by Ed Markham
“Yeah,” Martin said. His eyes lingered on the board as David took a photograph of it with his cell phone and sat back down. He picked up the folder holding the missing child reports.
He began to flip through the case files, and Martin followed suit. The faces of smiling boys and girls looked back at them, their eyes invariably bright and carefree. Most of the missing children were girls, and many were minorities. Despite their smiles, almost all were from broken families.
With relief, David reached the end of his folder without finding a single child who came close to matching their profile. He turned to his father and said, “Anything?”
“Maybe,” Martin said. He withdrew a two-page case report from his folder and handed it across the table to his son.
The boy’s name was Joshua Grow, David read. He was fourteen, and had been missing for more than a month from his home in Rosemont, Pennsylvania.
Joshua was an only child, and both of his parents were real estate agents. Married for eighteen years.
According to the report, the boy hadn’t returned home from soccer practice one evening in late September—about a week before the first confirmed victim went missing. The fields where his youth team practiced were only a few blocks from the Grow’s home, and Lori Grow, the boy’s mother, had told investigators her son always walked home by himself. The soccer team’s coach had said Joshua attended practice that evening and was acting normal. He also said he hadn’t noticed any strange vehicles or spectators near the field.
“Blonde hair and hazel eyes,” David read out loud. “Five-foot-seven, one hundred thirty-eight pounds.” He paused. “Tall for his age.”
Martin nodded but said nothing.
“Soccer,” David said. He thought for a moment, and then reached across the table for his laptop. He opened up the electronic case file on Gregory Merchant. He scanned the biographical information they had on the boy, and then looked at the write-ups for Stephenson and Bush. “Both Merchant and Bush played soccer. I don’t see that noted in the Stephenson file, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t play. Maybe they were all part of the same youth soccer organization, or travel league?”
Again, Martin only nodded.
“I think we should speak with Grow’s parents,” David said as he stood and walked to the dry-erase board. He wrote SOCCER? below the victims’ other similarities. “Find out more about their son. He may have been the first.”
“Fine,” Martin said. Although they were indoors, he was still wearing his navy windbreaker and now he stuffed his hands his jacket pockets. He seemed distracted.
“All right,” David said, sitting back in his chair. He looked at his father. “Time to tell me what’s—”
Before he could finish, there was a knock on the conference room door.
Omar Ghafari stuck his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but I forgot to tell you, Martin. We’re still putting together the report you asked for on James Ganther. I’m sorry for the wait on that. I’ll have it to you as soon as I’ve got it.”
When he’d gone again, David turned to his father and asked, “Who is James Ganther?”
Chapter 10
THE CLOCK OVER the classroom door switched from 12:49 to 12:50, and the digital chime that signaled the end of fifth period pinged three times.
Sitting in the very back of the room, Carson Affeldt had been stealthily loading his binder and books into his backpack ahead of the bell. He knew he’d only have four minutes in between classes, which meant he didn’t have a second to waste. But he had to be careful that bitch Mrs. Landau didn’t notice him packing up early. If she did, she’d keep him after class for one of her “chats.”
When the bell chimed, Carson sprung out of his seat and bolted for the door, anxious to avoid the bottleneck that would form quickly as his classmates emptied into the hallway. He sidestepped a few of his fellow seventh graders and emerged into the crowded second-floor corridor of Simon Cameron Middle School, where he deftly merged with the stream of students heading toward the north staircase.
He kept his eyes down, not wanting to be pulled into a conversation with Luke Reed, who would be looking for him after leaving Mr. Pope’s social studies class. When he was a few feet past Pope’s doorway, Carson heard Luke shout at his back, but he pretended not to hear him. He knew Luke wouldn’t ditch with him, and so it wasn’t worth stopping.
A few seconds later, he had made it down to the first floor and was headed toward the gymnasium and locker rooms, which were separated from the rest of the school by a wide hallway. There were fewer students in this part of the school, and Carson’s eyes scanned the corridor, searching for teachers or the roving specter of Dean Gagnon, the school’s head disciplinarian and self-proclaimed pursuer of “scofflaws” who skipped class, littered, or otherwise broke school rules.
Carson slowed as he approached the door to the boys’ locker room, which was only a few yards from the exit that led to the athletic fields behind Simon Cameron. He looked over his shoulder one last time, saw that there were no teachers in sight, and slipped through the exit doors.
Once outside, he hugged the wall of the windowless gymnasium, which he knew would conceal him from teachers and other students inside the school building.
Carson was an old pro at this; he’d ditched afternoon classes dozens of times, and had only been caught once—though there was always an element of risk. The school stopped checking attendance rolls after fifth period, and so he knew he’d be in the clear unless he was unfortunate enough to stumble into a teacher pulling into the parking lot—a legitimate concern considering many of the school’s staff members would soon return from their lunch breaks.
When he reached the end of the gym, Carson craned his neck so he could look around the side of the building. He scanned the teacher parking lot for movement. When he saw none, he sprinted across the asphalt in between cars and disappeared into the safety of the woods that abutted the school’s property.
Although most of the leaves were down, Carson knew the tree trunks provided enough cover. He slowed his pace to a fast walk. His breathing was heavy and his head buzzed pleasantly from the adrenaline rush. The air outside was cold, and he could see his breath and feel his ears burning.
After putting a few minutes between himself and the school parking lot, he reached into his backpack and pulled out the pack of cigarettes and book of matches he’d convinced the clerk at the Marathon to sell him. He pinched one of the smokes between his lips and lit the end awkwardly. It took him a few matches to get it going, and he didn’t quite know how to inhale it, though he imagined he looked like Jon Hamm in Mad Men—his dad’s favorite show.
As he smoked, Carson made his way through the woods, bound for the Flat Rocks. He hoped some of the high schoolers would be hanging out—Ben Tarmidge maybe, who was Gretchen Tarmidge’s older brother. He was sure Ben would be impressed by his cigarette. Maybe he would even tell Gretchen about it. I saw that Carson guy smoking by the Flat Rocks this afternoon, he imagined Ben saying to his sister. Pretty badass.
But when he rounded the bend and the cluster of massive, flat-topped boulders came into view, he felt a flush of disappointment. The Flat Rocks were deserted.
He walked to the sloping edge of the nearest boulder and dropped his backpack down on the forest floor. Leaning his back against the rock, he had a few more feeble drags from the cigarette before tossing it aside. The boulder felt jagged and cold against his shoulders, and he looked up at the tops of the trees and the grey clouds beyond them, wondering what to do next.
“You supposed to be out here?”
At the sound of the voice, Carson snapped his head down and leapt up from the boulder, looking wildly from side to side. It took him a few seconds to locate the voice’s source.
Twenty-five yards away on one of the smaller rocks, he saw a small man sitting forward with his elbows on his knees.
The man had a light-colored beard. He wore sunglasses and a red bandana around his neck, as well as a brown
jacket and hiking boots. Because of the trees interspersed among the rocks and the man’s drab-colored outfit, Carson hadn’t noticed him sitting on the low boulder.
“Whoa, easy there, guy,” the man said when he saw that Carson was startled. His voice was calm and pleasantly reedy. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Carson didn’t know what to say, so he stared back in silence. He was thinking about grabbing his bag and bolting when the man spoke again.
“You know, when I was about your age I used to cut class here.” The man smiled through his beard and looked around at the boulders and trees as though they were old friends. “Me or one of my buddies would swipe a few beers or some liquor from one of our parents, and we’d come here and spend the afternoon drinking and smoking cigarettes. Once in a while we even convinced some of the girls to come along.” He paused to shake his head. “In fact, I’m pretty sure my first kiss happened back here. Those were good times.”
Carson looked at the man. He still didn’t know what to say, but the sudden fear that had wrapped its hands around his heart had loosened its grip.
“So what I’m trying to say,” the man continued, “is that you don’t have to worry about me tattling on you. Okay? I’m just here playing hooky from my day job, same as you.”
He nodded once to reassure Carson this was true, and then he stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned his attention back to the woods.
They were both quiet now, and Carson could hear the trees creaking as the breeze pushed them from side to side. “Where’d you go to school?” he heard himself ask. After he’d said it, he realized he liked the man and wanted to keep talking with him. He felt like they were kinsmen out here in the woods, away from the responsibilities of the world.
“Simon Cameron, right up that way,” the man said, nodding down the trail in the direction Carson had come from. “After that I went to Hickory High School, but my family moved to New Jersey before I graduated.”
“I go to Cameron now,” Carson said eagerly.
“No shit?”
Carson laughed when he heard the curse word. He liked the man’s voice and his smile, and he felt very mature conversing this way with an adult, as though they were just a couple of guys having a man-to-man.
“You know Cameron’s mascot used to be the Chieftain?” the man said.
Carson shook his head.
“Sure did,” the man said. “Not sure when they changed it, but I’ve seen they call you Crusaders now, right?”
“Yeah,” Carson said.
“Pretty dumb if you ask me. Everything’s gotta be so PC these days.” He shook his head.
“Yeah,” Carson said again. He scowled along with the man, though he didn’t understand exactly what they were scowling about. It didn’t matter. The point was that they were on the same page.
“So,” the man said. “I think I saw you smoking a cigarette a few minutes ago. Am I right about that?”
Carson nodded.
“Thought so.” The man paused, and after a few seconds, Carson realized he was waiting to be offered one of the smokes. This was confirmed when the man said, “You think I could have one of those?”
Carson hesitated, and the man grinned. “My wife would smack me if she found out I’d had one. I quit about fifteen years ago, but I don’t think smoking just one for old time’s sake would hurt me too much. What do you think?”
Somewhere in the back of Carson’s head, a voice told him it might be a bad idea to get much closer to the stranger. But he ignored the voice. He liked the man, and he didn’t want to look like a scared little kid.
“Yeah, no problem,” he said, trying to seem nonchalant in order to compensate for his hesitation. He picked up his backpack and walked toward where the man was sitting on his stone. Carson thought he might have another one himself; the idea of smoking a cigarette with this guy appealed to him.
When he reached his side, the man scratched at his head and Carson noticed his hairline was receding, much like his own father’s.
The man smiled good-naturedly. “So what’s your brand?” he asked as he started to untie the bandana from around his neck. “I used to smoke Camels.”
Carson answered as he began to rummage for the cigarettes in his backpack. “They’re Marl—” he started to say.
But then the man was on him, his strong arms wrapping around Carson’s shoulders and spinning him.
Carson dropped his backpack and tried to scream, but the sound that came out sounded muffled. The man had mashed some type of cloth over his mouth, and Carson realized it was the bandana he’d had tied around his neck.
Carson could taste something sour collecting at the back of his throat. Almost immediately, he felt his legs weaken and his head begin to swim.
The man was behind him now, holding him up, and Carson could feel hot breath on the back of his neck. He tried to search the woods with his eyes, but all he could see were the tops of the trees.
Chapter 11
MATT CRAWFORD WAITED until Ricky Jones had drawn almost parallel with the tree before giving him a hard forearm shove.
With his eyes down on the screen of his cell phone, Ricky didn’t see the tree or the shove until the last second, but he was nimble enough to avoid a direct hit. His shoulder glanced off the tree trunk and he dropped his phone.
“Ugh, fucker,” he said, grimacing.
He picked up his phone and punched Matt in the arm. John Woodman laughed.
“Shut up, Wood,” Ricky said. But now he was laughing too. He had only himself to blame; he should have known better than to walk past anything—tree, person, or building—without keeping an eye out for a shove.
Matt, Ricky, and Wood were ninth graders at Hickory High, and they’d managed to sneak out together after their shared fifth period study hall. On days like today they’d usually be headed to Wood’s house to watch movies and hang out. But Wood’s mom was home sick, so Matt had proposed they spend the afternoon at the Flat Rocks.
“You got dirt in my phone,” Ricky said to him.
Matt started to answer, but then something flickering ahead of them in the woods caught his attention. He squinted up the trail, trying to make out signs of movement.
“What is it?” Ricky said, following his friend’s eyes.
“Shut up,” Matt said. “I think someone’s up there.”
A few seconds later he saw the figure moving between the trees, but he couldn’t tell if it was a grown up or another kid.
“Should we bolt?” Wood asked out loud, but none of the boys moved. They stood still as topiary as they watched the figure make its way toward them along the trail.
A few seconds later, Matt saw a man round the bend in the trail. The man had a light-colored beard, and he was carrying a boy in his arms and a backpack on his shoulders. The boy’s hands were wrapped around the man’s neck, and his face was nestled against the man’s chest.
Matt breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t recognize the guy, but he definitely wasn’t a county cop or one of the rangers the local DNR office occasionally sent into the woods to scare off high school kids.
“It’s cool,” he whispered to his friends. “It’s just a hiker or something. Let’s just keep going.”
The three boys formed a line and moved to one side of the narrow trail to let the man by. Matt was in front, and he looked at the man’s face as he approached. The guy was small, only an inch or two taller than Matt, and so they were almost eye-to-eye as they passed each other.
The man nodded to Matt and whispered, “My son’s taking a nap.” He smiled, and, without thinking, Matt smiled back. Then he looked down at the boy cradled in the man’s arms. He recognized him.
That’s Carson What’s-his-name, Matt thought. He couldn’t remember the kid’s last name, but he’d played on the same indoor soccer team with him the previous winter. Carson was good, Matt remembered.
He turned and watched the man walking away from them down the trail, and he saw that Carson’s hands
were dangling on either side of the man’s neck. It seemed wrong to him.
Matt looked at his friends and said, “That was weird.”
Ricky stepped past him and headed down the trail toward the Flat Rocks. “I know, right? Nice lumberjack beard, dude. And how old was that kid taking a nap? Like fourteen? What a fucking baby.”
Wood laughed and joined Ricky farther up the trail.
Matt didn’t follow them right away. He watched the man carrying Carson What’s-his-name until he disappeared around a bend in the trees. He thought about saying more to his friends, but then he decided it didn’t matter.
Whatever, he thought, and ran to catch up with them.
Chapter 12
THE MAN AND woman stood shoulder to shoulder, crowding into the doorway of their large colonial home.
“Mr. and Mrs. Grow?” David asked them.
They nodded in unison.
The mother of the missing boy, Lori Grow, was lean-faced and athletic in an underfed way, like a marathon runner. The tendons in her neck became visibly taut as she smiled weakly and greeted David. As she shook his hand he could smell the citrus-scented perfume she had dabbed onto her wrists that morning. Graham Grow’s gold-colored hair and tendon-y half-smile matched his wife’s, and he had to unwrap his arm from her shoulders in order to shake David and Martin’s hands.
Both Lori and Graham Grow were tall and tan, and both were dressed as though they’d come from work—he in a dark suit but no tie, she in a tailored skirt and blouse. They wore matching expressions of anxious curiosity.
David and his father had driven up from Quantico early in the afternoon after deciding there was little cause to remain in Northern Virginia; after all, the locus of their investigation was three hours north. On the car ride up, David had again broached the subject of James Ganther, but Martin had refused to discuss it. David hadn’t protested; his father wasn’t a man to reveal his hand until he knew exactly what he held.
