was turned up, his John Deere hat pulled down low over his head. David spied the reporters milling outside the entrance of the hospital and guessed the reason for the incognito look. “Harold, if you’ll let me know when you’re coming in, I can get a deputy to help you pass them.”
Harold glared directly into the sheriff’s eyes before stepping back to let them pass. “I can manage without your help.”
David ignored the angry tone. “I was coming to find you. If you have a few moments, I can give you an update about the case and what we know.”
Anger raged under the surface of Harold’s face. “A reporter from the Asheville paper called me. Asked if I had any comment about you finding the house my son was held in, right here in Miller County. Is that true?”
“Damn it.” David and Roxanne exchanged glances. He was frustrated the reporters were already digging up the story before they had a chance to control it. “Sorry, I didn’t want you to hear it that way.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
David paused before answering. “Yes, it’s true.”
“Was it a McGregor?”
The sheriff cocked his head and studied Harold’s face. “Did you know Matt?”
Harold stepped back. “Damn it, you still think I had something to do with it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But I saw how you looked at me.” Harold shoved his hands in his pockets. “No, I didn’t know them. They were older. Gone from high school before I got there. I knew they were a source of liquor and drugs—everyone knew that—but I was pretty squeaky-clean in high school, believe it or not. Some beers at parties was about it.”
“You never bought meth from Mark?”
“No. I didn’t get messed up with drugs until after my second tour. Mark blowing himself up was legend by then.” Harold looked at David with disgust. “The reporter also said you found a dozen or more graves.”
“We don’t have a count yet.”
“So more than the hiker and his friend Kevin Jax told us about? ’Cause I figure you can count that high. I’m guessing you found a bunch of kids that maniac killed.”
David swallowed and glanced around to see who was listening. He guided Harold to a corner of the waiting room and lowered his voice. “Yes. More than two. We honestly don’t have a count yet.”
“I guess I’ll find out from the newspaper when you do know.”
Harold turned to walk away, but David reached out and grabbed his arm. “Look, I’m sorry. I stopped by to update Heather and the boys and haven’t had a chance to catch you. I’m trying to keep all of you informed, but I didn’t know the media already had some of the details. You should never have found out that way, and I’m sorry. I’ll be glad to answer any questions you have and help your family in any way.”
Harold spun back, his face red and his eyes narrowed. He spoke in a fierce whisper, spittle flying from his lips. “Help? Sheriff, we needed your help ten years ago. You were so busy blaming me, trying to bury me under as many charges as you could dream up, you couldn’t even look around your own damn county while some pervert did God knows what to my boy. Guess once you get a count, we’ll find out how many little boys lost their lives because you were too busy blaming the wrong man. Maybe you should go explain to those families why you let their kids die.”
Harold stomped to the elevator bank and slapped the call button hard enough to make people in the lobby jump and stare. When the doors opened, he stepped inside, spun around, and glared at the sheriff.
When the doors closed and hid the view, David felt his body go limp. He leaned back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. “That went well.”
“Victims’ families are often angry. You know that.”
He shook his head and looked out the window, anything to avoid Roxanne’s eyes. “I’m used to their misplaced anger, but this is different.”
“How so?”
“Because it’s not misplaced.”
“That’s not fair. He was a suspect, not the suspect, but he was a very good
suspect. Estranged father. Known mental health issues with his PTSD. Drug and alcohol problem. You know how often that profile turns out to be the right suspect, and no one saw anything that gave us any other leads. What else were we to do?”
David leaned his forehead against the glass windows that overlooked the parking lot and sighed. They could have done something. He had stood in Matt McGregor’s trailer and talked to the man. Listened to his denials of involvement and his promise of straightening out his life. David had taken McGregor’s willingness to have his trailer searched as a sign of innocence.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the pain of regret, but he knew the truth. “I failed that kid.”
42
Heather looked up as the room door opened. Harold stuck his head through and scanned the room. Her two sons sat on the bed in an embrace. Jaxon, unnerved seeing Matt McGregor’s photo, had broken down as soon as the sheriff and FBI agent left the room. Connor had him wrapped in a bear hug, doing his best to console his younger brother.
Harold said, “Maybe I should come back later?”
“We’re just trying to give him some family time, so you might as well come in.”
He looked down the hall as if hoping to find an excuse before slinking into the room and settling into a chair. He crossed his legs and shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. He reached out to pat Jaxon’s leg, hesitated, then withdrew his hand. He dropped his eyes and uncrossed his legs again as he waited. Heather would have felt sorry for him if she didn’t have bigger issues.
Jaxon’s sobs slowed, and he grew quieter. With a big sniff, he broke from the embrace and leaned back on his pillow. He wiped his eyes with his good hand. His voice came out choked and strained. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying so much.”
Heather leaned over him and smoothed his hair. “It’s okay. You’ve earned the right to cry.”
