Jaxon With an X

by D. K. Wall

  “Oh, great, a prostitute.”

  “Sheriff Newman told me all about her, and you know what I see? A really strong woman you should be totally proud of.”

  Theo turned his head, an eyebrow raised as if he was confused.

  Connor continued, “She’s being held by those whack jobs and finds herself pregnant. So she gives birth—no hospital, no drugs, no doctor, nothing, but she does it anyway. And then she takes care of you—nurses you, feeds you, takes care of you when you’re sick, all while she’s growing weaker. You’re alive because of her.”

  “Yeah, okay, but I meant before that.”

  “Before? Just proves how smart she was.”

  “Smart? How do you figure that?”

  “Think about it. You ever see Matt with books? Any books in the house at all?”

  Jaxon thought about it. “An old Bible was all I ever saw, but don’t think he ever touched it. I don’t think he could read.”

  “But you had books.”

  “Not from him. The other kids must’ve had ’em when he took them.”

  “Yeah, sure, little kids’ books. I can see some kid sitting around a park in the summer with a book in his hands, because that’s the kind of thing Jaxon would’ve done. And then when Matt entices the kid into his van, the books come along.”

  Theo shrugged, so Connor continued. “But a dictionary? Even Jaxon wasn’t enough of a bookworm to take a dictionary to a park or while he was out playing. So if it wasn’t one of the kids’, then it had to be hers.”

  “Why would she…?”

  “She was enrolling in a community college, right? They found her knapsack. The dictionary you used had the mark of a used bookstore in Knoxville, so it makes sense it was in her book bag. She was trying to make a life for herself, despite all the crap that had happened to her. You know how much strength that takes? How smart she must’ve been? I’m thinking you’re more like her.”

  After a quick squeeze of the boy’s shoulders, Connor stood. “See, I think you’re wicked smart when it comes to words. You know more dictionary definitions than I ever will. But who you become, who you are… that takes a lot more than just genes. I know that, and I got a C in biology. Barely.”

  Connor started laying clothes across the foot of the bed, smoothing wrinkles as he went. When he looked up expectantly, Theo said, “I still can’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t need a reminder of him there.”

  Connor stopped and stared. “It’s Jaxon’s funeral. The whole thing is a reminder of him, that he killed him. We’ll be thinking of that monster the whole time.”

  Theo hung his head. “I’ll just make it worse.”

  “Don’t you get it?” Connor leaned across the bed and stared directly into the boy’s eyes. “When I look at you, I think of Jaxon’s friend, a really strong guy who survived all that crap and made my brother’s time there bearable. Frankly, you’re probably the one decent thing that comes from Matt McGregor’s existence. So yeah, I want you there. And you’re going even if I have to drag you in that silly hospital gown with your skinny ass flapping in the breeze.”

  He stood and lifted the sport coat, studying the checked pattern of bright colors. “So get out of that bed and into the shower, because we’ve got to get you into this monkey suit. We’re gonna need something to put a smile on people’s faces.”

  61

  Heather sat rigidly in a folding chair, staring at the simple casket adorned with flowers. A strip of fake grass masked the pile of dirt that soon would be shoveled into the hole. Her son had spent years underground in a cold stone cellar, had been buried unceremoniously in an unmarked grave, and was about to be buried for the third time in his all-too-short life.

  She couldn’t bear to look at the coffin any longer and closed her eyes. In the movies, mourners at funerals always huddled under umbrellas in a steady rain. They clutched their overcoats tightly against the wind, their breath forming clouds in the cold air. The thick skies blocked the light of the sun. Shadows danced among the drifting fog. The weather was as miserable as the crowd.

  Not Jaxon’s funeral, she thought as she looked around. A crystal-clear blue sky was marred only by wisps of light clouds. A single jet contrail crossed overhead. The brilliant sun warmed the earth, the snow a distant memory. Birds sang from the trees as they built their nests. A flock of geese flew in formation over the gathering, honking as they returned north. Squirrels scampered among the tombstones.

  The warmth of the day made her black dress itchy and uncomfortable. She fidgeted in her seat, impatient to race home so she could change into the comfort of jeans and a sweatshirt.

  The minister uttered the cliché “God works in mysterious ways.” She bit her lip to keep from screaming. With a gloved hand, she wiped sweat from her forehead. Her dark sunglasses hid her puffy eyes as she scanned the cemetery, desperate to focus on anything other than the casket containing her son’s skeletal remains.

  Connor had worked his magic. He’d reached out to his friends from high school and people he worked with to get the word out through social media. The older generations picked up the message and spread it at Abe’s Market and other gathering spots.

  The message was succinct: protect the family.

  Instead of crowding the cemetery, the townspeople lined the streets. Boy Scouts in uniform stood at attention beside members of the VFW. Families congregated on the sidewalk. They stood quietly as the small funeral procession passed, hands over their hearts and tears in their eyes. And as the hearse turned into the cemetery, the people stepped across the entrance and blocked the TV vans and others from following.

  A group of motorcycle riders, accustomed to mounting their Harleys to show respect at veterans’ funerals or Toys for Tots charity rides, formed an intimidating barrier and shepherded the press into a parking lot across the street. American flags flapped in the wind and blocked the views. Photographers tried to aim their long-lens cameras in the family’s direction to catch glimpses, but a collection of wreaths had been strategically placed around the small group of mourners. Volunteers, mostly off-duty sheriff’s deputies and volunteer firefighters, patrolled the perimeter, discouraging unscrupulous media members or curiosity seekers from getting closer. The end result was that almost no photos of the family and Theo would be taken at the funeral.

  The few-dozen mourners standing about the family—the closest friends, coworkers, Nurse Sheila, and others from the medical team—were safe to honor the lost boy.

  Harold squeezed her left hand. She suspected he was doing more than communicating his comfort to her—he was seeking comfort himself. His hand quivered in hers, probably a sign of how badly he craved a drank.

  Connor sat to her right, squirming in a suit two sizes too small. He had bought it for the senior formal a year before, scrimping together savings to buy it off the rack of the consignment store only to be dumped by his girlfriend two nights before the big event. It had been small for him then, but factory work had developed his muscles since. She had tried to convince him to wear more casual clothes, or at least leave the too-tight coat at home. “No one will care,” she’d implored.

  “I care,” he’d said. He wanted to pay respects to his little brother. To do that properly, he needed to be in a suit. Even if it didn’t fit. A couple of hours of discomfort was nothing compared to what his brother had suffered.

  He had brought Theo into their house earlier that morning, decked out in the new-to-him suit. The sport coat was beyond hideous, nearly clown-like, but it was clothing Connor had bought with his own savings, such a thoughtful act in itself. When she had returned from fetching her keys from her bedroom, she walked in to find Connor tying Theo’s tie, teaching him how to create a Windsor knot. He was patient and caring, as if he had absolutely nothing better to do than help a boy learn something he’d never had to learn before.

  Now, Theo sat beside Connor, tears streaming down his face as he witnessed the second burial of his friend,
which was being done with love and respect instead of some callous tossing of dirt on top of a lifeless body. Connor’s arm was draped over the back of the boy’s chair, his hand gently placed on his shoulder.

  She watched them out of the corner of her eye, the two leaning on each other as they struggled through the emotional day.

  When she had gone into the kitchen that morning, tired from a long night at work and already exhausted by the demands of the coming day, Connor had greeted her with a full breakfast: strong hot coffee, scrambled eggs, grits, bacon, and biscuits. She wasn’t sure how much was his doing and how much might have come from Abe’s Market, but it was a thoughtful gesture.

  But she also knew in a glance that he wanted something—something big. She savored the food and waited for him to work up the nerve. When he finally did, his proposal hadn’t shocked her. She had even considered it herself.

  She looked at the two boys and debated whether she could do it.

  62

  Connor stood close by the casket as the few mourners stopped and offered their condolences after the funeral. He received the usual comments—how tall he was, how he must be surrounded by girlfriends, was he thinking of college, my, how grown up he was. He thought of them as the inane things adults said to kids, though he thought of himself less and less as a kid. He smiled as best he could, always unsure how to react to comments like those but determined to muddle his way through.

  Through every hug and pinch on the cheek, he kept Theo close. Nurse Sheila wrapped the younger boy in a giant bear hug. Dr. Sorenson asked him how he was holding up. The others were kind to him but seemed to struggle with what to say or how to react. The awkwardness was apparent—even what to call him seemed difficult, though everyone knew his name, thanks to the explosion of media coverage.

  After several painful minutes, the crowd dwindled to the few of them standing around Heather—the family, the sheriff, and the FBI agent. Connor watched his mother carefully, looking for signs she had considered their conversation. He knew the ask was big, but he hadn’t made it lightly. When she approached Theo, Connor held his breath.

  She took the younger boy’s hands in her own. “Jaxon would appreciate that you were here for him.”

  “Thank you for letting me, ma’am. I know I’m not… the easiest person to see.”

  She nodded and reached out to sweep his hair off his forehead. Her fingers slid down the side of his face and lingered over the scar, tracing its line. “I caught up with Dr. Sorenson this morning before leaving work. She showed me their plan for your continued medical care and the counseling you’re going to need.”

  She dropped her hand to his shoulder and squeezed it. “And that’s not all. You’ll need to work through the schooling you’ve missed, so that’s going to mean specialized classes and lots of self-directed learning.”

  “Connor’s told me that I’ve got a ton to learn.”

  “You’ll have a lot of decisions to make. I know it would be hard to stay here. You might be better off somewhere else in the state. Away from all this madness.” She swept her arm around the cemetery in the direction of the cordoned press.

  “I know. A social worker came by this morning and told me about a boys’ home down near Raleigh. She said less people would know, but some still would.”

  “I’ve thought that too. But all this attention will die down some day.”

  “She said I could change my name if I wanted.”

  “You could. You could get away from it all.”

  Heather hesitated and looked again at Connor. He nodded at her, more convinced than ever that what he wanted to do was the right thing. The sides of her mouth turned up in a small grin, an acknowledgment that he had won.

  She turned back to Theo. “We’ve been talking, Connor and I. You need more than counseling and teachers, more than a roof and food. It’s up to you, because, well, if you did what we’re thinking, you’d be right here, where everyone knows. And they won’t forget. Small towns don’t forget things.”

  Connor draped his arm over the boy’s shoulder. Heather clasped Theo’s hands in her own. “Why don’t you come home with us? We’re not the perfect family, not by a long shot, and you’d have to carry your own weight with chores and walking the dog and stuff like that, but we do have a bed and a place at the table.”

  “But…” The boy looked wildly from face to face.

  Connor squeezed him in a hug. “And we’ve gotta do something about that awful snoring of yours if we’re gonna share a room.”

  Theo’s face reddened as tears welled up in his eyes. “But if I’m there, you’ll be reminded of Jaxon every day.”

  “Hon, I never want to forget him. He was the dearest, sweetest little boy.” She reached out and squeezed Connor’s hand. “Well, one of the two sweetest little boys.”

  “No, I mean, not just of him, of what I did, of that man, of…”

  She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck. “You’re not him. Never have been. Never will be. Whether you decide to come live with us or not, I never want you to think otherwise. Do you hear me?”

  His words were choked in reply. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. You take all the time you want to decide, but whenever you’re ready—”

  “I don’t need time. Yes. Please. Yes.”

  She pulled him toward her, her arms cocooning him against her chest. Connor wrapped his own arms around both of them.

  63

  David pushed open the door of Sammy’s Pub, the only true bar in Miller County. As sheriff, he only went in there to break up a fight or to find a patron who had failed to show up for court, but he wasn’t on duty. He came only in search of a stool and a drink.

  Roxanne had left, the last of the FBI agents to pack up her gear and move on to their next case. David had gone home to his apartment, but it felt empty and unwelcoming. He had called to chat with his kids, but his ex-wife said they were out and wouldn’t be back until late. Needing to do something, he decided to go to his office and catch up on the paperwork that had piled up, but when he stood over his desk, he didn’t have the heart. All he could see in his mind was a row of photos of little boys who would never grow up.

  He locked his gun and badge in the desk and drove to the pub. Sammy stood behind the bar and watched him settle in, a slightly surprised look on his normally stoic face. With a shrug, he tossed a towel over his shoulder and took David’s drink order. Seconds later, a shot of whiskey and a frosted mug of beer were placed on the counter. David lifted the shot glass and was studying the dark liquid inside when a voice behind him interrupted his thoughts.

  “Last person I expected to see in here.”

  David turned as Harold Lathan settled onto the stool beside him. “I could say the same for you.”

  Sammy set a club soda with a lime twist down in front of Harold. He picked up the drink and nodded at the bartender. “Oh, it’s the one bar a recovering alcoholic like me can feel quite comfortable in. Sammy would never, ever, serve me any alcohol, no matter how much I begged. If I’m gonna fall off the wagon, I’m gonna have to do it in the next county.”

  The bartender leaned back against the mirrors behind him, arms crossed as he surveyed the crowd. David tossed back the shot of whiskey, felt it burn down his throat, and chased it with a swallow of ice-cold beer.

  “You know, Sheriff,” Harold said as he swirled his drink with a plastic straw, “you’re not going to find any answers in there. Trust me. I know. I spent half my life searching the bottom of a glass.”

  “Not looking for answers. Just saying goodbye to my career.”

  “Oh? Not running for reelection this fall?”

  David snickered and traced his finger through the ice sliding down the side of the beer glass. “Even if I ran, I wouldn’t win. The biggest criminal in Miller County history operated with impunity while I looked the other way. The voters won’t forget that.”

  The answer was as frosty as the beer mug. “Since I was the one you were looki
ng at while he was getting away with his garbage, I can see where some people might be disappointed.”

  “Touché.” David raised the glass toward Harold in a mock toast then drained it. “You may not believe this, but I’m truly sorry about that. I blew it.”

  David motioned for refills. After Sammy set the drinks down, Harold asked, “Curious, Sheriff, how many registered sex offenders are there in Miller County?”

  “One hundred eighty-two.”

  “You don’t need to look that up.”

  “Nope. I know it.”

  “And how many of them did you talk to when Jaxon disappeared?”

  “Not all of them because some of the offenses had nothing to do with little boys.”

  “But all of them that did.”

  “Yeah.”

  Harold sipped his club soda. “And was Matt McGregor on that list?”

  “No. Should have been, but no.”

  “But you went and talked to him anyway?”

  “Yeah.”

  Harold set his drink down on the bar. “Here’s the thing, Sheriff. I’ve learned a lot over the years. One of those things is that my boy, Connor, is a pretty smart kid.”

  “He is.”

  “And he convinced his mother to take an orphan under her wing. Not just any orphan, but the son of the man who killed her son. That’s some serious compassion.”

  David ran his finger along the rim of the refilled whiskey glass, already thinking of how good it was going to feel going inside him. “It’s the only real hope that kid has.”

  “He doesn’t get that compassion from me. That’s all his mom. It’s the same compassion she shows me, despite all the ways I’ve failed her over the years.”

  “People can change. She knows you’re one of them.”

  “I’m not sure the sheriff I knew a few weeks ago would’ve been able to understand that.”

  David ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. “No, I don’t think I could have. This whole mess has been humbling. I’ve got my own mistakes to atone for.”