Three Days Missing

by Kimberly Belle

  “Jesus, what is up with you people? Do you want me to take a lie detector test? Write I didn’t do it across the sky with my blood? What?”

  Lucas rolls his eyes. “I’m checking your emails, too. And don’t even try to make a run for it. Me and all these cops’ll take you down in two seconds flat.”

  Andrew looks at me for backup, for vindication, but I have none to give. I want Lucas to look through his phone, but I also want him to do it without me. The only thing that matters right now is what’s happening on the other side of these woods. I move farther down the clearing, away from their escalating argument.

  By now the other cops have gotten wind of the situation. The stragglers who didn’t follow Mac into the woods are gathered in clumps, talking in low voices and casting grim glances at their watches. Sometime in the last couple of minutes, an ambulance has emerged in the clearing, swung itself around and pointed its nose down the drive, positioning itself for a speedy exit. Two medics stand by the open back doors, awaiting a patient. Mona is the only one here who seems to be enjoying herself. She’s parked her ass on a lawn chair she dragged over from Lord knows where and lit up a cigarette, watching the spectacle in her yard like her own personal episode of Cops.

  I slide my cell from my back pocket, look at the time. Nine minutes and counting. Surely it can’t be much longer.

  A dog barks in the not-so-far distance, the deep, animated chuffs of a very large, very angry animal. Mona’s words play on repeat through my mind—watch out for that dog, he’s a mean son of a bitch—and my heart twists into a painful knot.

  And then, from deeper in the woods come shouts. A call for help. A series of sharp orders. First one voice, then another and another, building into a chorus, the notes tripping over themselves with urgency. I lunge in their direction, and Lucas pulls me back by the wrist.

  “Wait,” he tells me, his voice firm in my ear. His grip is like a vise on my arm. “Wait until it’s safe.”

  I hold my breath and wait.

  The shouts move closer.

  My gaze sweeps the murky woods for movement, for the jumble of messy curls or the familiar curve of a cheek. It comes in the shape of a man. Mac, emerging from the brush with a child-sized lump in his arms. His gaze finds mine like a heat-seeking missile, and my heart lurches into my throat and stops. He’s not smiling. The lump is not moving.

  The pair of medics tears past me and toward him, big bags of equipment bouncing in each hand, and before I know it I’m tearing after them. I’m not a runner, have never been the kind of person who can dart around a track without my lungs exploding or a stitch stabbing me like a knife in the ribs, but now I am flying through the woods, churning up dirt and leaves with the thin soles of my sneakers. My breathing mixes with deeper sounds coming from right behind me, big male bodies in my wake.

  “Ethan!” I scream. “Is he okay? Is he breathing?”

  By now the medics have reached Mac, and I can’t see anything but their backs. They cluster around Ethan, a wall of skin and bones between me and my son. I hear their words—You’re going to be okay, buddy. We’ve got you—and I cling to them like a lifeline. Please, God. Please let my son be okay. I’ll do anything.

  And then I hear it. A small voice, soft and scratchy and as familiar as my own heartbeat, the most beautiful sound in the world.

  “You found me.”

  STEF

  Sam stands very still, his hands loose by his hips, his legs fluid and ready to leap. He keeps his gaze trained on Josh’s bloody face, not the butcher knife in his hand, its silver blade glinting in the recessed ceiling lights.

  Josh points it at Sam’s chest and repeats his horrible demand. “Call Sammy down.”

  Panic buzzes like hornets in my chest, but I don’t move. I barely breathe.

  “First tell me what’s with all that Bell Building nonsense,” Sam says. “I thought you hated that building.”

  After almost getting stabbed in the ribs, he’s taking things a lot more seriously. He’s no longer antagonizing his cousin, no longer trying to rile him up with insults and threats. Distracting Josh with the Bell Building question is part of Sam’s defense, as is the way he steps in front of me, a human wall between me and the tip of the blade. Unfortunately, he’s also blocking the fastest way to the stairs, where Sammy is—please, God—still in his room.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and pray my mother’s gifts are not a scam. Mom, if you can hear me, lock the door and shove some furniture in front of it. Don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Josh says. “I love that building, because it’s getting everybody to take a closer look at the Marietta deal. The police, the media, your beloved half-wit voters.” He lets out a hateful laugh. “I promise you, when the Cult of Sam finds out what you’ve done, they’re going to finally turn their backs on you.”

  “Because you didn’t give back Marty’s money.” Sam gives a slow, impressed nod. “You made it look like the campaign was using it, like it was dirty. You made me look guilty of taking a bribe.”

  Josh grins, and he looks almost proud.

  “You were thorough, I’ll give you that. The accountant almost missed it,” Sam concedes with a good-natured shrug. “But you know me, know how I feel about this job. You had to know I would deny the accusations. You know I’m not just going to sit back and let people smear my good name.”

  “Come on, Sam. You’re smarter than that.”

  Sam thinks for a moment, while I stand, paralyzed, waiting for something to happen. For Sam to wrestle Josh to the floor, for Josh to slide his knife into Sam’s belly. My gaze is superglued to the blade, only inches away from his skin.

  When Sam speaks again, his voice sounds almost reverential. “Because by then, you’d have Sammy. That’s why you tried to take him. You were planning to use my son as leverage. If you had Sammy, you knew I’d do anything you told me to.”

  Josh’s bloody mouth parts in a hideous smile. “Bingo.”

  “What I can’t figure out is how you took the wrong kid. You know Sammy too well to confuse him with somebody else. Or was taking Ethan part of the plan?”

  Josh’s smile disappears, and he waves the blade in Sam’s face. “Hell, no, Ethan wasn’t the plan. What kind of moron takes the wrong fucking kid? Charlie knows Sammy. How could she not see it wasn’t him? I mean, sure it was dark and all, but still. And now she’s too chickenshit to kill him, which means that yet again, I’m gonna have to go down there and clean up her mess. As usual.”

  Charlie, Josh’s deadbeat sister, the one languishing in a trailer in South Georgia. So she’s guilty, too.

  My gaze flicks, just for an instant, to the camera in the corner by the curtains, then to another on the far wall, nestled between a pair of antique candlesticks on the bookshelves. Essentially, Josh just made a confession for both of them, in high-definition and Dolby sound. I press my lips together and say nothing.

  Josh sniffs, a wet, mucousy sound. “Do you remember when we were kids and your daddy taught us how to skin a hog?”

  Talk about a question coming out of nowhere.

  Sam shakes his head, but not because he doesn’t remember. “We were in high school, and it was a squirrel.”

  “That’s not the point. The point is, your father loaded us up in his Cadillac, drove us down to his hunting estate, and then as soon as we walk through the door, gets called back to work. Some break in the Dilane case, that crazy baseball player who had his pregnant wife gunned down on Ponce. Do you remember that?”

  “Why are you bringing this up?”

  The sirens are closer now, insistent. I’m guessing somewhere in the neighborhood, but I can’t gauge from which direction. The streets are a tangled mess of hilly curves, not easy to navigate at top speeds. Even if they’re close, it could take them five or six minutes to get here, plus another for Gary or
Diego to open up the gate.

  Josh acts like he doesn’t even hear them. “If you’d shut up long enough for me to get there, I’m about to tell you. Anyway, your daddy sent his assistant, some sucker barely out of college, down to babysit us. Do you remember what we did to that poor kid? Pushed him in the creek, parked him on a mound of fire ants, tied him to a tree and pelted him with rotten tomatoes. I thought your daddy was going to kill us when he came back, but he didn’t, did he? He just made that poor boy stand there, covered in welts and stink, while he showed us how to skin that beast on the lawn. I think he thought it was funny.”

  “So? I already told you my father was an asshole.”

  Josh’s brows jerk into a frown. “He’s more than an asshole, Sam, and without being too obvious here, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You’ve always treated me like you treated that poor boy you pummeled with rancid vegetables—like we’re put on this earth to serve your every whim. That’s the whole problem, you know. You Huntingtons have always been so goddamn entitled.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it. Yes, I once tortured that ‘boy,’ but I was young and stupid and I’ve since apologized profusely, and seeing as that ‘boy’ now runs the Office of Intergovernmental Affairs for the city, I’m thinking he accepted my apology. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of this, but I gave you a job, too. One with power and prestige and my absolute, unguarded trust, all of which you proved you didn’t come close to deserving. Seems to me the only crime I’m guilty of here is bad judgment.”

  “I never thought you’d actually win.”

  “Welcome to the club. Nobody thought I’d win, including myself, and yet here we are.”

  “You don’t deserve this life!” Josh roars.

  And there it is. The real reason for the FBI, the kidnapping, the knifepoint aimed at Sam’s heart. Because Josh’s jealousy has festered into a living, breathing thing. I stare at Josh now and I see it. The fury. The hatred. All for something that happened ages ago.

  His face screws up in disgust. “I thought for sure when you ran that first time, people would see through you like I do. I thought they’d see past your money and your name and that shiny, save-the-planet bullshit, but you fooled everybody, didn’t you? That damn Huntington glow.”

  “So your revenge is to sabotage my career? To kidnap my son?” Sam’s voice is incredulous, sharp with hurt. “Sammy is your family. Your blood.”

  “He’s not my family. He’s yours. Your priceless, precious heir. The end of the Huntington line. Without Sammy, there’ll be no number six. That godawful name will die out.”

  Josh’s words flash-freeze my skin. He meant to kill Sammy. He wanted him dead.

  And then I think of other words he said to me just days ago, his promise to take Sammy white-water rafting so Sam and I could have a couple of days to ourselves, and the room spins. If I hadn’t picked up that phone, I never would have known Josh was plotting his revenge, that he was waiting for his chance. I would have handed him my child and thanked him for giving Sam and me a break.

  “Stef?” Josh says, plucking me from my thoughts in a voice sweet as pie. “I’m gonna need you to call Sammy down.”

  I shake my head, a rapid back and forth. I’m already judging the distance to the stairs. The clearest path—the only one without Josh blocking it—is through the living room, but Josh is closer. Even with the bourbon slowing him down, he’d easily get there first. Sam would have to tackle him from behind—a dangerous undertaking with the knife clutched in Josh’s hand.

  He waves it at Sam’s face, but his words are directed at me. “Call him down.”

  “No.” I grab on to Sam’s shirt with both hands, balling it in my fists at his back. My legs are weak with fear, but I am desperate enough to outrun Josh. Desperate enough to snatch that knife out of his hands and use it to kill him myself if I have to. “Sammy has nothing to do with this. He’s an innocent bystander. He’s a child.”

  The sirens are so loud now they’re almost deafening. It sounds like they’re spinning in circles around the house. Where the hell are the police? Where are Gary and Diego? Why isn’t somebody busting down the door?

  Sam has to shout to be heard. “Josh. My brother. Let me help you. I promise you—no, I swear to you, if you put down the knife, I will personally see to it you and Charlie are protected. I will pay for your lawyers and see that you’re both taken care of. I won’t let them hurt you.”

  I can’t believe he’s making this promise, and I can. Sam is loyal to the point of stubborn, the kind of man you want in your corner, the brilliant politician able to say just what a person wants to hear, and in exactly the tone they want to hear it. Is he speaking out of loyalty, or is this a politician’s promise, the kind that’s made with two fingers crossed behind your back? I can’t tell.

  And just like that, the sirens stop. I listen for footsteps, the chink of a key in the lock, breaking glass. Anything. All I hear is silence.

  “It’s over.” Sam’s voice is lower now, and undeniably sad. “You have to know this is over. Put down the knife before the police see it in your hand.”

  “This isn’t the way it was supposed to go,” Josh says, and in a tone that’s meant more for himself than anyone else. His gaze bounces around the room, and I know what he’s doing—hedging his bets, thinking through his options, even though anyone can see he has none. The net is closing in all around him. “This isn’t the way we planned it.”

  “If the cops see you with that knife, they’ll shoot to kill.” Sam steps closer, and I cover my mouth with both hands to keep from screaming. “Put it down, Josh. Let me help you.”

  There’s commotion in the foyer, multiple footsteps and the soft swish of fabric moving our way, and Josh’s resolve wavers. His hand shakes so hard, I’m surprised he’s still holding on to the knife.

  And then all of a sudden, he isn’t.

  I blink, and the knife is in Sam’s hand. Josh’s hang empty at his sides.

  Police swarm from all sides—the foyer, the living room, from behind me and Sam. They aim their guns at Josh’s head, shouting at me and Sam to step back, get down, move out of the way. The whole time, Josh just stands there, smiling that same close-lipped smile I’ve seen him aim at Sam all these years. I always thought it was a sign of approval, of satisfaction at a job well done, but I see it now for what it is. Bitter. Hateful. Ugly.

  “Tell them, Sam,” Josh says. “Tell them what you just told me.”

  Sam turns to the nearest cop, dropping the knife in the sink with a clatter. “If he tries anything, put a bullet in him.”

  KAT

  “Lucas found me,” Ethan says, trying to push to a sit in the ambulance. “He found the messages I sent him on the Xbox and he found me.”

  The medics nudge him back onto the gurney with murmured warnings of wires and machines, but their reprimands can’t stop Ethan from wriggling with excitement, or me from pressing myself flush with his side. There’s not enough room in here for all of us, but after three torturous days without him, without knowing where he was or if he was breathing, no way were they going to separate me from my child.

  “Lucas didn’t see the messages, sweetheart. He’s been with me the whole time.”

  I can’t tear my eyes off him, off his messy, confused curls, his lopsided glasses, his cheeks rosy with life. With life. I can’t stop running my hands up and down his body, feeling for warmth, for holes, even though the medics have assured me there are none. A slight case of dehydration seems to be the worst of it, nothing a couple bags of saline won’t cure.

  “Then who was it?” Ethan’s eyes are bright but dry, his voice high and fast like when I let him eat too much sugar.

  “The police. Mac. Mac’s the one who carried you out of there. He’s been looking for you nonstop. He’s driving right behind us with Lucas and your dad. We’ll see them at the hospi
tal.”

  “Oh.” Ethan sounds almost disappointed somehow.

  I thrust my nose into his curls and breathe him in, dirt and sweat and the faintest scent of pine. “Thank God you’re okay. You are okay, right? Did she hurt you in any way?” I lean back, cupping his head with both hands, tipping his head up to mine. “Please tell me you’re okay.”

  “Yes. Not really. I’m okay.”

  Despite everything, his answer is so classic Ethan that I laugh, and so do the medics.

  “She kept calling me Sammy. Charlie didn’t mean to take me. She meant to take Sammy.”

  “I know. Mrs. Huntington got a phone call saying somebody had kidnapped Sammy.”

  He thinks for a bit, frowning as the puzzle pieces slide around in his brain. “I still don’t understand. If Lucas didn’t see my messages, how did you know to look for me at Charlie’s?”

  “Mac found the messages you sent to Lucas on the Xbox, but only because Sammy reported seeing you on a video game. The police traced the signal, but it led us to the wrong house. To Charlie’s neighbor’s house, a woman named Mona. But Mac had also put a trace on the license plate you told Lucas about, and that’s what led us to Charlie.”

  “So basically, Sammy is the reason Mac found me?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Ethan frowns. “I really would have preferred Lucas.”

  I’m not surprised. All those times Ethan has come home from school crying, about how Sammy put slime in his backpack or shoved him on the stairs, aren’t so easily forgotten. Sammy is both Ethan’s tyrant and his savior. The reason he was carted through the woods, and the one who pointed the police the right way. None of it would have happened without Sammy.

  “You don’t have to be friends with a person to appreciate their actions, or for that matter to thank them for doing something really awesome.” I brush a cowlick down with a palm, and a dark curl slides through my fingers then settles right back where it was, spiraling around to point straight at the sky. “Because no matter what else Sammy has done in the past, he’s still a hero in my book.”