Boy, 9, Missing

by Nic Joseph

  I smiled back. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  She nodded. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just a lot, and this fund-raiser is so important to us.”

  “I can see that,” I said. My phone buzzed, and I looked down at it, hoping it was Amy. I sighed when I saw it was Reba. I silenced it and brought my attention back to Diana. “I’ll get out of your hair. Just one more question. Did you see Principal Murray when she returned? Was there a time that you saw her back here that evening?”

  “Of course,” she said. “We had our opening reception that night. Around six o’clock. And she sure was back for that. Smiling and eating and laughing with everyone. She was in a great mood, actually. As if she hadn’t been here all day working and was exhausted—because she wasn’t. The rest of us looked horrible in the pictures because we’d been sweating and doing our jobs, but I guess she went home to change.” She shook her head.

  “Well, I know you will pull off a great event, and the food and drinks will be top-notch.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Clarke. If she does show up this evening, I’ll let her know you came by.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll catch her another time.”

  “All right,” she said, and she turned to get back to work. “Oh, before you go. One last plug—it’s going to be a great event.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a smile, and I turned to leave. I had been hoping that visiting the church would simply clear up any questions I had about Principal Murray and allow me to focus on Alex, Christine, and their botched plan.

  But my visit had opened a lot more questions.

  Principal Murray had disappeared from the church from about one to five p.m., during the exact time that Matthew had gone missing. The park was an easy fifteen-minute drive from the church.

  It seemed so unlikely, so ridiculous.

  So impossible.

  I didn’t need any more fake leads; I needed answers.

  But the truth was she’d lied.

  She’d wanted me to believe she’d been at the church all afternoon, and she hadn’t.

  So what was she trying to hide?

  Chapter Thirty

  Tuesday, 8:00 p.m.

  I arrived home that night to an empty house.

  I walked into the kitchen and found a handwritten note on the counter from Amy.

  “Back tomorrow.”

  I crumpled the note in my hand. I picked up my cell phone and dialed her number. After four rings, it went to voice mail.

  “Call me back,” I said into the phone. “You can’t just not come home, Ames. Come on.”

  I hung up and walked quickly from the kitchen toward Amy’s room. I knew she’d kill me if she found me in there, but I needed to know where she’d gone and who she was staying with.

  I’d messed up.

  But I was still her father.

  I went into her bedroom and looked around the neatly tucked blanket on her bed and the stack of books on her desk. She’d gotten her cleanliness from her mother, it seemed. Her laptop was on her desk, and I stared at it for only a moment before walking over and picking it up.

  Just a quick glance…

  I sat on the edge of her bed with her laptop. It was asleep, and when I opened the lid, the fan started up as the computer came back to life.

  I blinked as the screen loaded in front of my face.

  Madison Tribune.

  What?

  Amy had last been looking at a page from the paper, and I frowned at the screen as the familiar words danced in front of my face.

  Sanders Takes Hot Dog Contest for the Fourth Time.

  It was an article I’d written during my last year of college, a fluff piece about a hot dog eating contest at a summer festival. It was one of my first real assignments, and I’d been thrilled, milling through the crowds, notebook in hand, feeling incredibly self-important. At 350 words, and with just one quote from an onlooker who had been anything but sober, it hadn’t been the best clip, but the article had stayed in my portfolio for years after Sanders’s fourth and final win. It took a while for me to find something more newsworthy to replace it.

  As I clicked through the other tabs Amy had opened, I found more of my articles. One about a new fitness chain in Madison, another about an improv group at a local business school. All stories I never thought I’d see again, let alone share with anyone.

  There were also a few tabs open about the trial and Sam, but the majority of the tabs were about me.

  Because Amy was trying to figure out who I was. It was me she was worried about.

  I looked up in surprise as my cell phone made a noise from the kitchen.

  A text message.

  Amy?

  I jumped back up, almost dropping the computer before setting it on the bed and racing out of the room.

  I picked up the phone and stared at the small screen. A flood of relief rushed over me as I read the text from Cam.

  Amy’s here. She called and asked if she cld come here.

  With shaky fingers, I wrote back. Thank God. Sry, should have told you I gave her your #. She okay?

  A few minutes past with no response. Finally, her reply popped up on the screen: You said you told her everything.

  I sucked in a breath. I could hear her disappointment, and I closed my eyes, unable to think of a single thing to say. Apologize for lying? Explain why I did it? As I leaned forward against the counter, my eyes still closed, my phone suddenly vibrated in my hand.

  I lifted the phone up to my face, and my breath caught when I saw the phone number.

  Unknown.

  “Hello?”

  There was a pause and a crackle on the other end.

  “Hello?” I said again. “Amy?”

  And then he spoke.

  Barely audible, breathless, but undoubtedly him.

  “Francis,” my father whispered. “It’s me. I need help.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I gripped the phone so tightly, it should have broken in two. After days of wanting nothing else—praying and hoping he’d turn up—here he was, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. I opened my mouth, but only a surprised croak came out, and I swallowed, closing my eyes in relief. Or maybe it was dread. With my free hand, I grabbed the edge of the counter as the room swayed around me. “Where the hell are you?” I finally managed to get out.

  The phone crackled again, the static and wind scraping loudly at my ear, and I pulled the phone away from my face.

  “Francis,” I heard him say, “can you—”

  More wind.

  “Dad?” I said, the panic growing, along with the fear that he’d hang up and I’d never find him again.

  “Francis, can you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I can hear you. Just tell me where you are. Hello?”

  The phone garbled, and my words were a lie. I could hear nothing but static, followed by dead air. “Hello?” I said again.

  “…you…pick…can…Homewood.”

  “What? I can’t hear you. What’s in Homewood? Is that where you are?” Homewood was a small neighborhood west of Lansing, but it wasn’t small enough to canvass. I needed something else. An address. A street. Anything.

  The phone was cackling loudly now, the static so bad I could barely pick up a word he said.

  And then, just as quickly as it all started, the call dropped.

  Shit!

  My phone lit up and buzzed again.

  “Hello?” I said. “Dad, can you hear me?”

  It was only slightly better than before, and I listened as my father’s voice broke through the cackling. “Homewood…okay…say…light.”

  I tried to piece the broken words together. “Are you in Homewood? Dad, where? You have to give me an address.”

&nb
sp; But the phone was relentless. I cursed into the static. I would have to go down to the station to see if Delroy could help me trace the number. Could they even trace unknown numbers?

  “I can’t hear you,” I said again, and I hoped he could hear me better than I could hear him.

  I was ready to give up and head out to my car when something changed.

  Maybe he moved to another location. Maybe he stepped indoors. Hell, maybe he stopped crumpling up paper next to the receiver. The howling, crackling sound that had separated us seconds ago suddenly stopped, and for just one moment, my father’s voice broke through.

  Crisp, haunting, and painfully clear.

  “He’s on the bench, Francis. In Deven Park. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  I was frozen in place, the dread washing over my entire body. It was suddenly impossible to breathe, let alone respond. The phone call dropped again only seconds later, but his last words rung over and over in my mind.

  “I’m so, so sorry.”

  • • •

  I grabbed my jacket and raced out the door, heading for the stairwell. As I bolted around each bend, I skipped stairs on the way down, holding on tightly to the railing to keep from falling. Later, I would chastise myself for not thinking to call the police right away. The sensible, logical thing that could make a difference in saving the boy’s life. But in the moment, I could only think about getting there and seeing what state my father had left him in.

  As I jumped in my car, I realized I didn’t feel as surprised as I did resigned, like the person who finally gets laid off after months of cowering behind a cubicle wall. I’d known this was coming. Not this, in particular—I never could have guessed that my father would leave a nine-year-old boy on a park bench in the middle of the night—but something that would force me to deal with the tragedy that was my family.

  I burst through a stop sign, and the driver whose turn I took laid on his horn. But I couldn’t stop. I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel and pushed harder on the accelerator. Please be alive. I just need you to be alive. No matter what, my father was done for, and he deserved it. The only drop of hope I had left was that Matthew would be returned safely to his family. And that my father couldn’t, in a matter of years, have become a murderer. It didn’t seem like a lot to hope for, but the last couple of days had shown me otherwise.

  Through the crackling phone, I hadn’t been able to make out much, but Alex had sounded fully there. Scared, but sober. I didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

  As I approached Homewood, it hit me that I didn’t know exactly where the park was. I’d been there before, years ago. I turned a couple of corners, searching for a landmark—anything that would remind me of which way to go. I could pull over and search on the GPS, but that would waste valuable minutes. Think, Francis. As I made another turn, something up ahead caught my attention. I hit the brakes hard, and a screech of tires came from behind me, followed by a loud horn. I peered down the block at the bright-green awning of a Thai restaurant I’d been to a couple of times before, which was only a few blocks from Deven Park. I made a shallow U-turn and got back on the street I’d just turned off. This was it.

  I came upon the entrance to the park, and my throat went dry. The gravel path caused the car to rock from side to side, but I pushed on, my chest pressed against the steering wheel as I peered out into the night. I put the car in park and jumped out. It took me a few moments to get my bearings, but then I was off, racing to the perimeter of the park, where there were benches spaced out every few feet. As my shoes hit the pavement, the loud tapping noise echoed in the silent night, matched only by the rasp of my breath. My teeth chattered as I ran, and the cold wind swirled around me. Somewhere along the way, my nose had started to run, and I sniffled, using the back of my hand to wipe at my face.

  The first set of benches was empty, and it occurred to me that I should have driven straight through the park to save time. As I followed a bend in the path, my sights locked on another grouping of benches ahead.

  Was I wrong? Maybe he’d made it all up.

  Maybe I’d made it all up.

  I kept running, my gaze darting through the shadows for any signs of life.

  And then, on the farthest bench from the street, tucked between two barren trees, illuminated by the light of a single lamppost—

  I saw him.

  The dark outline of a figure, sprawled out on the large, wooden bench. I could barely breathe, but I pushed harder now, running faster, even as my stomach turned over and my throat tightened, and I tried to prepare myself for what I was about to see. I slowed down as I focused on the hazy figure.

  Something was wrong.

  The figure on the bench was completely still, arms spread, head back.

  And it was larger—much larger—than that of a nine-year-old boy.

  As I drew closer, I could see it was not a boy, but a man, dressed in heavy sweats, nothing else. In the dim, yellow light, I could make out his closed eyes, his face bruised and bloody, his features almost unrecognizable.

  Almost.

  As the realization settled over me, my knees gave out, and I buckled to the ground.

  It wasn’t Matthew Farr on the bench.

  My father had gone after the one person he’d hated for the past twenty-three years.

  Sam.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I shuddered as I stepped closer to him, my eyes searching his broken, bloodied, and swollen face. I turned away, afraid I’d be sick, and took a few calming breaths before walking slowly toward the bench. Sam’s left cheek had a raised, bloodred lump the size of a marble protruding from it, and his lower lip was split right in the center. I swallowed and forced myself to keep going, leaning forward to listen for his breath. As I did, his puffy eyes blinked, only slightly.

  “Sam?” I said, and he peered at me from behind the folds of the bruised and inflated skin on his face. “Can you hear me?”

  We stared at each other in the dimly lit park, and for a moment, I was ridiculously and unforgivably helpless. When he moved his battered lips but no words came out, it hit me that there was no more time to waste. I had to get him to a hospital.

  Now.

  I stepped back and reached into my pockets to find my cell phone and cursed when I realized it wasn’t there.

  “Shit, I left my phone in my car, okay?” I said. “I’m going to go get it. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  His eyelids fluttered, and I hoped he could hear me, hoped he knew that I meant what I’d said. After nodding in reassurance again, I turned and took off.

  As I ran, I scanned the park for anyone who could help me, but it was empty at this time of night. I reached my car in less than a minute, but it felt like hours, and I quickly called 911. As I talked, I started the car, driving back through the park toward Sam’s body. I pulled up beside the bench, hopped out of the car again, and raced around to him. He was lying in the same position, staring up at the night sky, raspy breaths pouring out of his chest.

  “I called the police,” I said. “They’re coming.”

  He stared at me with one eye, and then he coughed, and it was a violent, racking sound. I paced back and forth in front of the bench, another plan forming in my mind. I’d driven past a hospital on the way to the park—it would take me five minutes to get there, tops. It was a risk to move him, but what if the ambulance couldn’t get him to the hospital in time? What if they couldn’t save him? And what if I could?

  Without giving myself time to think about it, I stepped closer to Sam. “I can take you,” I whispered. Sam was staring up at me, and I knew he wanted to speak, but his injuries wouldn’t allow it. I could see the emotion in his eyes, and it stunned me.

  He was scared.

  Of me.

  I opened the car door and turned back to face Sam. Looping an arm beneath his s
houlders and one beneath his legs, I lifted him up in one motion and turned, placing him as delicately as I could on the backseat. He cried out; the noise was deep and guttural. I knew what I was doing was so, so wrong.

  But I couldn’t just stand there and wait for him to…

  I couldn’t.

  I got back in the driver’s seat and turned the car around, driving quickly but cautiously to the main street, careful to avoid any potholes or bumps.

  As I sped toward the nearest emergency room with Sam Farr in my backseat, all of the events of the past hour flowing through my mind, the evening’s lights seemed to take on a new and scary form. I squinted, struggling to see through them. The streetlights, the headlights, the brake lights all seemed to swarm in front of me, making my head spin. I blinked, hoping to moisten my contacts, but it didn’t help, and I tried to concentrate on the road as best as I could.

  I just had to get him there before it was too late.

  For his sake and my father’s.

  For the sake of his family, and mine.

  I may have been hurting him more, but that was better than the alternative. I drove up to the door of the emergency room and was out of the car and around to the back door in seconds. A few attendants ran out toward me, and I flung the car door open. Sam Farr moved, only slightly, and I knew he was awake, but I couldn’t tell if he was actually looking at me. I turned back to face the ER doctors.

  “Get a stretcher! We need a stretcher now!” I yelled at the medics.

  They rushed by me, and I was pushed to the back of the car, the lights still burning my eyes, my body shutting down, and I knew the worst of it was just beginning.

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, I paced in the hospital waiting room. Sam Farr had been in the OR for most of that time; he’d been beaten so badly that he didn’t even look like himself. He’d also been kicked with incredible force in the chest. He’d lost consciousness as they took him into the building.