by Joey Ruff
Anderson flashed his badge. “Police. We got a call about a missing boy.”
The man looked past us to the twirling lights of the squad car on the street and then back to us. “Yes, of course. Please, come in.”
He stepped to the side. Anderson entered first and shook the man’s hand, asked, “Are you Mr. Wright?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Taylor Perkins. I live next door. Amber asked me to come over. Her husband’s at work. We’ve tried to get hold of him, but his phone keeps going to voicemail. I don’t even think he knows yet.”
Taylor Perkins, neighbor extraordinaire, was an athletically-built man in his mid-thirties. His black hair was cut and styled to mimic one of those television home designers and he wore a gray sweater and dark khaki pants. He was nervous or scared and shook visibly.
“And Mrs. Wright?” Anderson asked.
Perkins gestured into the living room behind him, presumably to the darkened doorway beyond. “Amber’s in the bedroom. She’s very upset.”
Anderson turned to Barnes. “Go check on her.” Barnes nodded and moved through the living room.
I stood just behind Anderson as he asked, “Were you here when Mrs. Wright discovered the boy was missing?”
Perkins shook his head. “No. I was on my way home from work. I got home just a little before eight. I had a voicemail from Amber and came over as soon as I heard.” I glanced at the clock on the wall: 8:23.
“And what do you do, Mr. Perkins?”
“Graphic Design.”
“Where?”
“Uh…a firm…downtown.”
Anderson nodded. “Do you know everything that happened here tonight?”
Perkins wrinkled his forehead. “I guess.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright.”
“Umm…you already have.”
Anderson fought to suppress a smile. “A few more.”
Perkins nodded.
“Mind if we sit?”
“No.”
We walked into the living room. Anderson took a padded armchair. He pulled out a notepad, thumbed it open, leaned forward just a little. Perkins sat on the couch, crossed his feet at the ankles but still fidgeted.
I stood just inside the room, leaned up against the wall, arms folded across my chest. Perkins kept looking at me, tried not to be obvious about it, but I could tell he was curious about me. I wasn’t a cop, that much was obvious. I was just a guy in a BMX jacket and leather gloves, long hair and smashing good looks. I could see why he stared. He probably wanted to be just like me. Most did.
He pointed at me. “You, um…have a little…blood.”
I moved my hand to my lip and felt warm liquid on my fingers.
“So you got here around eight?” Anderson said, refocusing.
“Something like that.”
“And what time did the incident happen?”
“I guess around seven, seven-thirty.”
Anderson nodded, wrote something down. “In your own words, Mr. Perkins, what happened tonight?”
“Amber put James to bed, like she does every night.” He stopped, hesitated, and looked between me and Anderson. “She read him a book, and she went downstairs to get him a drink. When she came back up, he was gone and his window was open.”
“The bedroom’s on the second floor?” I asked.
Perkins looked a bit surprised that I could speak. “Yeah.”
“And the two of you searched the house?” Anderson said. “Little kids do like to hide.”
“Uh…of course. That’s the first thing she did. She was hollering and calling out for him, trying to get him to answer. I don’t think she even considered that he was gone until after I’d gotten here.”
“Right,” I said. “And she got his drink…where? In the kitchen?” I leaned forward from the wall, looking to the left and the right.
“Yes, the kitchen,” he said. “It’s back that way.” He pointed behind me, past the entrance hall.
“And the stairs?”
“You passed them when you walked in.”
“You wanna go check out the kid’s bedroom?” Anderson asked, turning in his chair to look at me. I nodded, but before I turned to go, an attractive brunette burst from the bedroom door in tears, stumbled across the living room carpet, dropped to her knees, and nearly threw herself at Anderson’s feet.
Mrs. Wright, I presumed.
She sobbed hysterically. Her head bowed to hide the make-up smears on her cheeks. Her mouth twisted to try to form words, but between the gasps for breath and the hiccupping wails, nothing recognizable tumbled out.
Anderson slid forward, dropped to his knees before her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Mrs. Wright,” he said, allowing more of his southern drawl to ooze into his words like molasses. “It’s gonna be alright. We’re gonna find your boy.”
“James,” she gasped and lunged for Anderson, wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight.
“Barnes,” the detective said over her shoulder. Barnes was coming out of the bedroom looking sheepish. “Get Mrs. Wright a glass of water.”
Barnes nodded and moved past us. It was so awkwardly quiet in the living room – but for Amber Wright’s sobbing – that we heard everything Barnes was doing: cabinet doors opening and closing, the clinking of glass, the plunking of ice, and the rushing sound of water from the kitchen sink. A moment later, Barnes was back in the living room, handing the glass to Anderson who tried to get Amber to sit up.
I just watched, kept myself detached. I moved over to the sofa and sat next to Perkins who looked wide-eyed and a bit dazed. He glanced at me. I didn’t do gushing displays of emotion like this. I was an old-fashioned kind of dick: Just the facts, ma’am. Like in those old detective movies. I didn’t comfort weeping mothers. I waited for them to calm down and then asked uncomfortable questions. Still, I had to give it to Anderson. He had a soft touch, and she responded well to him.
Amber sat up on her own, gasped and sputtered, her crying engine running out of fuel, and sipped slowly from the glass. Anderson kept a hand on the bottom, just in case she broke down again. His other hand was on her back, between her shoulder blades. “I have children myself, Ma’am,” he said. “I have two little girls. I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now, and I swear on my badge and on my Bible, ma’am, that I’m going to do everything I can for you and your boy. I just need you to calm down a little and answer some questions for me.”
She stopped drinking and Anderson took the glass, handed it to Barnes. “I’ll try,” she said. She sounded so tired.
“I know it’s hard. Just do the best you can, and we’ll try to go slow.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Was James – it’s James, right?” She nodded. “Was James acting strangely this evening?”
She glanced up at him with a look that was part confusion, part concern and maybe a small part concentration. “I’m…” Sob. “…sorry?”
“Sometimes,” he explained. “Before child abductions, some of the children have noticed someone watching them. At school, maybe. Or at the bus stop, the playground. It can make them feel ill at ease, ma’am, and many young’uns don’t right know how to express that, so they act a little…off. Did you notice James behaving strangely this evening?”
Slowly, she shook her head. She looked away. “It was just like every other night. I read a book, he argued for more time, said he needed a bath, wanted extra books, maybe some time to color. He asked if he could stay up until Daddy got home…”
She was gone again. The dam burst and she cried and spoke in half-words. “My…uzbin…” Then she snorted, and I stifled a laugh, but Anderson had more practice and patience, didn’t even crack a smile.
“Where does he work?” Anderson asked. She said something unintelligible. Anderson looked up at Perkins. “Where does Mr. Wright work?”
“Uh… Security company. He’s the night guard for a business complex downto
wn.”
“Do you know the name?” But Perkins didn’t seem to have the words, just “umms” and “ohs.” “A number, maybe?” Perkins nodded at that. “Go with Detective Barnes and try to get him on the phone. If you can’t do that, get the boys outside to send a car down there.”
He turned back to Amber as the two men ambled toward the kitchen. “It’s okay. We’ll make sure we get in touch with him.”
She nodded and slowly found the will to stop crying again. She took a deep breath. “Mrs. Wright,” Anderson said. “Are you okay to answer a few more questions?”
She nodded, sniffled and wiped her eyes on the soiled tissue she clutched.
I slid forward on the edge of the sofa and said, “Amber.” She looked over at me, a bit surprised, probably more by my rough appearance than anything else. “Did James have an imaginary friend?”
The look she gave me was almost evil. “Are you making fun of me?”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed a little bit. “No. I’m actually quite serious.”
“Sadly, he is,” said another voice, and all three of us turned to see Special Agent Natasha Stone and her partner, What’shisname, standing in the entranceway, coffees in their hands and smug grins on their faces. “Mr. Swyftt,” she said cattily. “What are you doing at my crime scene and why are you not in jail?”
Fuck.
24
I wasn’t sure what I expected to happen next, but Anderson stood and squared his shoulders, facing Stone head-on. “He’s with me,” he said. “I needed a specialist in this case. He’s on the payroll tonight.”
“A…specialist?” Amber said.
Anderson turned back to her and said, “He’s a child psychologist, ma’am. He’s qualified to give us a unique perspective on what may have happened tonight.”
“Psychologist?” Stone asked with a laugh. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought he was on the payroll as a psychic, Detective. Which is it?”
Amber seemed curious and concerned by this, as well. I stood from the sofa and looked at Stone. “I’m not psychic,” I told her. Then to Amber, “I’m sure as fuck not a psychologist, either. I may be mental. Maybe.”
Amber looked from Anderson to me to Stone and back to me. “I’m a Private Investigator,” I said, answering her unspoken questions. “I’ve worked with the police before and am currently investigating a similar child abduction case. Detective Anderson is correct, Amber. I am qualified to offer a unique perspective.”
She looked at me for a moment, studied my eyes, and then nodded. “Okay.”
“Thank you,” Anderson said.
“This is outrageous,” Stone said.
“Let him do his thing,” What’shisname added. Stone spun on him. He shrugged, but she continued to scowl.
I moved closer to Amber. “Did James have an imaginary friend?” I asked again.
“No,” she said. “I mean, he used to. When he was four or five, but it’s been years. Does that matter?”
I shook my head. “This is different.” I looked around the living room. “Do you mind if I take a look around?”
It looked like she tried to protest, but then just shrugged. “That’s fine, as long as it will help James.”
“Cheers,” I said and walked into the foyer toward the stairs. I stopped near Stone. “I was right about the little girl, wasn’t I? That’s why you’re so mad at me.”
“The girl never had an imaginary friend, Swyftt,” she said.
“Did you ask her who was at the window then?”
“It was a friend, all right,” What’shisname chimed in.
“He have a name?”
“Yeah, but I don’t recall. The parents said they thought he was a neighbor kid.”
“Teach the parents to pay more attention to the people their daughter hangs around with, eh?”
I turned to Stone. “How did I know that he was her friend? I don’t suppose you asked the little girl if she was given anything?”
“No,” she said, quietly. She brushed a lock of hair back off of her ear, and I saw the glint of light on the rim of her wristwatch. I smiled.
As I slipped the glove from my right hand, I asked, “Were you wearing that watch when you spoke to her?”
“Yes. Why?”
I grabbed her wrist in my naked hand and felt the electric current roll over me like a breeze. The Wright house disappeared, and I was somewhere else, somewhere dark and soft, somewhere that smelled strongly of cinnamon vanilla and…lilacs, maybe.
I was seeing through the eyes of the watch, and after a moment’s consideration, I realized that if her arm wasn’t bent, the watch was hidden inside the sleeve. But what I was looking for, I didn’t need to see to find.
I heard Stone’s voice, soft and sweet, in a tone she hadn’t directed at me for a long time. “Hi, honey,” she said. “You’re a very pretty girl.”
A small, froggy, feminine voice croaked, “Thank you.”
“My name’s Natasha. What’s your name?”
“Lucy.”
“Hi, Lucy.”
“Hi.”
“You have a lovely room. And these are nice pictures here on the wall. Did you draw them?”
“Uh huh.”
“They’re very pretty. I like the flowers and the bunnies.”
“Those are squirrels,” Lucy giggled.
“Oh. Well, they’re lovely squirrels.” She paused a minute, and then her tone changed just a little as she said, “This one’s very interesting Lucy. Did you draw this one, too?”
“No. My friend drew that one for me.”
“I think it’s really special.” Stone must have reached for it, because I caught a glimpse of smudged lines of crayon in bright and brilliant primary colors, and although I hadn’t seen the picture before, I knew where it had come from.
I didn’t hear anymore as Lucy’s room was torn from me, and I was back in the Wright’s foyer.
Stone’s hand was on mine and wrenched my grip from her watch, tearing me from the vision. I didn’t need anymore. I’d seen enough.
“You’re a liar,” I said, looked her in the eyes. I took my hand from her and reached for her pants’ pocket, but she backed away. “I need to see the picture Lucy gave you.”
She looked floored. “How did…”
“I need that picture,” I said again.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I looked at What’shisname, but he turned his face from me. Looking back at her, she met my gaze fearlessly. “Now who’s hindering an investigation?” I said and brushed past her.
I mounted the stairs, as What’shisname whispered, “How’d he know?”
I paid it no mind. They knew I was right, and that was worth more than anything else. One of Adam Gables’ dragon pictures had been hanging in Lucy’s room. I knew that; they knew that. The difference was, I knew how it got there.
I reached the upstairs hallway to find three doors: a bathroom, an office, and a bedroom that clearly belonged to a little boy. It wasn’t hard to tell which room was which. Every door was open, every light was on, and every closet had its contents vomited onto the floor. Mattresses had been tossed to the side, blankets scrambled into heaps in the corners.
At the door to James’ bedroom, a kiddie cup with a lid was over-turned and spilled water into a dark spot on the carpet. I took it in my ungloved hand and held it for a minute, focused my attention on the plastic cup before the thrum overtook me.
It was cold and ice cubes clanked together and sloshed with the rhythmic footfalls of someone walking. I caught only glimpses of kitchen cabinets followed by a framed portrait and a bookcase. I heard Amber’s voice humming, calm, happy, not wracked with the despair I’d heard in it downstairs.
From what I could gather, she moved from the kitchen into a small dining room, paused a moment to click off the light. The dining room plunged into shadow, the only light coming from the living room beyond, and just behind I could see a glossy
smudge and a faint flash of dark movement. I heard the rain pattering against glass.
Rain? It hadn’t rained today. I was seeing the day before. Odd.
She walked upstairs and into James’ bedroom, and I felt a sea-sick motion as James eagerly grabbed the cup from his mother and applied his thick, wet lips against the lid and sucked heavily.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Amber asked.
“No,” he said. “Can’t I just have one more book?”
I couldn’t see Amber, but I could hear the smile in her voice. “No more books! It’s bed time.”
“But I’m not tired!”
“Then tell Mr. Quackers a story.”
There was a flash of yellow fur and fluff, and a little stuffed duck appeared next to James.
“Fine,” he said with a sigh and set the cup down on a little side table, clicked off the lamp.
“Goodnight, Monster,” she said.
“Goodnight.”
The door closed, the latch clicked, and the room was completely dark but for a glowing frog nightlight in the corner.
James grabbed Mr. Quackers tightly, held the duck around its neck, and snuggled up under the covers with it.
Minutes passed with nothing but James’ breathing, and then a quiet voice. I couldn’t tell where it came from, but I knew it well. “James,” it said.
“Kevin?” James sat up a little.
“Yes, James.” The voice called Kevin sounded more like a Dewey.
“Are we going to go now?” James asked.
“Not tonight. Tomorrow night.”
“Can Mr. Quackers come, too?”
“I’m afraid not, James. There isn’t room.”
There was an audible sigh, and James said, “Okay, Kevin. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, James.”
Then the only sound was that of the rain pattering against the glass window, drumming against the siding.
With that, the vision was over, and I stood in the hallway. Set the cup down and walked into James’ room, tossed the blankets to the side. I scanned the closet, tossed around some crumpled sweatshirts, rifled through a wooden toy box.
I spun and looked over the bed again. The mattress was halfway off the frame, stuck between the wall and the bed in a little two-foot alley, a space just big enough to fit the little side table with the lamp. With little effort, I moved the mattress and dug through a couple more blankets before I found what I was looking for: Mr. Quackers.
