by Anne Frasier
He was busy with his play. “You do it.”
Kneeling next to the tub, she washed him, gently moving over his scarred flesh. Some of the scars had been caused by cigarette burns. She paused and closed her eyes a moment.
“I’m bad sometimes,” he said in a happy voice, making whooshing sounds as the fish took a deep dive.
“Who says you’re bad? Nana?”
“Nana makes me better.”
“Let’s wash your hair.” She began easing him back in the tub. “Lie down.”
“No, no, no!” he shrieked, his thin arms taut as he reached for something to grab, clinging to her.
She quickly pulled him upright, her heart pounding. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” she said, trying to reassure him. “We won’t do that.” He finally calmed down and began playing with the toys again, distracted enough for her to rub his hair and scalp with the wet washcloth, just trying to clean them a little. Deciding a little clean was all she’d achieve, not wanting to risk upsetting him again, she went to work on his hands, scrubbing between his fingers, then his feet and toes, getting out some but not all of the embedded dirt, the water in the tub turning a dark brown.
For most of his short visit, he’d been docile and had obeyed without question. But he’d obviously had a traumatic experience in a tub. Maybe a near drowning. She’d have to be sure and include that trigger with the information she gave CPS when they picked him up.
“Soap smells like flowers.”
It was lavender. “What do you know about flowers?”
“They’re pretty. They smell good.”
“Where have you seen them?” She was hoping she might get any small detail of his life that would fill in some blanks, maybe even a clue about where he lived.
“Nana brings them in the house. She says flowers make her happy.”
So, this Nana made him feel better when he was hurt, brought flowers in the house, and had dropped him off at Jude’s door. She really wanted to know if Nana was the person who’d also hurt him, but she didn’t want to push him too hard. That would be a question for another time.
She lifted him from the tub—he probably didn’t weigh over thirty-five pounds—dried him off, rubbed his hair until it stuck straight up, and helped him into the borrowed clothes that could also serve as pajamas.
He picked at the blue-and-green-striped shirt. “Not mine.”
“I’m going to wash yours. These belong to a boy who lives in the building. He said you could use them.” She opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out an unused, packaged toothbrush she’d bought for the girl who’d been killed in her apartment. She opened it, wet the bristles, applied toothpaste, and handed it to him.
He seemed to know what to do with it. If not a clue, it was at least another piece of his life. He didn’t bathe, but he knew how to brush his teeth. A minute later, she was holding him high enough to spit into the sink.
“You can sleep in my bed tonight,” she told him. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” She’d leave a light on. And she would probably stay awake all night.
Interesting that he wasn’t afraid of her or Elliot. And he didn’t question why he was in her apartment or feel nervous to be there without his people, as bad as those people might be. He’d perhaps adapted from a very early age to whatever life delivered. Accepted and didn’t question, didn’t argue, did what he was told—unless he was told to do something that truly terrified him. She knew and understood that form of self-protection. She’d employed it herself. You turned off, you obeyed, you found solace in things no one should find solace in. Like a cat toy.
But a child . . .
It broke her heart.
Her bedroom was small and dark, with a narrow window overlooking the street, long burgundy curtains that fell and pooled on the hardwood floor, a full bed, and a small white dresser, all of which had been there when she’d moved in. She hadn’t even bothered to get new sheets or a new comforter. These were sufficient. The location of the apartment building—far from the more popular areas of town—the flat roof she’d slept on shortly after getting out of captivity, and no need to shop for a single household item had all been positive reasons for signing a lease. She had no desire to leave her stamp on anything or to nest or surround herself with pretty objects that served no purpose. Maybe one day that would change and the domesticity she’d felt in her old life would return. And if it didn’t, no problem.
Uriah had once said she was like someone who’d lived before television and cars and certainly cell phones, before retail therapy and consumer culture. She wanted nothing. A psychiatrist would probably call that a state of mild depression. Jude would argue about that. This was how she coped, by calming her mind and removing all wants. And this was who she was now. Maybe one day she’d also care enough to get rid of the bloodstained couch and buy some cute cups and plates. But if she didn’t, that was okay.
She put the boy to bed and covered him with a blanket.
“Where’s the kitty?” he asked.
“He’s gone to bed too.” The closet door was open, and she suspected he was hiding inside and would sneak out once the child was quiet. “What do you usually do before you go to sleep?” she asked.
“Close my eyes.”
Cute as hell. She didn’t know kids could be so cute. She had the urge to call Uriah and tell him what the boy had just said, then remembered Uriah didn’t know about this new development. “Before you close your eyes,” she explained. “Do you get a drink? Do you read a book?”
“I look at books.”
“Does anybody read to you?”
“Sometimes.”
Still digging for information, she asked, “Who?”
“Nana.”
Nana seemed to be the constant in his life. “What are some of the books you like?”
“Cylopedia.”
“Encyclopedia?” No kids’ books?
He nodded, hugging the covers to his chest. “A. Just A.”
“I don’t have that book,” Jude told him. And the box of books she’d picked up from her old boyfriend’s house, the boyfriend she’d been dating before she’d been abducted, had been given to Uriah for his collection.
“A-na-ta-mee is my favorite pictures.”
Anatomy. Yes. The old encyclopedias contained transparent pages. “What about Dr. Seuss?”
He shook his head. Didn’t ring a bell.
“Cat in the Hat?”
“Kitty.” He glanced around the room, looking for Roof Cat again.
“Okay.” She gave up. Apparently, he wasn’t familiar with any children’s books. How many people had actual physical encyclopedias anymore? She tried to picture this Nana in her head and kept imagining someone very old. It wasn’t good for a detective to make those kinds of assumptions. Nothing he’d said had indicated age other than the book he liked to look at.
He fell asleep quickly.
In the living room, she curled her feet under her and was just getting ready to call Uriah when he beat her to it.
“I have something I want to tell you,” he said.
“I might have a bigger story.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Was it her imagination, or did he sound relieved? “I have a kid. Here in my apartment.”
“Wow. Was not expecting that.”
She relayed how she’d found him outside the entryway of her building.
“Send me a photo.”
She did. That was followed by clicking keys. “I’m entering the image in the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children database.” He punched some more keys. “I don’t see anything.”
“Uriah?” Her voice dropped. “My tinfoil hat moment? I think someone might have been trying to passively kill the boy. And beyond that, there’s something very strange and unsettling about him. He doesn’t seem to know much about common things. Oh, and the big thing? He can’t tell me his real name or how old he is.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t have the capacity to relay t
hat information.”
“He seems bright otherwise. But then again, I don’t know anything about kids.” She laughed and related what he’d said when he went to bed. Then she told him about the physical abuse.
Uriah let out a low curse.
“What were you going to tell me?” Jude asked.
“I don’t think I can compete with that.”
“It’s not a competition. Are you still at Homicide? I’ll bet you are.”
“And it looks like I’ll be staying the night here.”
“Sleep in the break room.”
“I think someone beat me to it.”
“Sleep on the floor.” That sounded unappealing, but he had a penchant for sleeping at his desk. The floor was better.
The power flickered again, then went out completely. “Oh shit,” they both said in unison.
“I’ve gotta go.” She hung up.
In the bedroom, her flashlight app on, she found the boy curled in the corner on the floor, using his hands for a pillow and seemingly unaffected by the darkness. “What are you doing down there?”
“Want my spot.”
She tried to coax him back to the bed, but he began to whimper. She gave up, pulled a cushion from the couch, snow-damp, bloodstained side down, and placed it on the floor in the corner, with a pillow and a blanket. He curled up like a puppy on a dog bed and was asleep within minutes.
CHAPTER 12
Where’s Nana? When’s Nana coming back?”
The boy sat on a stool at Jude’s kitchen counter, a bowl of un-kid-friendly microwave oatmeal in front of him, gripping a spoon with a fist, milk on his chin. It was morning, but the storm and the lack of sunlight made it feel more like evening. Wind howled around windows and shook glass panes as the temperature outside continued to drop, snow continued to fall, and residents were warned to stay inside. But oddly enough, the power was on.
Checking the local news that morning, Jude hadn’t been surprised to hear schools and even shopping malls, including the Mall of America, were closed. Casualties were being reported, most from people losing their way in the blizzard, or by car accidents. The biggest story of the morning was about a near fatality that took place south of Minneapolis. A woman driving on Interstate 35 had been run off the road by a semi. She’d lost control of her car, sailed over a guardrail, flipped, and had landed upside down. Trapped by her seat belt, she was unable to reach her phone, and nobody spotted her headlights for a few hours. Luckily, last night’s temperatures hadn’t been that bad by Minnesota standards. Jude expected to continue hearing similar stories until the storm was over and streets were passable. The woman was lucky. She had some broken bones but was expected to live.
Jude poured a glass of orange juice and set it beside the boy’s bowl of oatmeal. “I’m not sure when you’ll see Nana.” And with the unimproved weather, she wondered how much longer she was going to have a guest. Anxious to have her space to herself, Jude ducked into the bedroom, pulled out her cell phone, and called CPS again.
“We don’t usually operate like this,” the woman said in an apologetic voice. “Our protocol is to get the child, no matter what time it is, day or night. So please understand when I say we have no one to pick him up today due to the road conditions. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’m confident he’s safe or safer with you than he would be anywhere.”
To follow up, Jude called their local Missing Persons again to see if there had been any overnight reports that hadn’t yet been entered into the database. Then she made a call to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children that Uriah had accessed online the night before. She gave them the information she had, got an email address, and promised to send a photo of the boy once she was off the phone.
Back in the kitchen, she poured herself another cup of coffee and leaned a hip against the counter, arms crossed. “What does Nana look like?” she asked.
“Like a lady,” he said, scraping the bottom of his bowl. The orange juice was still there.
“Like me?”
He laughed. “No.”
“Is her skin the same color as mine?” Jude extended her arm.
“Maybe.”
“Is she skinny?”
He shook his head. “She feels like a pillow.”
“Does she work for your mom or your dad?”
“No.”
“Do you have a mom or dad?”
“She’s my mom and dad.”
“Okay.” She decided on another approach. “What do you like to do? After you eat breakfast?”
“Sometimes I color.”
“I like that idea. I’ll bet you could draw a nice picture of a house and maybe the people who live there.”
“Yeah.”
“Did she make the marks on your back?”
“He did.”
“Nana’s husband?”
“A man.”
“Does the man have a name?”
He didn’t answer. He was losing interest in the conversation.
“Let’s go wash your clothes.”
Jude considered taking the elevator to the basement and the washer and dryer the tenants shared, but after the trauma of the tub, she didn’t know how he’d react to a confined and disorienting space, so she chose the stairs. It took forever, one arm around the laundry basket, one hand holding his as he clambered down steps that had obviously been built for adults and not children. All the while, he kept up a monologue about everything he observed, like, “Funny walls.” They were brick. “Pretty steps.” They were marble. “Does the kitty live here too?” A bag of litter with a picture of a cat on it that Elliot might have left in the storage area.
Once the machine was going with everything they’d removed from him, including his coat and mittens, she picked him up for the return to her fourth-floor apartment. Halfway there, her phone rang. She pulled it from her sweatshirt pocket.
“Just got a call from Detective Valentine,” Uriah said as she continued to climb, boy on her hip and phone in her hand, like a pro. “Got some fresh news about Loring Park.”
“Don’t tell me someone fell through the hole left by the ice cutters.” It could have happened easily during the blizzard. Even though barriers had been set up, they, along with the warning signs, would have been covered in snow.
“That was my first thought when I got the call, but no. Another body’s been found.”
CHAPTER 13
Inside her apartment, Jude lowered the boy to the floor and walked to a window to check conditions outside.
“Did you hear me?” Uriah asked through the phone.
Snow was still falling, not as heavily now, but it didn’t look like a plow had given her street a single pass yet. “I’m not sure if I’m going to get out of here,” Jude said. “I might be able to walk, but it was hard going a mile last night, and the snow is deeper now.” She pulled up a mental map and estimated the lake to be around three miles away. Dropping her voice, she added, “And he’s still here. The boy.”
“Can someone in your building watch him? Elliot, maybe? Don’t worry about getting to the scene. I’ll come and pick you up. Be there in thirty minutes.” A pause. “Oh, and dress warm.”
She called Elliot. “I need a favor.” She didn’t like asking anybody for anything, but this was different since it was for the child. “Can you keep an eye on the boy? I have to attend to a possible crime scene.” She didn’t go into details.
“Sure, I can watch the little dude. Bring him down.”
She explained about the laundry and the need for crayons. He promised to find something.
“Are you going to make a snowman?” the boy asked when he saw her getting dressed for outdoors. Heavy wool socks on her feet, two hooded sweatshirts, and a black down coat with a puffy hood, along with insulated boots that were supposed to be good to thirty below zero.
“Not today.”
“Can I make a snowman?”
“It’s too cold out. And the snow won’t stick to
gether.” She zipped her coat. “Right now, you’re going to stay with Elliot. He’ll have paper and something for you to color with.”
“And we’ll wait for Nana.”
Oh man. He was breaking her heart. She dropped into that overused reply. “We’ll see.”
She took him downstairs to Elliot’s apartment, reminding Elliot about the clothes in the washer. “If someone arrives looking for him, you’re not to let him leave. No matter who they say they are.” She wanted to be there when CPS came.
“When we go downstairs, we’ll go as a team,” Elliot said cheerfully, more to the boy than Jude. He put out his hand, palm up. “Give me a team slap. Come on. Right here.” He demonstrated the silly game, slapping his own hand. Things clicked, the boy understood, and slapped his palm against Elliot’s. Elliot made a dramatic face and the boy giggled. “I hear you like to draw and color,” Elliot said. “I do too. And I just so happen to have some colored markers.”
“I like crayons.”
One of the few child-centric things he’d mentioned.
“These markers are pretty awesome. I think they might even be scented. What’s your favorite color?”
“Red. No, purple.”
“I like both of those too.”
“I mean it, Elliot,” Jude said.
He glanced up, then back at the boy. “I know you do. Nobody’s getting close to this kid.”
“Okay.”
“I like to play cards too,” the boy said, wandering around Elliot’s apartment, spotting Blackie, Elliot’s cat, and going straight for him. The animal didn’t run away, and the boy was able to squat in front of him. “Hi.”
The cat stared at him.
“Can you talk?”
Elliot crouched beside him. “He likes to be petted like this.” He moved his hand over the cat’s head. The cat stretched to meet Elliot’s hand and began purring loudly.
The child laughed and tried it himself.
Jude backed out of the apartment and closed the door.
Her phone rang. It was Uriah. “I’m here.”
She found him sitting on a black-and-white snowmobile that had the department logo and Minneapolis Police Department across the front. The sidewalk he’d parked on was still covered in deep snow and etched with trails where people had passed on foot. He wore a puffy gray coat, jeans, and heavy boots, along with a black half helmet with the partial face shield up. She shouldn’t have been surprised. One area of the garage where the squad and unmarked cars were kept was specifically designated for the department’s snowmobiles. Most years they were hardly used, but other times, like now, they could be one of the only ways for officers to get around a paralyzed city.
