Boy, 9, Missing

by Nic Joseph

  She didn’t laugh, but she nodded. “Sure, sounds cool.”

  I waited for her to say something else, but finally she just shrugged and spread her arms slightly. “All right, great. Well, let me know if you get hungry, and I’ll order something else,” I said before walking away.

  “Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” she called out.

  And so went our first five minutes of bonding.

  I went back into the kitchen, grabbed a slice of pizza, and slumped against the counter to eat it, my eyes glued to the patch in my patio door.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday, 10:45 a.m.

  The next morning, I woke up and called Vincent Jeffries, the cop I’d seen at the station the day before. After a few minutes of chitchat and an apology for brushing him off, I got him to look up Sam Farr’s address for me.

  “What are you going to do?” he’d asked in a stage whisper. “We all know Alex didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “I’m just going to talk to him, that’s all,” I said. “Thanks, Vince.”

  Sam and Miranda Farr lived in a small home on the northeast side of Lansing. When I first pulled up to the house, I sat there for a moment, gazing out at the modest structure, which seemed, somehow, to blend into its surroundings. It was a ranch-style home with large windows, pale-green siding, and a rust-colored roof.

  As Miranda Farr opened her front door, I saw the flash of dread in her eyes, even as she squared her shoulders.

  “You’re going to press charges,” she said, her face stony, her hands down at her sides. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “No—” I started, but she cut in.

  “I know it was a bad idea, I knew it going into it, and I knew it when I left your apartment yesterday. But you have to understand that I didn’t have any other choice. I needed to know, for certain, if you knew where he was. I couldn’t handle any more runaround or empty promises about what’s going to be done to find him. I just needed to know.”

  If she was scared, she didn’t show it, and she stood there waiting for me to say something.

  “That’s not why I’m here,” I said.

  She stepped forward and crossed her arms in front of her chest, letting the screen door swing against her body. “No?”

  “No. I came here because I want to find my father as much as you do,” I said, and her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say anything. “And I think I’m the best chance you have of actually finding him.” She still didn’t respond. “Please. I want to help. That’s it.”

  She was still hesitant, but finally, she nodded before moving back to let me inside.

  I stepped into the dimly lit foyer where a row of bath towels had been placed on the floor in lieu of a floor runner, and a pile of snow- and salt-covered shoes were bunched against the wall by the door. “Should I…” I started, gesturing toward the pile.

  Miranda shook her head. “It’s okay.”

  We took a single step down into the living room. The ceiling felt low, and even though it was still several feet above my head, I instinctively hunched my shoulders. The room wasn’t gorgeous by any means—the brown carpet was worn, and the mismatched couch and love seat had obviously been bought secondhand. The walls were painted a nauseating sea-green color that had chipped in several places, revealing a much darker color underneath. The room smelled like a mixture of cigarette smoke and a cloyingly sweet air freshener.

  But all things considered…

  It was nice. It felt like a home; Sam and Miranda had managed to build something for themselves, however outdated and mismatched, and there was a normalness to the place I never would have expected.

  “What now?” Miranda asked, turning back as I stopped.

  I shook my head quickly. “Nothing,” I said. “Nice place.”

  She hesitated before nodding her thanks and kept walking, leading me through the room, into the dining area, and finally into the kitchen.

  “Can I get you something?” Miranda asked, and she pointed to one of the chairs.

  It wasn’t really an offer, just a formality, and I shook my head as I sat down. “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  She shrugged, grabbed a coffee mug, and filled it with steaming coffee before turning back to me. “So what do you want to know? Let me guess, you went to see your cop friends, and they told you to fuck off?”

  It was only then, in the bright light of the kitchen, that I saw the deep bags under her eyes and the pure exhaustion on her face. “Something like that. They told me a little bit about what happened, but they want me to stay out of it.”

  “Why just a little?” she asked. “I mean, I get the whole conflict-of-interest thing, but if they don’t think you had anything to do with Matthew’s kidnapping, then why not fill you in? At least see if you have anything to add. Or are they worried you’re going to print something in…what is it, the—”

  “Lansing News.”

  “Yeah. Why the radio silence?”

  I didn’t want to let on how much those were the same questions that had been plaguing me since she’d first shown up in my apartment. It seemed like more than she needed to know.

  She was crazy, but she didn’t seem stupid.

  And she was right. It didn’t make any sense that Delroy hadn’t asked me for the slightest bit of input. It could mean only two things: they had way more on my father than they were letting on, or they didn’t fully trust me.

  Or maybe both.

  “Where’s your husband?” I asked, changing the subject indelicately, and she frowned and let it hang there for a moment before answering.

  “He’s in the bedroom, resting.” She looked back toward the entryway and fidgeted with the handle of her coffee mug. “I’ll really need to go check on him in a few minutes, so what can I tell you, Mr. Scroll?”

  “Clarke.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Clarke now. Francis Clarke.”

  “Oh, right.”

  I cleared my throat. “You said my father was following you? When exactly did that start?”

  “I wish I could tell you,” she said, rolling the coffee mug in her hands. “I only know the day we first noticed it. Sam came home one day… It was a Saturday, so it must have been three Saturdays ago. He told me there was a car following him. Brown, old, loud, not discreet at all. He saw it at first in the FreshMart parking lot and then later on at the post office.”

  “Did he see the person in the car?”

  “Not at first. But when he saw it at the post office, he tried to get closer to see if it was the same car, and suddenly, the driver made a U-turn and drove away.”

  “When is the next time he saw the car?”

  “We never saw him in the car again. I think your father got scared that day when Sam tried to approach him, and he switched things up. But maybe three or…no, four days after that, because it was a Wednesday, Sam saw him again, following him.”

  “Where?”

  “When he was leaving work.”

  “On foot?”

  “Yes. Sam works only about a mile away. Sometimes he walks there.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “At the Citgo station on Foster.”

  “Foster and what?”

  “Lincoln.”

  “Was Sam alone both of those times?”

  “Yes, the first two times. Matthew was with me on the first day, and he was at school the second time.”

  “And how many times did you see him after that?”

  She paused to think about it. “Three,” she said. “Sam saw him another time, and then we both saw him two times after that. The last time, I confronted him.”

  “Where was that?”

  “At the grocery store again.”

  “What exactly did you say?”

  She shrugged. “I just w
alked up to him and told him if he didn’t leave my family alone, I would single-handedly separate his head from the rest of his body.” She stared at me with angry, watery eyes, and I didn’t doubt she’d used those exact words, and meant them too. “And that’s when he told me it wasn’t fair. I asked him what he was talking about, and he just left.”

  “So what happened on Wednesday? When Matthew went missing.”

  She took a deep breath, the mug still spinning between her palms. “Matthew and Sam go to the park every Wednesday after school,” she said. She smiled a little as her eyes became unfocused, and she stared past me out the back window. “Rain, sleet, or snow. They’ve been doing that for a few years now, and they both absolutely love it.”

  “Which park?”

  “Warren, on Torrence.”

  “What time?”

  “They go right from school, so it was about three fifteen.”

  “And what happened?”

  She shrugged, her gaze on the floor. “One minute, Matt was there, and the next minute, he wasn’t.”

  “He just vanished? Sam didn’t see my father? Or anyone else?”

  “No,” she said. “But Matthew would never run away, if that’s what you’re thinking. Someone took him, we know it.”

  I paused as I watched her, and even though I knew the answer to the next question, I had to ask it. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me about this,” I said, “but it would be much better for me to get the details of that day from your husband. Do you think I could go in and talk to him?”

  Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “Not now. I’m sorry, but he really needs to rest.”

  “Why?”

  She didn’t say anything, and I leaned forward.

  “What do you mean, why?” she asked. “He needs to rest because he’s tired. Obviously.”

  “From what?”

  She took another sip of her coffee, her hands shaking.

  “I’m sorry, but…” I swallowed. “Is your husband ill?”

  She frowned. “No, he’s not,” she said as if I’d insulted him. “But his son is missing, and he’s having a very difficult time. I’m really tired of people bothering him.”

  I was going to press her a bit further about these “people,” when a loud noise from the hallway stopped me. We both looked up sharply, and her expression changed.

  A door had opened and closed, and loud footsteps moved quickly in our direction.

  It sounded like…high heels?

  The person who turned the corner was not Sam Farr. It was a woman, tall and slender, with thick curls of hair that fell past her shoulders. She carried a notebook in her hand, and there were two pens placed delicately behind both ears, holding her hair back from her face. It took me a moment to recognize her and the oversize animal-print glasses. She stopped short when she saw us in the kitchen.

  “I’m done for now, but I’ll be back later,” the woman said to Miranda, but her eyes were on me. She frowned slowly as she put the notebook in her purse, not breaking her gaze. “You’re Francis Scroll.”

  “You’re the reporter,” I said quickly. “From Channel 3. How did you know—”

  “I know exactly who you are.” She reached out her hand, and I hesitated before shaking it. “I’m Kira Jones.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Jones.” I gestured to the pens behind her ears. “Two of them? Just in case…”

  “One runs out of ink, yes,” she said levelly, without flinching.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Kira is doing some research about Sam and his family,” Miranda said, and there was a defensiveness there she couldn’t quite hide. “She was just leaving.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence, and as I opened my mouth to ask another question, Kira spoke up.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’ll be speaking with you soon.” She said this deliberately before turning to walk out of the room. “I’ll see myself out.”

  I turned back to Miranda, who still stood with her back to the counter.

  We didn’t say anything as the reporter opened the front door and left. When she was gone, I raised both eyebrows at Miranda.

  “Research?”

  “Yes,” she said, squaring her shoulders and staring me in the eye. “Sam and I have hired her to ghostwrite a book. To tell Sam’s story, once and for all. I’m sure you have your own opinion about that, but it’s our decision, and he needs it.” She shook her head and looked down at the floor. “We both need it.”

  I had a million questions for her, but she cut me off before I could begin.

  “Listen, Mr. Scroll, I’m glad you came. I really am. I believe you don’t know anything about where my son is and you’re here to help. But I need to know what you’re going to do differently to find Matthew. What are you going to do that the cops aren’t? You must know somewhere your father may have gone.”

  Immediately, my mind went to the address book I’d found in my father’s apartment and the cabin in Swatchport. The pain on her face was so intense that I wanted to tell her about it—to let her know I was trying as hard as I said I was. But I needed to check it out first.

  “No, I don’t know anything else,” I said, and I winced as the lie tumbled awkwardly from my lips. “But I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

  “Promise?”

  I cleared my throat as I stood. “Yeah, sure. I promise.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sunday, 11:30 a.m.

  I stepped out onto the Farr’s front porch and tried to wrap my mind around everything Miranda had just told me.

  I liked her, I had to admit.

  She was a handful, sure, but then who wouldn’t be losing it if their child was missing, they thought they knew who did it, and nobody had been able to do anything about it yet?

  Still, the whole thing with Sam Farr and the reporter could be described only as odd.

  Why wouldn’t Miranda let me see him?

  As I headed toward my car, I was surprised to see the woman who’d just breezed by us waiting for me. She was perched on the driver’s seat of her bright-blue Toyota RAV4, her feet barely touching the ground. She toyed with a cell phone as I walked across the porch and down the stairs. As I reached the bottom step, she looked up and dropped out of the car, closing the door behind her gently.

  I nodded to her.

  She stepped forward, nodded back. “I figured I would just wait for you instead of trying to follow up later. I didn’t know you were involved in all of this,” she said, gesturing to the Farr’s house. “I’d love to get your take on things, if that’s okay.”

  “My take on things? You mean, for your book? Yeah…I’m not really interested in that since—”

  “No, of course not. The book is about Sam Farr and his family. It’s their story.” She’d managed to reject me for something I’d just told her I wasn’t interested in. She stepped a bit closer. “No, I’m interested in your thoughts about the accusations against your father.”

  She said it so plainly, and I stumbled for a response. “My thoughts?” I repeated. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I would think that’s pretty obvious. My thoughts are that we need to do any and everything we can to find Matthew, and that should be our only focus. Everything else seems pretty unimportant right now, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Now, have you—”

  “Hey, is this on the record or something?” I asked. “For your show? Because I don’t want to be on that either. No offense, but being on one of your little ‘segments’ is probably the last thing I’d want to do right now.”

  She chuckled and shook her head. “You can’t just say ‘no offense’ before you say something offensive. It doesn’t really work. Let me guess, you feel pretty proud of yourself for working at a community newspaper, huh? Salt of th
e earth, journalism at its core, inverted pyramid and all. What’s your circulation like these days?”

  She’d waited to chat but was prepared to fight. I was surprised, not because of the insult, but with how much she seemed to know about me. “A lot smaller than your show’s viewership, I’m sure. Look, Miranda told me why you’re here. I assume you’ll be putting your book on hold, given what’s happened?”

  “Miranda and Sam would like me to work on both,” she said, her gaze cutting into me. “The fact that the Lansing Police Department is not adequately addressing their son’s case only highlights the injustice Sam Farr and his family have faced for twenty years.”

  “How did you get involved in all of this?”

  “They contacted me,” she said. “Miranda stumbled across one of my old articles online and asked if I was interested in ghostwriting a memoir. Too many years have gone by, and it’s time for the truth to be told about what happened that night. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Nobody knows what the truth is,” I said. “That’s the point. Maybe Sam Farr, but maybe not. He was just a kid. I’m trying to let it go, and I think most people have already.”

  “It’s easy for you to say that. You haven’t had to go through Sam Farr’s life. He can’t ‘let it go.’ It’s not that easy.”

  “Has he really been talking to you?”

  “Yes,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her. “Sam is very involved.”

  “What are you talking to him about?”

  “Everything. His childhood. That night. The aftermath. Miranda wanted me to be very thorough. I’m recording every single one of my sessions with Sam,” she said. “It allows me to get very nuanced in my storytelling.”

  “Why not take a break?” I asked. “With everything that’s happened?”

  “It’s terrible, of course,” she said. “And don’t take this the wrong way, even though I’m sure you will, but it makes my work all the more relevant, if you ask me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the Farrs orchestrated this. That they have Matthew tucked away somewhere. To make people actually listen when the book comes out.”