Boy, 9, Missing

by Nic Joseph

  “Mr. Banks,” I said, clearing my throat. “This is Francis…Scroll. I’m calling because I was hoping to get some information from you about my brother’s case. Lucas Scroll. If you could give me a call back, I’d appreciate it.”

  I left my phone number and hung up.

  It was probably a waste of his time, and mine, but he and my father had been close once. He might have some ideas about where Alex could be.

  About twenty minutes later, the traffic on the highway began to thin, and I saw a small sign for Swatchport. I’d passed the town once or twice on my way out of the city, but I’d never had any reason to stop. I probably still didn’t.

  I exited and turned as the GPS led me down a gravel road consisting of two narrow lanes. A lone car moved toward me, and when it passed, I suddenly felt very alone, out in the middle of Nowhere, Illinois. Within minutes, the highway became a distant memory as the barren trees on either side of the road seemed to multiply around me. With the setting sun as my backdrop, I gripped the steering wheel and peered ahead, scanning the land for any signs of the cabin, or any life at all, really.

  I made another turn as directed, and the gravel crunched indelicately beneath my tires.

  “You have reached your destination on the left.”

  What?

  She said it so calmly, and I wondered if she was mocking me, since the only thing I could see “on the left” were clusters of massive, crumbling trees.

  I parked the car and got out. Even though it was cold, I felt warm under my jacket, and I unbuttoned the top button. I stepped away from the car and moved deeper into the woods. The dense brambles poked and prodded my face, and as I put up my hand to block a pointy branch as it headed for my eye, it occurred to me that I was wasting my time.

  Not only my time, but also my father’s. And Matthew’s.

  I was seconds from giving up when I stepped into a clearing and saw the first sign that my trip may not have been so futile after all. Past the open space, there stood a small, rustic cabin, buried in the dense woods.

  No shit…

  The small structure was haunting and beautiful at the same time, and on any other day, I may have appreciated the perfectly placed logs or the intricate roof. As I moved through the clearing, I scanned the front and sides of the building for a vehicle, but there was none. I reached the massive front door and took a deep breath before pounding on it with my fist.

  I dropped my hand and waited.

  Nothing.

  After a couple of seconds, I pounded again.

  Silence.

  I stepped away and walked along the side of the building. My gaze landed on a sliding glass door. Pressing my face against it, I peered inside; I could make out a large kitchen and the adjoining living area. I grabbed the patio door handle and pulled.

  No such luck.

  I took a few steps toward the back of the cabin and stopped when a small window caught my eye. It was ajar, just slightly, and I knew immediately it would be my way in. It was going to be an incredibly tight squeeze, but I had no other options. I used both hands to lift the window as far as it would go before leaning forward to look inside.

  The cabin was dank and musky and modestly decorated in shades of brown and black. The living area contained a dated, ripped black leather couch, a worn suede recliner, and a tall oak bookshelf that was filled with all sorts of things that weren’t books.

  I leaned back out into the fresh air. Though the window was at eye level on the outside of the cabin, it was located about seven feet up in the sunken living area. I could get in, but it wasn’t going to be pretty. Going in headfirst would end in disaster. I pushed myself up until I was kneeling awkwardly on the windowsill. Rocking from side to side, I swung each of my legs through the window and held on to the top pane with both hands.

  All that was left to do was to let go and let gravity do its work.

  I’d spotted a small table just to the left of the window, but other than that, I was in the clear. Taking a deep breath, I tucked my arms close to my body.

  And let go.

  I crashed down into the cabin, my leg striking the side of the table as I fell, and I cried out in pain. The noise was deafening, and I pushed myself up quickly, my heart racing.

  Silence.

  If there was anyone inside, this would be the time to come out, but there was nothing.

  No running, no footsteps, no sounds at all.

  The late-afternoon sunlight streamed into the cabin, illuminating the thick layer of dust that covered everything, and I struggled to breathe normally in the stale space. I walked farther into the cabin, toward the kitchen, and stopped in my tracks.

  In contrast with the rest of the cabin, the kitchen was beautiful—rustic and large, overflowing with maple cabinets and a gorgeous stacked oven. It looked out of place, as if the previous owners had put too much money into it, while ignoring the rest of the cabin.

  But it wasn’t just the beauty of the kitchen that made me pause.

  It was something else.

  I’d seen this room before.

  I stood in the entryway, probing the sense of déjà vu, trying to understand why the room was familiar. Why I knew it, and where I’d seen it before.

  The photo.

  I’d seen this kitchen before in a picture…

  It was one my father had brought home one day from one of his golf trips with his buddies from work.

  In Indianapolis.

  As I stared at the room, my mind went back to an argument my parents had had many, many years ago.

  “Another golf trip?” my mother had asked as she stirred something in a pot on the stove, the anger and frustration pouring out of her. “That’s already three this summer. Sometimes it feels like you’d rather be anywhere but here with us.”

  “Oh, come on,” my father had said. “You don’t have to make a big deal out of everything. It’s not like we were doing anything that weekend anyway.”

  He’d come back from the trip and flashed a few photos of himself and some of the other cops, smiling in their rented apartment, supposedly three hours away in Indianapolis. My mother had barely looked at them.

  This was where he’d been going?

  All that time, my father had been here?

  Just thirty miles away from home?

  And probably more important—who had he been coming with?

  I walked into the bedroom and tried to push the old memories out of my head. The room was small and dingy, and it contained only a queen-size bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe, and a large, light-blue floor rug. There was a single blanket on the bed, and it was pulled aside, exposing the stained mattress beneath.

  I walked over to the dust-covered nightstand and opened up the top drawer. It was filled, almost completely, with condoms. Or condoms and condom wrappers, to be fair. Old and crumpled in the drawer, remnants of stolen moments and secret meetings.

  I wondered how much my mother had known.

  Probably enough.

  I closed that drawer and tugged on the bottom one, pausing when it moved slightly but didn’t open. It wasn’t locked, but instead seemed to be caught on something. I shook the drawer to move the items inside around and tried again. The door scraped slowly open, and I frowned when I saw what was inside.

  Books.

  Large, hardcover books. I pulled the top one out and read the title.

  The Methodical Mind by D. B. James. I flipped through it and paused on a line in the introduction.

  “A collection of essays on ways to maximize brain power.”

  I pulled the drawer out even farther and saw more books by D. B. James, as well as a few by other authors I’d never heard of.

  What the hell?

  My father did a lot of things, but he rarely read for pleasure. If I’d found newspapers or old financial magazines, it
would have made sense. But psychology books?

  I put the book back and stood up. Walking around the room, I searched for any sign that my father had been here more recently than twenty years ago. I opened up the small walk-in closet and found a few old shirts hanging there, dingy and worn. One immediately caught my attention, and I sucked in a breath. It was an oversize, faded, black-and-white Chicago White Sox T-shirt. I grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it closer, my eyes resting on the nickel-size hole in the collar.

  “Why do you insist on wearing that shirt?” my mother had asked my father almost every Saturday morning when he pulled it on. “It’s disgusting. One day you’re going to look for it, and you know where it’s going to be? In the donation bin at church.”

  “Leave it alone,” my father had said, and even though she’d been joking, he’d obviously been annoyed.

  I let go of the shirt and sighed, stepping back. Besides the shirts and a few pairs of shoes on the floor, the closet was mostly empty.

  As I backed out of small space, a protrusion on the wall caught my eye.

  Pushing the shirts all the way to one side, I moved back into the closet and squeezed myself toward the far end. Against the wall, there was something else…

  A door?

  I put my hand against it and felt a draft coming from the crack in the doorframe.

  What the hell?

  I dragged my fingers against it until they hit a metal latch holding the door closed.

  Was it real?

  Or just an old fixture that had been built over at some point?

  I was reaching to open the latch when I first heard the sound.

  It was the briefest of tapping noises, and it came from out in the living room.

  I spun around quickly, bumping my head against the tight, sloped ceiling.

  Suppressing a curse, I bent my head and walked out of the closet, moving quietly into the bedroom. The noise had been soft—it was so light, it could have been nothing at all: a squirrel running across the deck, or the wind slapping the tree branches against the window.

  The next noise ruined that theory.

  As I stood with my neck craned toward the living room, I suddenly heard the loud sound of something breaking, followed by a deep thump as someone or something entered the cabin.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’d only ever had one thing broken into in my entire life. I was seventeen, and I’d left the windows down on my ’84 Buick Skyhawk outside of a gas station as I went inside for a bag of chips. So I guess it’s not fair to say my car was “broken into” that day. More that someone reached into the open window and grabbed my backpack off the front seat.

  The fact that someone was breaking in on me for the second time in two days was just too coincidental.

  I covered the distance between the closet and the bedroom door in seconds and stood behind it, waiting for another noise. I didn’t have to wait long. I heard the sound of footsteps crunching on the broken glass and then one of the kitchen chairs scraping against the floor as the intruder bumped into it.

  Alex?

  He probably still had a key and should have no reason to break in, even if he’d seen me come inside.

  No, this was someone who had no right being there—probably even less of a right than I did.

  I clenched my fists and struggled to breathe normally. Who would be bold enough to break into the cabin that loudly, without even a hint of discretion in case there was someone else inside?

  As if to answer me, I suddenly heard another loud thump, a groan, and then a woman’s voice: “Shit! Stupid plant.”

  I sighed and stepped out of the bedroom.

  “Miranda, what the hell are you doing here?”

  She stood in the middle of the living room, staring down at a dead plant on the floor that had just toppled over and covered her pants with dirt.

  She looked up at me and blinked. “Is he here?”

  “No. What are you doing here?” I asked again. “What’s with you and breaking and entering?”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, ignoring my question and walking farther into the kitchen. She spun around and walked back into the living room, then through the passageway toward the front door. I followed closely on her heels and watched as she opened up the large walk-in closet.

  “Miranda—” I started, but she moved quickly past me again and walked into the bathroom.

  “I told you, I’m the only one here,” I said, standing in the doorframe as she ripped back the shower curtain. “How did you get here?”

  “The same way you did,” she said, pointing toward the side of the building, out into the woods. “I followed you. I saw you come in. What is this place? Is this your father’s?”

  I opened my mouth and then closed it, not wanting to tell her anything I didn’t need to.

  “Yes,” I finally said. “He owns it, but it doesn’t look like he’s been here in a while.” I bit my tongue as I thought about what I’d just found in the bedroom closet.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “What—”

  “At the house. When I asked you if you knew anything else about where Matthew could be. You lied to me. You looked me in the eye and said you didn’t know anything.”

  “I didn’t know what I’d find here,” I said. “Really.”

  “But what would have been your first reaction if you did find something? To call me? I doubt it.”

  “Look,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it. I needed to come on my own. But you have to believe me—all I’m trying to do is find Matthew.”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why? You keep saying that, that you want to find him, that you’re here to help. Make me believe you. Why are you so concerned with finding my son?”

  “Well, I think it’s obvious—”

  “It’s not.”

  I cleared my throat. She stared at me with a pained expression, her back against the windowsill in the bathroom.

  “What’s my other choice?” I asked her. “To just forget about it and go to work? To write a story about a new wing at Harvey Memorial? To just walk away because it’s not my problem, not really?” I shook my head. “I can’t do that anymore.”

  Her jaw softened, but she didn’t say anything.

  She sat down on the edge of the tub and looked up at me. “You know, I told Sam we should move away from here, anywhere else. Somewhere warm. I said San Francisco, but I would have been happy with something south, even Florida, since Sam didn’t want to go west. Said it felt too far away from home, which really just meant too far away from his parents. Sam refuses to even consider the idea of going somewhere without them.”

  She rested her forehead in the palms of her hands and then pushed hard against her face with closed fists. “I can’t believe I let this happen.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said, stepping closer. “You’ve got to know that.”

  She looked up again. “Isn’t it, though? As a mother, your job is to protect your children. That’s it. Protect their bodies, their minds, their hearts, their teeth. It’s a terribly hard job, of course, but in a way, it’s pretty simple. Make them better, not worse. Keep them safe.” She shook her head. “If I don’t get him back, what’s the point of anything else?”

  I fumbled for a response, sure I should tell her we’d definitely find him but unable to form the words.

  She sat patiently, waiting for me to say something, and finally, she stood.

  “I’m going to ask you this again. Will you promise me you’ll call at the first sign of your father? Please?”

  “Yes—”

  “No, I mean, really promise. Last time, you lied. I’m losing my mind here. Can’t you see that? I’m losing it. Tell me you’ll help me. Please.”

  “
I will,” I said. She stood there, waiting for me to say something else, and I nodded hurriedly. “I promise. Really. I’ll let you know if I find anything that will lead to your son. You have my word on that. But you can’t keep following me, okay? You have to trust me.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded as we walked out of the bathroom and back into the living room. She went closer to the patio door that she’d busted and grabbed the handle. “I’m going to forgive you for not telling me about this,” she said, gesturing to the cabin, “but if we’re really working together, I need you to keep me in the loop.”

  Working together?

  “Okay,” I said.

  She stared at me for a moment, and I could tell she was still trying to convince herself that it was okay to leave. “All right.”

  She turned and walked through the patio door, stepping out onto the small deck before walking off toward the woods. I stayed rooted to my spot until she’d disappeared completely.

  When I couldn’t see her anymore, I looked down at the broken glass that littered the cabin floor.

  I’d just lied to her face—again.

  I waited a few moments and then turned to head back into the bedroom. I walked quickly toward the closet, imagining that when I opened the door again, what I’d seen earlier would be gone.

  That it was just a figment of my imagination, and that Miranda Farr wasn’t the only one losing it these days.

  But when I opened the closet door and pushed the few pieces of clothing aside, there was the small door again, still latched tightly.

  The bedroom was obviously some sort of add-on, and it had been built around the door.

  But where did it lead?

  After a final check over my shoulder to make sure Miranda hadn’t returned, I turned back to the door and lifted the latch. It opened easily. The door creaked, and I had to move back to open it fully, squeezing myself tightly into the small space. The closet door was still open, but my heart rate increased as the space inside shrank. I tried to ignore my building panic as I pulled the hidden door all the way open and stepped forward.

  The light from the bedroom only let me see about five feet or so in front of me. The door opened onto a narrow staircase that led down into a pitch-black room, which, judging by the musky smell, was some sort of basement.