Boy, 9, Missing

by Nic Joseph

I opened the car door and dropped inside. I rubbed the back of my jaw, which was starting to hurt—I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been clenching my teeth. The pain was so severe, it created flashes of bright, white light in front of my eyes. I stared out at the thick, wiry branches that covered the hood of my car, and suddenly, the anxiety began to swell again.

  Breathe, Francis.

  I’d put the key in the ignition and was about to start it when I heard a shrill noise. I reached in my pocket and pulled out my cell phone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey,” Cam said. “Where are you?”

  I looked out at the thick brush that surrounded me. I was nowhere.

  “I’m at home,” I lied.

  “Did you find Alex?”

  “No, he wasn’t home.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, and I almost heard the words before they spilled from her lips. “Do you think he did it?”

  Immediately, my mind flashed to the photos I’d taken, and the shadowed figure who had beaten me senseless. “I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t know what to think.”

  “Is Amy there with you?”

  I coughed and glanced around the empty car. “Yeah, she’s in her room.”

  “Look, I don’t want to sound like a broken record, but did you—”

  “Yes,” I said, leaning forward and resting my forehead against the steering wheel, my eyes closed. “I talked to her. I told her everything.”

  “That’s good, Francis,” Cam said softly, and the gentleness of her voice made the lie feel even worse. “I know that must have been tough, but it was the right thing to do.”

  I wished I could tell her about everything that had just happened, but it didn’t seem right. For the most part, Cam and I kept our relationship strictly professional—if you don’t count one slipup about a year ago during an overnight work trip.

  We’d gone to Milwaukee for a media symposium and had spent the evening having drinks with a group of writers and editors. After dinner, we’d all walked together to the lobby, where I’d frozen as someone had pushed the button for the elevator.

  “What floor are you guys on again?” an editor at the IndyStar had asked.

  “I’m on nine, and Cam is on ten,” I’d blurted out, feeling trapped as the heat rose in my face. I couldn’t suddenly excuse myself and make my way to the stairwell. Usually, I’d prepare for such a situation by darting off to the bar or coming up with some reason to stay behind until I was alone and able to take the stairs. But the wine and the company had thrown me off, and I had no choice but to get in the tiny box of terror with them. Cam had watched me carefully as the doors closed slowly behind us.

  “I really think we should all try to get together for breakfast tomorrow morning before heading back to our respective corners of the world,” the woman standing closest to the buttons had said without pressing anything, and I clenched my fists tightly as we stood there, staring at one another in the stationary elevator.

  “You want to hit nine and ten?” I had croaked out, and the abrupt request had made everyone turn. The woman had finally shrugged and nodded, pressing her floor as well.

  They all got off by the fifth floor. When we were alone, Cam had turned to me. “You okay?” she’d asked. “We can get off on the next floor and walk the rest of the way.”

  “No,” I’d said, though I’d felt beads of sweat dripping from my armpits. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine,” she’d said, stepping closer. “You look like you’re about to shit.”

  A strangled laugh had escaped me, and for just a second, I hadn’t felt so trapped as she’d given me the classic Cam smirk.

  By the time the elevator doors had opened on the ninth floor, we’d been all over each other, and I remember that she tasted like steak and Merlot, a ridiculously sexy combination. When I woke up the next morning, she was back in her room.

  We haven’t spoken about it since.

  Now, on the phone with her outside of my father’s cabin, I desperately wanted to share more with her, to let her know I needed her, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak.

  “Francis?”

  “Huh?” I said, jolting back to our conversation.

  “I said that Cynthia Green is covering the missing Farr kid case, but we’ve already had a conversation about what is and isn’t off-limits.”

  “Thanks, Cam,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Get some rest.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  We hung up, and I started the car, heading toward Miranda Farr’s house. As I sped along, I dialed my mother, but the answering machine picked up.

  “Mom, it’s me. Can you give me a call back as soon as you have a chance? It’s really important.” I hung up and thought about the message I’d just left. It didn’t give her much reason to call me back. Not after all this time. It had been almost eight years since our awkward dinner with her boyfriend and my classmate, Jimmy Calloway. I honestly didn’t know what I wanted to talk to her about, or what I would say if she did call back. I just needed someone to tell me that, as crazy as things had been—as they still were—there was no way Alex could have been the one in the basement.

  I was approaching the Farrs’ house when I heard my cell phone ring again. I slowed, not wanting to answer it while sitting in their driveway, so I swerved and stopped the car about half a block down.

  The number on the phone was not my mother’s; it was one I didn’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mr. Scroll, this is Patricia Smith-Bilks,” a woman’s voice said. “I’m a teacher at Matthew Farr’s school.”

  I frowned at the use of my real name. I pulled the phone away, looking at the number again.

  “Yes?” I said, putting the phone back to my ear. “How can I help you?”

  “I was wondering if you have a few minutes to talk. I got your number from the Lansing News.”

  I shifted into park and took my foot off the brake, trying to concentrate on what the woman was saying.

  “Okay,” I said. “What’s this about? Matthew’s disappearance?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you called the News to talk to me in particular? Why me?”

  “Because there are certain things you don’t tell a mother whose child is missing unless you’re absolutely, one hundred percent sure you’re right,” she said. “I called her, but I just couldn’t tell her—”

  “Tell her what—”

  “—and she mentioned that you were helping her, so I called your office, because I don’t want to talk to the police. I don’t need to be involved in all of that—”

  “Tell her what?” I asked again, and she stopped talking. She was completely silent for a few moments.

  “Look, I’d feel a lot more comfortable talking in person,” she said. “It’s about…well, a pretty delicate matter.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But is it something concerning his whereabouts? Because the sooner I know about it, the better.”

  “Well, yes or…no, I mean.” She stopped, and I could hear her take a long, deep breath. “I guess I don’t know. It’s just something I think you should know. Can you come by the school?”

  “You’re there today?”

  “Yes, we have rehearsals for the school play, so a bunch of us are here all weekend.”

  I wanted to push her harder, get her to tell me right then and there, but I knew that strategy could backfire.

  “I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes,” I said. “Will you still be there?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

  She gave me the intersection, and I hung up. I pulled away from the curb and drove up to the front of the Farrs’ house.

  As I did, I cursed. Kira Jones was standing on the front porch, a notebook in her hand
and a frown on her face. She was turning away to head to her car when she caught sight of me.

  “Where are they?” I asked as I stepped out. My entire body was shaking as memories from the last couple of hours hit me again, and I searched the front of the house for any signs of life.

  “I don’t know. Not home.” She frowned and walked forward, peering at my face. “What happened to you?”

  I reached up to my temple, where I felt a thick crust. When I drew my hand down, my fingers were covered in the drying blood that was, at the least, no longer dripping into my eye.

  “Nothing, I’m fine. What do you mean they’re not here?”

  “Are you sure you’re…?” She was examining the rest of my body, the wrinkled, damp clothing, the dirt on my hands.

  “I’m fine. I really need to speak with them.”

  “Are they expecting you?”

  “No,” I said, looking over her shoulder and walking past her toward the door.

  “What, you don’t believe me? I just told you they weren’t here,” she said with annoyance. “Sam told me I could come back for another meeting today.”

  “A meeting?”

  “Yes, we have some more interviews lined up, and I have a few more chapters to polish.”

  I walked up the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell, listening as the chimes rang inside the home. I peered through the front window, but couldn’t see much. I could make out some of the shapes of the furniture in the living room, but there didn’t seem to be any motion. If the Farrs were there, they weren’t answering.

  Kira followed me back onto the porch and watched me with a curious expression. “I know you don’t like me very much, but there’s no reason to assume I’m lying.”

  “I didn’t say you were lying,” I said. “I just really need to talk to them.”

  “About what?”

  I moved past her and down the steps again. “I told you before, I’m not interested in being your next interview subject.”

  “You know, your little holier-than-thou act is getting old,” she said, following me. “Especially considering your history.”

  I spun around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I made a few calls,” she said, and when I narrowed my eyes, she shrugged. “It’s the journalist in me, I couldn’t help it. Why did you move back to Lansing?”

  “What?”

  “You changed your name; you were living in New York. So why the hell did you come back to work for the Lansing News? Don’t tell me it’s the pay.”

  I swallowed. “I like working there—”

  “I’m sure you do. Since it’s, quite literally, the only place that would hire you,” she said, and at that moment, I could tell she knew it all. “Tell me, why were you fired from the Queens Gazette?”

  “For none of your damned business.”

  “For completely and utterly making up a story!” she spat. “Who does that? How dare you talk down to me? No wonder you had to come back home. Let me guess, you got the job through an old connection? Do they even know why you’ve been blacklisted in New York?”

  I felt every defense coming to my lips, but I faltered. “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” I said quietly. The shame and humiliation of my last few weeks at the Gazette rushed over me, and I tried to keep my composure. If anyone had told me during my days as a young reporter that I would end up going all Jayson Blair, I would have laughed in their face. But I’d underestimated the pressures of being a young journalist in New York and had quickly fallen into the trap of overpromising and under-delivering. The minute I’d clicked Send on the story with the fake quote from the fake resident of a very real apartment complex being torn down on Ditmars and Thirty-Fifth Street, I’d known my days were numbered.

  She stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting for me to say something else. I turned, heading toward my car.

  “Where are you going?” she called out. “Don’t you think he’s paid enough?”

  She asked it quietly, and I froze, unsure if I’d heard her correctly.

  “What?” I asked, spinning back around. “Think who has paid enough for what?”

  She blinked and swallowed, and for just a moment, she looked uncomfortable.

  “For…everything that’s happened?”

  “No, I want to know what you mean. Don’t I think who has paid for what?”

  I could see the hesitation in her eyes, but she squared her shoulders and held my gaze. “For what happened to your brother.”

  It was as if she’d slapped me. “You think he did it,” I exclaimed. “Why, Kira? Has he told you something?”

  She blinked rapidly, and I could tell she wanted to backtrack. “No, no, he hasn’t. And I don’t, not necessarily. But even if he did…” She shook her head and stepped closer to me. “Nobody can take that pain away, but think about what Sam Farr has been through. Even if he lied, even if he made something up—he was ten years old. He was a child too. You know that, right? Whatever happened, at worst, was a horrible accident. I don’t see how you can’t understand that. Sam’s life was taken that day too.”

  “How can you say that?” I asked, gesturing toward the house. “A lot of lives were taken that day, but Sam Farr seems to be doing all right.”

  She shook her head. “That’s just it. He’s not,” she said simply. “Sam’s not doing all right. Somebody has made damn well sure of that, haven’t they?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Sam Farr Story

  By: K. L. Jones

  DRAFT v. 6—Not to be shared without express permission of author, K. L. Jones

 

  The Farr family pulled up to the Scrolls’ house at about six on that fateful night of December 3, 1992.

  From the backseat of the small car, Sam Farr’s eyes widened. The house was ordinary in size for the upper middle-class neighborhood—a large two-story home with an expansive lawn flanking it—but to Sam, it was almost magical. He’d seen it from afar, many times, but up close, it looked like something out of a film, and he wondered if a butler would come rushing out to help them with their things. Sam giggled at the thought, and he saw his father look at him in the rearview mirror.

  Sam took in a deep breath.

  Here we go.

  He wished his cousin Cory could see him now. Cory always liked to tease him when he came to visit, saying his family was poor, which was relatively true, Sam guessed.

  But even Cory would have been impressed by this.

  They stepped out of the car, and Sam’s mother walked quickly around to the backseat to get her pie.

  He was so excited, he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to eat much tonight anyway.

  His mother smoothed down her coat while juggling the pie in her hands. He thought it would be nice to be a grown-up. Grown-ups were friends with whoever was around. It wasn’t like school, where people had a whole class of people to be friends with, so they only chose the best, or the coolest.

  Grown-ups simply weren’t around that many people, what with work and taking care of their families and all. So they got to be friends with people nearby. His mother and Kate Scroll had met at a church meeting, and just like that, they’d become friends.

  Sam hoped that when he was an adult, he’d be able to make a lot more friends too.

  They walked up the path toward the front door. It was such a cold day, and they bundled together, shivering, nervous, and excited.

  Sam was happy to see the door open just seconds after they pushed the buzzer.

  Kate Scroll stood there, smiling, her pretty brown hair hanging around her shoulders. The sounds of a pop song floated from the living room, and Sam wondered what kind of stereo system they had. Probably something fancy. Kate danced in place a little while, holding something in her h
ands.

  “Hi, guys! Come on in out of the cold. Sorry it’s still chilly in here.” She reached forward and took the pie from his mother, handing her a pair of something that looked like fuzzy socks. “Alex said I was crazy for bringing these out, but you may need them.”

  “Thanks,” Elizabeth said. Sam watched as his mom shifted awkwardly out of her shoes and pulled the thick, plush socks—which were really more like slippers, Sam could now see—over her own socks. She’d made a point of wearing “good ones” that morning, and she took her time putting on the new ones, covering up the socks she’d taken out of the package for this occasion only.

  Sam shifted, realizing he’d have to take his shoes off too, and he wondered what kind of socks he’d put on. He was pretty sure there was a hole just over the big toe on the left one.

  His mother and Kate stood aside, giggling about the socks and talking about the music, which seemed to swell all around them. “I made this mix especially for tonight,” Kate said, and Elizabeth nodded emphatically. “A little R&B, a little jazz. I’m not sure what you listen to.”

  Sam’s mother rarely ever listened to the radio, but she tapped her fingers against her thigh in time with the rhythm. “That’s perfect. I love it!” she said with a smile and a small shrug.

  As the women walked away, Kate looked back over her shoulder. “Boys, why don’t you head upstairs to Lucas’s room, and we’ll call you downstairs for dinner.”

  Sam turned to see who else she was addressing. He was startled to see Lucas standing there, not far from the entrance, his eyes on Sam.

  “Okay,” Lucas said cheerily enough, and he bounded up the stairs. Sam took a deep breath and quickly stepped out of his shoes, using his right foot to pull the sock with the hole forward and tucking the hole away, beneath his toes, out of sight. He followed Lucas, heading up the stairs slowly, his briefcase still in his hand.

  “Hey, you want me to take that for you?” Sam’s father asked.

  Sam looked back and shook his head. “No, Dad, it’s okay.” He paused when he saw the expression on his father’s face, a mixture of disappointment and exhaustion. “Dad?” he said, but his father shook his head and turned to walk away.