Boy, 9, Missing

by Nic Joseph

  Come on…

  I’d tossed the address book back there, but I needed—

  The receipts.

  I picked up a handful, uncrumpled them, and immediately found what I was looking for.

  Cove Sparry Hospital.

  Same logo.

  That C and S.

  3N Café.

  What the hell?

  I opened a few more receipts—about half a dozen were from the same place.

  I turned to look at the building. It was a small community hospital on the other side of town; it wasn’t impossible that Alex would go there, but also was not likely.

  What had he been doing there?

  Why had he been coming to this hospital on a regular basis?

  I looked at the dates and the times on the receipts, but nothing stood out. Each day he’d visited, he’d purchased something small. A coffee and a muffin. A cup of tea. The receipts were spaced out about a week apart.

  I pulled out my cell phone to get a better look at the dates.

  I fumbled clumsily as I scrolled through to find the calendar, my breath coming out in short bursts.

  Thursdays.

  Every single date on the receipt was a Thursday.

  My father had been visiting someone at Cove Sparry Hospital every Thursday for the past month.

  I got back into the driver’s seat and drove ahead, following the signs for visitor parking.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday, 7:15 p.m.

  The doors to the hospital opened, and I stepped into a large atrium.

  Everything about it felt hospital-like—the pristine common area, the healing images on the walls, the friendly but stern security presence. Like most people, I hate hospitals, since they always seem to hold more despair than they do hope or healing.

  What had my father been doing here?

  I walked up to the main desk, and a bored-looking twentysomething tilted her head to the side but said nothing.

  “I’m looking for Three North.”

  “Elevators to the third floor and across the bridge.” She barely looked at me, but I thanked her before moving on. I walked over to the elevators and scanned the wall for the stairwell door. I paused in front of the elevators for a moment—I could have done it, if the doors had been open right then and there was no one else around. But a family of four joined me by the elevator doors, laughing, talking, and waiting, and another couple walked up a few seconds after that. I immediately headed for the stairs.

  Not today.

  I stepped out onto the third floor and crossed a bridge over the street where I’d first stopped my car to look at the receipts. I walked into what felt like an older part of the hospital and approached the sign for 3 North.

  Mental health services.

  What?

  My father had been visiting a psych patient?

  I knew it could be completely unrelated to Matthew and Sam Farr, and yet, I didn’t have much else to go on. As I moved through the main doors of the wing, I turned a corner and entered a small waiting area. A woman sat in one of the chairs, watching television. An image on the screen caught my eye, and I slowed. It was a boy’s face, and I recognized it as an old picture of Sam Farr.

  “…has been missing since Wednesday afternoon when he and his father were enjoying themselves at a local park,” the reporter said.

  I froze, my gaze fixated on Sam’s face.

  “Alex Scroll, the man who accused Sam Farr of being responsible for his own son’s death back in 1992, is a person of interest in the case.”

  The picture of Sam disappeared and was replaced by a pleasant news anchor who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old.

  “Matthew Farr is just under five feet tall, and he was last seen wearing a blue down coat, a light brown hat, and red-and-blue-striped mittens. If you know anything, anything at all about the disappearance of Matthew Farr or the whereabouts of Alex Scroll, the Lansing Police Department is asking that you step forward. You can also join the search and spread the word on social media, using the hashtag #WheresMattFarr.”

  I grimaced as the large hashtag appeared on the screen, directly under the anchor’s face.

  The woman in the waiting room shook her head.

  “Social media, huh?” she said.

  I nodded before walking away.

  I turned down a long hallway and saw the sign for the café, which was no more than a few chairs and tables pushed up against a long counter at the end of the corridor. Two people were working in the café—a boy of about seventeen, stocking a small cooler, and an older man at the counter, who smiled as I approached.

  “Welcome to the Three North Café,” he said. “What can I get for you today?”

  “Actually, I just had a question. How late are you open during the week?”

  “We stay open until nine o’clock,” he said with a smile. “One of the latest spots open in the whole hospital. A lot of our visitors stay here pretty late.”

  “My dad has been a visitor here, and he loves coming to this café.”

  “Really?” he said proudly. “Well, that’s great to hear. Which dish is his favorite?”

  I looked up at the chalkboard and pretended to give it some thought.

  “I think he likes the ham sandwich…or maybe it’s the turkey…”

  He nodded. “It’s probably the turkey. It gets ordered the most. I add cranberry jam to it. I really think that’s what wins people over. You have to take something traditional and add a new spin to it.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I think that’s it. He’s mentioned the cranberry. I’ll take one of those.”

  He nodded with a smile.

  “My dad comes every Thursday night. You must know him—Alex Scroll?”

  The man frowned. “Sounds familiar, but I can’t say I know all of my customers by name.”

  “Really? Well, he’s here every Thursday night, and he raves about the food.” I felt conspicuous, like I was pushing too hard, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Well, I do most of the cooking myself, so I appreciate that.”

  “It’s funny you don’t remember him,” I said. “He comes to visit one of the patients every Thursday night. He even mentioned you, I think.”

  “He did?” the man asked, his eyes lighting up.

  “Yeah, besides the food,” I said, deciding to go all in. “He said the service here was incredible, and I think he was talking about you. Here, let me show you a picture.”

  I reached into my wallet and pulled out a picture of Alex.

  He reached for the glasses around his neck and put them on, leaning forward.

  He stared at the picture for a moment.

  “He looks familiar, for sure, and that name…” He shook his head. “I just can’t place it, but I’m sure I’ve seen him around here.” He straightened. “Now, let me go get that sandwich for you.”

  I smiled, disappointed and not at all hungry.

  I placed money on the counter for the sandwich and then moved aside as he went to the back to fix the food.

  “Excuse me.”

  I looked up, and the kid who’d been stocking the cooler was staring at me. He picked up a dish towel off the counter and whirled it around quickly. He didn’t break eye contact as he snapped the towel, making a loud, popping noise.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “Why’d you make that up?” He snapped the towel again, and I looked over my shoulder.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “Why’d you make that up? About your father. The whole coming-to-visit-a-patient thing.”

  “What are you talking about? He comes here every Thursday.”

  Was I missing something? Had I been mistaken about what the receipts meant?

  The boy spun the towel around again
in his hands and stared at me. He seemed to be looking for something in particular, but he didn’t speak for a while.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m his son,” I said again. “Do you know him?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  He didn’t say anything else, and I stepped closer. He was watching me too carefully, with too much suspicion, so I tried to gauge my next words.

  “I’m just trying to find him. He hasn’t been home in a few days.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t quite the truth either.

  “Okay, but why are you acting like he’s a visitor and not a patient?” he asked. His expression didn’t change as he waited for me to respond. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to help me or if he was suspicious.

  “Because my dad can make up things sometimes, and I wasn’t sure how he’d identified himself,” I said, surprised at how quickly the lie came to me.

  “Hmm…” the boy said with a smile. “Now there you go lyin’ again. What’s going on here?”

  “Look,” I said, leaning forward, deciding honesty might be my best bet with this kid. “My dad is missing, and I found some receipts that said he’d been here. But how can he be a patient here?”

  “He’s not,” the kid said. “I mean, sort of. He comes in every Thursday night, but old Max doesn’t see him because he’s usually in the back, cooking. I’m the one out here.”

  “So you see him?” I asked, my heart speeding up. “Was he here last Thursday?”

  “Yeah, of course. He doesn’t miss it.”

  “Why did you say he’s sort of like a patient?”

  “Because he comes here to meet with Dr. Christine after her clinic is over.”

  “Dr. Christine?”

  “Yeah, the health psychologist. They meet here for coffee on Thursday nights. But nobody calls him Alex. It’s Al.”

  “But still, why ‘sort of’?”

  “I don’t know, okay?” he said. “I don’t know all the details. But I know he ain’t visiting no patients. Dr. Christine does that. She’s real nice. She’ll meet with you just to talk if you get uncomfortable in the office setting. But they’re not kidding anyone. He’s messed up.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Why you wanna know?” he asked, peering at me, and I sighed, reaching into my pocket. I pulled a twenty out of my wallet, and he took it quickly, slipping it into his pocket.

  “Because he’s my dad,” I said. “And I worry. Come on, help me out.”

  He nodded. “Well, he’s always coming to talk to her, but to be honest, he doesn’t really talk that much. Sometimes, he just stares at the table, and she talks to him. Other times, he’s whispering in her ear, real close like,” he said. “It’s a little nasty, if you ask me, because she’s a doctor and he’s a patient and whatever,” he said.

  “Where can I find this Dr. Christine?”

  “Fourth floor. Four North, directly above us. She’s probably there now. She works Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, and she’s usually here pretty late.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. “Anything else weird about the whole thing?”

  The kid slung the dish towel again and turned away. “Naw, that’s it. Maybe next time, just ask for what you want instead of making stuff up.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for the advice.”

  I was halfway to the elevator bank when I heard a voice call out, “Your sandwich!”

  But I couldn’t stop. Seconds later, I was back in the stairwell, skipping stairs up to the fourth floor.

  Alex hadn’t been coming to visit a patient.

  He’d been coming to visit a doctor. A psychologist.

  One who’d seen him just six days before the kidnapping.

  Dr. Christine, whoever she was, might be my best bet for finding him.

  I came out onto the fourth floor of the hospital and found myself in a large reception area. A woman was sitting behind a desk in front of a wall of closed office doors. I walked over to her, and she smiled professionally.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I’d like to speak with Dr. Christine.”

  She tilted her head. “You mean Dr. Christine Sharpe? Dr. Sharpe is in with a patient right now. Is she expecting you?”

  “Not quite,” I said. “I’m the son of one of her patients. Alex Scroll.”

  If the woman recognized the name, she didn’t show it. She uncrossed her legs and rolled closer to her desk, setting a stern expression on her face. “Well, you can leave a message for her, but she is in with a patient, and she needs to leave right after.”

  “I only need a couple of minutes—” I started.

  “I’m sorry, she’s very busy,” the woman said. “She has to go straight from here to her Orland Park office.”

  “She has an office in Orland Park?” I reached over to pick up one of her business cards. On it were two office locations—the one in the hospital, and one out in Orland Park, a suburb about thirty minutes northwest of Lansing.

  “Yes,” she said. “Look, I can ask her to give you a call.” She reached for a memo pad and a pen before looking up again. “Your name?”

  I was considering how to answer her when the door to one of the offices opened and a couple walked out.

  A tall woman followed them, carrying a file folder in her hand. I always find it weird when women are described as handsome, but it seemed fitting. The woman was nearly six feet tall, with long, gray hair pulled into a loose braid, kind eyes, and a stern jaw. She was attractive but not pretty, gentle but not delicate.

  “Set up your next appointment with Linda,” the woman said with a smile as she shook hands with the couple. She was about to turn to walk back into her office when she caught sight of me.

  Her eyes widened, and she paused.

  “Sir, your name?” the woman sitting in front of me asked again.

  At the same time the tall woman breathed out, “Holy hell.”

  I walked around the desk, and Linda began to stand as though to stop me.

  “Are you Dr. Christine? Or rather, Dr. Sharpe?” I asked as I approached her. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I really need to talk to you.”

  Her eyes didn’t leave mine as she spoke. “Linda, please sign the Johnsons out.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders as she gave me a slight smile of resignation. “Yes, Francis, I’m Christine Sharpe. And of course we can talk. Now seems as good a time as any, doesn’t it?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I walked into her office, and she shut the door.

  It was a nicely appointed room, with plush purple couches and a soft rug that had no business being walked on. She motioned to one of the couches, and I sat down as she folded herself into a chair.

  “How did you know who I was?” I asked, the question coming out more bluntly than I’d intended, and she smiled slightly.

  “I’ve seen pictures of you, of course. From the trial, but more recently, from your father. But that doesn’t really matter. You look a lot like him.”

  I’d never heard that, and I wondered if she was making it up. I hadn’t seen my father in a while, but I had a feeling it wasn’t a compliment.

  “Can I get you some water?” she asked.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “You sure?” She nodded toward my lap. I looked down and realized I’d been tapping my hands nervously against my things without noticing. I stopped and looked up at her.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said again, and we both knew it wasn’t true.

  Dr. Christine—it wasn’t her name, but it seemed fitting—leaned forward. She was watching me so carefully, and I wondered if she was doing it on purpose, just to make me nervous.

  “How did you end up here?” she asked. “Did your father tell you about me?”

&nbs
p; “No,” I said. “I found a few old receipts from the café, and I stopped by there and talked to a very helpful employee. After that, I put things together.”

  She paused, and then she burst out laughing, which took me completely by surprise. She didn’t seem like a woman who laughed loudly very often. Dr. Christine shook her head. “Alex is quite the hoarder; I bet he keeps all of his receipts. Of course that’s how you found me. I shouldn’t have expected anything less.” She took a deep breath. “So I’m guessing you’re here because of the missing boy.”

  “Yes,” I said, noting the casual, controlled way she said this.

  “The missing boy.”

  As if it were nothing at all.

  Or, as if she wanted to pretend like it was nothing at all.

  I wasn’t the only one who was nervous here. I was just worse at hiding it.

  “How do you know my father?”

  She rocked back in her chair. “We’re friends. I’ve been helping him out now for about a year.”

  “Helping him out? Is that your way of saying you’ve provided treatment to him?”

  “I’m sure you know I can’t tell you anything like that,” she said. “But you made it this far, so I have to assume you know I was meeting with your father on a regular basis.”

  “Off the books.”

  She didn’t flinch. “Not at all. I don’t do things off the books, Francis. Your father wanted to meet with me in the café. He said it made him feel more comfortable. So I met with him in the café. I always took proper notes.”

  I glanced quickly at the laptop on her desk, and she smiled slightly. “They’re not on the computer,” she said.

  I cleared my throat and tried to keep the conversation moving. “So he’s a patient of yours.”

  She frowned slightly and didn’t respond.

  “I’m just trying to find him,” I said. “Really, that’s all. How long have you known him?”

  “About a year,” she said, her tone even, and I realized she’d just said that. “We met at a conference.”

  “About?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked, and I continued staring at her. “I don’t know, gardening.”

  I tried not to react. It was her way of telling me she wasn’t going to answer my questions, at least not the ones she didn’t want to.