Jaxon With an X

by D. K. Wall

  “It’s not like I don’t have a zillion casseroles in there.”

  “Ugh. I’ll go grab some burgers and grill them up.”

  She smiled. “Okay. I’ve got some baked beans. Maybe I’ll make my potato salad.”

  Harold smacked his lips and made her laugh. After his car disappeared around the corner, she went back into the house and turned the TV and Xbox off, silencing the incessant music of the video game the boys had been playing before Harold had arrived. She picked up their drink glasses, wiped up water rings, and gathered chip bags. Long experience told her the snacks wouldn’t dampen their appetites, at least if Connor’s teenage years were any sign of Jaxon’s. As skinny as her youngest was, he needed to eat.

  She rinsed the dishes in the sink and stacked them in the drainer to dry. She walked back across the den and looked out the window, telling herself to relax and not worry that they hadn’t reappeared. There was plenty of time before sundown and dinner. They were together. She needed to trust that Connor would keep him safe.

  She straightened up the rest of the room before pausing, realizing she wasn’t cleaning the house for herself. She wanted the house to look neat for Harold’s return. After all those years of being disappointed and angry with him and his failings, she surprised herself, knowing she still had feelings for him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she whispered then laughed. But still, she thought as she walked past a mirror, some clean clothes won’t hurt.

  She walked down the hall to her room to change but paused at the boys’ room and pushed open the door. Connor’s side of the room held the typical festive teenage decorations—posters, comic books, and games—but Jaxon’s remained mostly bare. They had replaced his cartoonish bedspread with a simple gray cover from the consignment store. His first morning waking in the house, he had tried to straighten the bed, but it had been a jumbled mess. Connor had shown him how, an amusing event since her eldest rarely bothered to make his own bed.

  Some new clothes—well, new to him clothes, donations gathered by a local church as the word of his return crept out—hung in the closet. A set of Harry Potter books—also a donation—lined the bookshelf. He had already read the first couple, as enamored with the story as any other normal teenager. She was worried they would be too dark with the children of the series under constant threat, but he found them entertaining and fun. She had promised to take him to the local library and get a card so he could check out more books. He was as voracious a reader as he had been at six. It was the one thing that hadn’t changed about him, a comforting similarity contrasting with all of his changes.

  On the desk corner nearest his bed sat the third book in the Potter series, a bookmark marking the halfway point of the book. She shuddered at the title, The Prisoner of Azkaban, but Jaxon hadn’t been bothered at all. Instead, he enjoyed escaping into the story. She accepted anything that gave him that relief.

  Holding the book in her hand, she sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. If the boys had grown up together, they probably would have been arguing for their own space, for rooms of their own. Just weeks before, Connor had been talking about his need to save enough money and find some roommates so he could afford to rent an apartment or trailer to call his own. Much to her relief, that talk had disappeared. It would come back. She wasn’t naive, and she wanted him to go out on his own, to find his own life. She just wasn’t in a hurry for it.

  Jaxon was home. Soon enough, the room would become more decorated, messier, and more homelike. He would settle in and become increasingly normal. And sooner or later, they would argue about something. He was a teenager, after all.

  They’d have to figure out school. Since he barely had seen the inside of a classroom, she didn’t have a clue how it would work. But he was smart. He loved reading and had taught himself so many words through the games he and Kevin had played with the dictionary. Anything beyond basic math, however, eluded him. He needed tutors and private instruction, but she couldn’t afford that. Teachers had already been in touch, volunteering their time, but it bothered her not to pay people.

  But the town had rallied. Her church had come through with the clothes and books. Her hairdresser had come to the hospital and cut his hair for free. Her coworkers at the hospital had even raised a collection, giving her a wad of cash to get him whatever he needed. They didn’t make any more money than she did but had been ridiculously generous, just like they always were when a coworker got sick or had a death in the family or any other trial of life.

  And everywhere she went in town, people would stop her and ask how he was doing. How could they help? Casseroles? Cut the grass? Drive him to doctor’s appointments?

  She ran her hand along his pillow, breathing deeply to inhale his scent. Yes, she was embarrassed to need the handouts, but she did need them. Her son needed them. He needed every break, every gift he could get, to make up for all the horrible things that had happened.

  With the pillow squeezed against her chest, she looked over at Connor’s bed. Since the return, he’d been acting like the man she wanted him to be. He had never appeared to be in a rush to grow up. Even getting a steady job had been a big deal. She had to trust him to look after Jaxon. After everything that had happened, he wouldn’t be careless.

  Her ex-husband was trying so hard to be a father. Her friends, neighbors, and even strangers in town were being so generous and kind.

  For the first time in over a decade, since before Harold started having all of his issues when Jaxon was still an infant, she felt like all the pieces were falling into place, all because her youngest son was home, sleeping in his own bed every night.

  The room blurred as tears of happiness filled her eyes. After years of struggle, life was finally smiling at her.

  She had to admit, that scared her. Life had a way of throwing curve balls.

  49

  David took a seat in the chair at the end of the table, the coffee in his cup sloshing as his hands shook. “I’m sitting. What could possibly be any worse?”

  Agent Gonzalez started to open a new folder but stopped. He folded his hands and looked up. “We received positive identification on the teen male this afternoon. In truth, we got it this morning, but I made them recheck. It didn’t make sense.”

  David leaned forward with his forearms on the table. The hesitancy from the confident agent unnerved him. His nerves were tingling. “Out with it.”

  “The boy in that grave has been positively identified as Jaxon Lathan, the son of Harold and Heather Lathan and the brother of Connor Lathan.”

  Outside the window, a car drove down Main Street with its radio up loud. The bass notes rattled the window panes. David stared at the agent, disbelief numbing him. “That can’t be.”

  “That’s why I requested an extra review. The DNA has confirmed it beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

  David leaned back, the chair creaking under him. “But the kid… I looked at him myself. He looks just like Jaxon.”

  Roxanne nodded. “I know. I saw him. He looks like an older version of Jaxon. But you said yourself he was different. We all commented on how different he was. We just chalked it up to the experience.”

  “But his parents… and his brother… they…”

  “Did the same thing you did.”

  “What? Saw a boy who resembled their son and said it was him?”

  Roxanne slowly shook her head. “Saw a boy who they were told was their son and then looked at him and agreed. The power of suggestion is strong, especially since they’ve been wanting it to be true for ten years. They saw the differences. Mentioned them. Just like we did. But they accepted them because they wanted to. It made their nightmare end.”

  David hung his head. “And now I’ve got to restart their nightmare.”

  “Their nightmare was not knowing. Now, they’ll know. But it’s going to be one helluva jolt.”

  He slammed his fist down on the table. “We really do have Brian Rini all over again, don’t we? Some impostor wande
red in and claimed he’s been held captive all these years.”

  He pushed away from the table and marched over to the window. He imagined the agony of telling Heather and the confrontation with Jaxon or whoever he was. But the vision crumbled as he thought through the boy’s story. “But he’s not like Rini, is he? That guy deliberately lied, and his story fell apart because he didn’t have any real details to prove he was Timmothy Pitzen. He acted suspicious from the beginning, refusing fingerprinting and DNA. And he had no specific knowledge of where he had been held or how he got away.”

  He turned to face them. “But Jaxon—this kid, whoever he is—was there. He had to have been there to give us such details. He led us to the house with his description. Has the damaged hands to prove he escaped by beating his way through a wooden door. None of us have any doubts he knew where the house was and what it looked like. He has the significant, deep wounds consistent with abuse. He was a victim. So why lie about who he is?”

  Roxanne answered, “The profilers suggested two possibilities. One is simply that he wants to be Jaxon because wherever he came from is somewhere he doesn’t want to go back to. Remember, all of the victims were kidnapped when they were left alone at a very young age. Some of them came from homes like Heather’s, a working mom doing everything she can and being forced to leave her children alone because she doesn’t have another choice. But some of them also came from homes where the parents never cared and were even abusive, like Bethany’s. Maybe he listened to Jaxon’s stories and wanted to be him.”

  “And he didn’t think we would figure it out?”

  “If we didn’t have DNA science, we wouldn’t have figured it out. He fooled you, fooled his brother, fooled even his mom. And remember he probably went there when he was five or six or seven, the same as all of the others, so he would have no reason to understand how DNA works.”

  David settled back into his chair. “You said two possibilities. One is he lied about being Jaxon to avoid going back where he came from. What’s the other possibility?”

  “That’s the hard one. Maybe he genuinely doesn’t know where he came from. Maybe he was taken so young, he doesn’t have a memory of before. If so, he embraced the only memory he has… his best friend’s. Maybe he actually believes he’s Jaxon Lathan.”

  “Lovely. So this poor kid is either from a place so bad he will do anything to avoid going back to it, or he’s from a place he has no memories of. Either way, it’s not good.” He drummed his fingers. “Please tell me we’re running his DNA.”

  Roxanne nodded. “We’d set it aside to run all of the others. What was the point? But now it’s the top of the list. They’re working it as fast as they can.”

  David cradled his head in his hands. “In the meantime, what do I do with the kid? I’ve got to tell Heather what we know.” He turned his focus to Gilman. “Track down the kid’s psychiatrist. I need her quick. And that kid’s gonna really need her.”

  50

  Heather shushed Trigger when he sat up and woofed once, a surprised little chuff as if a squirrel had caught his attention.

  Connor was in the middle of telling yet another slightly off-color joke he had heard at work. He held a half-eaten burger—his second—in his right hand and gestured with his left. Harold was dabbing his eyes with a napkin, his face red with merriment.

  Jaxon chuckled, still too shy to laugh out loud and perhaps a little puzzled by the puns his brother used, but his eyes shimmered in the kitchen light, and his skin was taking on a healthy glow. He kept his voice low and quiet, deferential in so many ways, but he was talking more as his confidence continued to grow.

  The scattered serving dishes on the table testified to how much of a celebratory meal it was. The potato-salad bowl had been emptied, the sides cleaned as if Trigger had licked them. The bowl of baked beans was nearly as empty with only a few bumps in the bottom. The platter that had held the burgers retained only a few scattered sesame seeds from the buns. Even her iced-tea pitcher sat only a quarter full, a sign that her fresh brew had been a hit with everyone.

  Trigger stood and emitted a stronger warning bark. A pair of car doors closing in her driveway answered. Heather stood, already angry at the reporters who would have dared to come at dinnertime. She had warned them all to stay away. She told them she had no plans to talk to them. She wasn’t going to sit down and cry in front of the cameras, no matter what big name wanted to interview them.

  She thought she had gotten her point across the day before when she answered the door with a shotgun propped on her hip, to the horror of the reporter on the stoop and the hilarity of Connor, who rolled off the couch, chortling. When the reporter had tried to be offended by the greeting, Heather suggested he go explain to the sheriff and see how much sympathy he got. She didn’t know if he did, because the last thing she saw was him slinking back to his news van.

  Irritated by the interruption, she stood and waved at Connor to continue telling his stories while she chased away the visitor. Visions of telling a reporter to go to hell flashed across her mind as she strolled to the front door. She ripped it open, a hand held high to wag her lecture finger, but the anger drained when she saw the sheriff and psychiatrist outlined by the porch light.

  After an uncomfortable pause, she gestured for them to come inside. The sheriff, however, took a quick look at the dinner table and stepped back into the darkness. With a wave of a hand, he invited her to join them outside.

  Puzzled and worried, she grabbed a coat, slipped it over her shoulders, and stepped into the night, letting the screen door bang behind her. When she stood under the glowing front-porch light, David reached around her and pulled the main door shut, muffling the sounds of her happy family. Desperate to get back to the comfort of a few moments earlier, she demanded, “What’s going on, Sheriff? They can hear anything you have to say.”

  “I’ll come in and explain it to everyone, but I need to tell you first. I owe you that, Heather. And then Dr. Sorenson and I can help everyone else understand it too.”

  “Get to the point, Sheriff.”

  David looked at the psychiatrist and took a deep breath. “I really don’t know how to say this other than to just do it. We confirmed that one of the bodies at the McGregor farm is Jaxon.”

  She shivered in the cold as a breeze rattled the leafless tree branches in the front yard. Her mind raced in confusion. “Sheriff, I’ve got some experience dealing with drunks, as you know, so let me be blunt right back at you. What the hell are you talking about?”

  He pulled off his hat and squeezed it in his hands. “Heather, one of the bodies at the McGregor house has been positively identified as Jaxon.”

  She pulled the coat tightly around her, but it did nothing to ward off the chill deep in her bones. She turned her back to the sheriff and reached for the doorknob. “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “Listen. Wait.”

  But momentum propelled her through the door. As she entered the den, Connor must have seen the look on her face, because he stopped mid-sentence, the laughter dying in his throat. Harold rose from his chair, but Jaxon—or whoever he was—looked down at the floor. She tried to prevent the sheriff from following her by pushing the door closed. “Go away, Sheriff. This is a family night. I will not have you messing that up.”

  He stopped the door with his foot as Harold strode toward them. “What’s going on here?”

  “Harold, I didn’t know you would be here.” David looked at the boys at the table and hesitated.

  Heather didn’t give him the chance. “The sheriff here is telling me that they positively identified Jaxon’s body in a grave at the McGregor farm.”

  Harold paused mid-stride, confusion spreading across his face. He looked back over at Jaxon—or who they thought was Jaxon. His face darkened with realization, and he turned quickly back to Heather and reached for her. His effort to comfort her had the opposite effect, and she shook his hands off, screaming, “No! No! No! That’s not possible. He’s sitting rig
ht here. My Jaxon’s sitting right here. He came back. He came back to me. So don’t tell me this.”

  She charged across the room, only slightly aware of the color draining out of Connor’s face. She would comfort him soon enough, but her baby, her little boy, needed her. She reached to wrap her arms around Jaxon, but he flinched at the touch and recoiled in his chair. She ran her hands through his hair and begged him, “Tell them, Jaxon. Tell them who you are.”

  The boy’s head rose slowly, inch by inch. Tears flowed down his face as he whispered something, too quietly for anyone else to hear. The words were muffled to Heather as the blood rushed through her ears and deafened her. Or maybe she heard it clearly but refused to accept it. Trembling, she leaned in until their faces were only inches apart and asked softly, “What did you say?”

  He shifted his eyes with what appeared to be great effort and looked into hers as his head slowly shook back and forth. Dread filled her heart, and she resisted what she already knew deep inside. “Look at me, young man. Now tell me what you said.”

  The words slipped out, barely a breath of air but hammering her as if he had shouted them. “I’m sorry.”

  Her world froze. She was vaguely aware of Harold’s hands on her elbows. Connor sat across the table from her, a horrified statue. The sheriff was little more than a distant shadow.

  She sat down in the chair beside the boy and gathered his hands in her own. Dr. Sorenson settled in behind him and wrapped her arm around him.

  Heather struggled to breathe, battling against the pain spreading in her chest and the thick fog clouding her mind. She wanted both to comfort the boy and to understand. When she finally got her voice working again, she asked quietly, “If you aren’t Jaxon, who are you?”

  He whispered, “I don’t know.”

  The tears overflowed her eyes. “What do you mean ‘I don’t know?’ You don’t know your real name?”