Before He Vanished

by Debra Webb

  His breath caught in his throat. The resemblance between him and the missing boy was uncanny. Completely bizarre. He removed two photos from the album and placed them next to the images in the newspaper.

  “Holy...” Looking at the photos side by side triggered a strong emotion he couldn’t label, which sank deep into his bones.

  There had to be an explanation. Maybe he’d been a twin and his parents hadn’t known. The missing child could have been his twin brother. His father had told him that he and his mother had been homeless when he was born. Living in the hills and woods of northern California like a couple of disenfranchised hippies. Who knew what sort of prenatal care she received?

  It was possible that there had been two babies.

  He moved his head side to side. Even as shaken as he was at the moment, he recognized he was reaching with that scenario.

  Leaving the disturbing newspaper where it lay, he walked out of the family room and along the corridor until he came to the office that had been his father’s—the office that was his now. He hit the switch, turning on the lights. The closet had been turned into a built-in safe. Using the dial, he quickly went through the combination steps, lifted the lever and opened it. He located the file with birth certificates and withdrew his. His fingers roamed over the state seal as he considered the information printed on the document. Nothing unusual or unexpected there. Closing the safe, he moved to one of the many file cabinets and looked through the folders until he found the one with his name. Inside was his school vaccination record. His academic reports.

  He flipped through page after page.

  It was all there. From kindergarten through senior year and then his acceptance papers for the University of California.

  What was he doing?

  He closed the filing drawer and walked out, turning off the lights as he went. Whoever sent the paper to him had accomplished his mission. The joke was on Liam.

  As he left the house, he grabbed the newspaper and the photos of him as a kid. He had to show this to Claire.

  His sister was a hell of a mystery buff. Maybe someone would get a laugh out of this.

  Angele Restaurant

  “I THOUGHT I’d been stood up,” Claire chided as he pulled out a chair at her table.

  “Sorry, there was something I had to do.” He reached for his water glass and considered ordering a shot of bourbon. Sweat had beaded on his forehead during the drive here.

  It was ridiculous. Heart palpitations and sweating? He was a little freaked out. He had to get a grip.

  Maybe Shelly was right. He had been working too hard. He needed a break.

  “I’ve already ordered for the both of us. Roasted chicken salad.” She placed one hand atop the other on the table and studied him. “What’s wrong? You look—” she shrugged “—strangely unsettled.”

  His sister had Penelope’s eyes. Blue but a light blue, almost gray. Her hair was a darker blond than his, as well, more brown than blond. But the high cheekbones and the Roman nose, she’d gotten both those from their father, just as Liam had.

  He pulled the folded newspaper and the two photos from the family album out of his hip pocket and placed them on the table. “Someone mailed this newspaper page to me. No name or return address. Just the front page of this small-town newspaper.” He tapped the now wrinkled page.

  While Claire read, Liam surveyed the restaurant. He’d been here a hundred times at least. The rustic French decor was not unlike their home, which Penelope and his father had turned into a classic yet rustic French château. It was warm and relaxing, much like this restaurant. And the food here was the best in Napa. He had yet to order a single dish that was anything less than incredible.

  Claire placed the newspaper on the table, folded so that the photos of the boy—Andy Clark—were prominent. Then she laid the two photos of Liam next to them.

  “Holy moly,” she whispered. “This is...this is totally cray cray.”

  Crazy. Definitely.

  “There was no name on the envelope?” she asked though he’d already told her as much.

  He shook his head. “No name. No address. But the envelope is postmarked Winchester, Tennessee.”

  She stared at the paper again. “Have you ever been to this place?”

  “Never.”

  “Well.” She refolded the paper and tucked the loose photos inside the fold before passing the tidy bundle to him. “Someone thinks you have.”

  He made a sound he’d intended as a laugh, but it came out more like a choking noise. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that whoever sent you this newspaper clipping believes you are this boy.”

  This notion had been festering in the back of his brain since he opened the damned envelope but he had refused to allow it to fully reach the surface.

  “That’s insane.” He shook his head. “How would this person even know who I am or where I live?”

  “I don’t know.” Claire’s brow lined the way it did when she was stumped by some issue with a new blend she’d created.

  “Hey,” he argued, “come on. We grew up together. You know this is impossible as well as ridiculous.”

  She stared at him, unblinking, unflinching. “You were almost eight when I was born. We grew up together after that point.” She glanced at the bundled paper lying next to his water glass.

  “Now you’re just being a—”

  “No,” she countered, “think about it. This could be real, Liam. Go back to the house and look at the family photo albums again. Try to find any of yourself—at least any in which you can see your face—between being a little baby and seven or eight years old.”

  “What?” Now he got it. She had done this. As a prank. Yes, that had to be it. She wanted him to work for the payoff, sending him on a wild-goose chase. “You did this because of what I did on your birthday.” He shook his head, felt a sudden rush of relief. “I told you I was sorry. You didn’t have to go to this extreme.”

  When she’d turned twenty-five, he’d put one of those happy birthday ads in the Napa Valley Register announcing that Claire was actually thirty. She had not thought it was funny. She had warned that she would get even with him.

  He laughed. Laughed long and hard, almost lost his breath as waves of giddy relief washed over him.

  When he’d finished, the people at several tables were staring at them.

  “You finished?” she demanded, one eyebrow hiked up.

  He held up his hands. “You got me, sis. I have to tell you, I was freaking out.”

  “I didn’t do this, Liam.” Her tone was flat and serious.

  That chill he’d been fighting since he’d opened that damned envelope seeped into his bones anew.

  “Okay.” He suddenly wished he hadn’t told her. Maybe she didn’t have some fake newspaper printed and mailed to him from Winchester, Tennessee, but she was sure taking advantage of the opportunity.

  “I even asked Mom once.”

  Enough. And yet, he couldn’t not take the bait. “Asked her what?”

  “Why there were no pictures of you during kindergarten or when you were three or four. There are hundreds of me, but there’s this big gap in your documented history. I thought it was strange.”

  “I can honestly say I’ve never noticed.” Why the hell didn’t the food arrive? Anything to change the subject. Now he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Of course you haven’t. That’s a girl thing. The women maintain the family photos and store keepsakes. Most guys don’t even notice.”

  “What did she say?” He really wanted this discussion to end. He should have taken the day off like Shelly said.

  “She said the photos and stuff for that time period were lost in a fire.”

  “There you go.” He shrugged, felt some measure of relief once more. “That explains it.”

&
nbsp; “No, that doesn’t explain anything. Because I asked Joe about the fire and he had no idea what I was talking about.”

  “Joe Brown?” Liam held up his hands. “Claire, Joe died when you were thirteen.”

  Joe had been the vineyard manager when Liam was growing up. In truth he’d been like an uncle to both him and Claire.

  “I asked about the photos when I was twelve. Remember that school project I had to do using family photos? It was that ancestry thing.”

  He shrugged again, his frustration building far too rapidly. “Not really.”

  “I’m telling you that I asked Mother and she made up a story about a fire in the family room. When I mentioned the fire to Joe, he said there was never a fire in the house. Never, Liam.”

  “I’m not talking about this anymore.” He didn’t know what he’d expected Claire to say when he’d shown her the clipping and photos, but once he’d latched on to the prank theory, he’d realized how much he wanted that to be true. Not this...this other possibility.

  Thankfully, the food arrived, saving him from having to argue further with Claire. He should have known better than to tell her about this.

  When the waiter had moved on, Liam dug in. He hadn’t realized until that moment that he was starving. Hopefully, Claire would take his cue and eat instead of pursuing this ridiculous idea.

  Unfortunately, the silence didn’t last long.

  “We should call Mom.”

  “For the love of God, Claire.” He put his fork down and braced his palms on the table. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. The whole notion is ludicrous. I shouldn’t have shown you the article.”

  She reached across the table and snatched up the newspaper, opened it enough to find whatever she was looking for. She tapped the byline beneath the headline. “You need to call this Halle Lane. Maybe she sent the newspaper to you.”

  When he didn’t respond, she went further. “Maybe you should do better than call,” she said. “Maybe go to Winchester. Check this out in person.”

  He looked at her as if she’d suggested he go to the moon. He now regretted even reading the article, let alone sharing it with her.

  “I think you should.” She gave him a nod. “Maybe the visit will trigger a memory of living there.”

  He rolled his eyes. “The only thing I remember about being seven is a bicycle accident that gave me a broken arm and a concussion.”

  It was the worst memory of his childhood.

  But it was real, and his father had been right there with him through the whole thing.

  THEN

  Twenty-five years ago...

  “I’M SCARED AND my head hurts bad. My arm, too.”

  His father’s arms tightened around him, pulling him closer to his chest—close enough that he could feel his heart pounding. His father was scared, too.

  “You’re going to be fine, son. The doctor says you have a mild concussion. I promise you’ll be better in a few days.”

  He closed his eyes tighter and tried to remember why he was so scared. He remembered the headlights coming at him. He remembered falling. For a moment he’d thought he was dead.

  Then his father had been there telling him he was okay. Calling an ambulance.

  He remembered drifting in and out. He wanted to stay awake but it was so hard. He couldn’t keep his eyes open and going to sleep made the pain go away.

  His father wouldn’t let him sleep. He’d wake him up each time he drifted off.

  “Stay with me now.”

  Lights pulsed in the darkness. Made his head hurt worse. He wanted to go home. He was cold. So cold. His head hurt so bad. And his arm. He couldn’t move it without the pain making him cry harder.

  Two men in uniforms suddenly hovered over him in his memory or the dream he was having. It was hard to tell which. They kept telling him he would be okay. They were taking him to the hospital. He would get to ride in the ambulance.

  But he didn’t want to go to the hospital.

  He wanted to go home.

  Why couldn’t he just go home?

  He felt his body being moved. Lifted onto a stretcher and then they rolled him to the ambulance.

  His father climbed in with him, sat close to him, kept telling him he would be fine.

  He only wanted to close his eyes and pretend this didn’t happen. He didn’t want to be in an ambulance. He didn’t want his head and arm to hurt so bad.

  He wanted to go home.

  The ambulance was moving now and he suddenly felt the urge to throw up. He struggled to hold it back. Didn’t want to throw up in front of these strangers.

  He felt weird. Like he was here, except not.

  He just wanted to go home.

  Tears slid down his face. He felt them slip into his ears. His head and arm hurt too much to bother trying to wipe them away.

  He felt hands on his face, wiping away his tears. His father leaned close, his lips to his forehead. “Shhh, don’t cry, sweet Liam. Everything will be fine. You will be fine.”

  He realized then why he was so afraid.

  Who was Liam?

  Chapter Three

  NOW

  Thursday, March 12

  Winchester, Tennessee

  Halle had beamed all week. Today was no exception. Lunch with Audrey, her boss, had proven she had every right to be excited. The entire staff at the paper was immensely proud of her, even Rog.

  Her story on the lost boy had been picked up through wire services in some of the largest markets in the country. Reporters had flocked to Winchester. One of the biggest network morning shows had asked to interview her.

  She had done it. She’d made her comeback as a journalist.

  A grin slid across her face. And her old friend Andy Clark had helped her. This was the story she had needed to get her career back on track. It had been right under her nose all along.

  She’d spent the afternoon walking on clouds but now it was time to get to work. Reality had slammed into her at about four. It was five thirty now. Most of the staff had gone home. Only Tanya, the receptionist downstairs in the lobby, and Brian, the editor, were still in the main office. Halle was fairly certain Brian never went home. He probably had a cot in the basement. As for Tanya, Halle was equally certain she had a thing for Brian and hung around just to be near him.

  Audrey wanted Halle to focus solely on this case. They’d been swamped with tips since the story ran, everything from alien abduction suggestions to complicated tales of crime rings. Audrey wanted her to find the rest of the story. What really happened to Andy Clark? Mrs. Clark had said she would be happy to talk to Halle more.

  If the police and the FBI hadn’t been able to figure it out, how in the world was she supposed to do it?

  She wanted to, certainly. She would have her choice of any assignment in the country if she managed to dig up that whole story.

  But the idea was a little off the charts.

  Halle moistened her lips, ordered her heart to slow its damned galloping.

  Maybe she could do this. Audrey had given her full access to any necessary resources. She’d even offered to introduce her to Luther Holcomb, the chief of police at the time of Andy’s disappearance. Holcomb was a bit of a hermit nowadays but Audrey’s husband, Sheriff Colt Tanner, knew the man personally.

  Before she did anything else, she needed to see Mrs. Clark again. The older woman had gotten a headache and had to lie down the last time they spoke about Andy. On Sunday afternoon, she had gone to her house again and taken her two copies of the newspaper. She’d reiterated then that perhaps they could make the articles a series. Get deeper into the story of before and after Andy. Mrs. Clark had actually sounded excited about the possibility.

  What Audrey had asked Halle to do was different. Her vision was about finding the whole story, to do what the police and dete
ctives hadn’t been able to do—discover what really happened to Andy. Mrs. Clark had said she wanted the entire tale told. Maybe she should start by asking where would Andy be now if he was alive? Where did he go that day and who took him? What parent wouldn’t want to know what really happened to their child?

  It was worth a shot. She cringed as she thought of resurrecting Mrs. Clark’s pain. Reporters weren’t supposed to have soft hearts. Being ruthless and relentless was more than a little important to get to the truth.

  Still, this was different. This was Andy and Andy’s mother.

  Mrs. Clark had okayed pursuing the story so far. If Halle had misunderstood the woman’s intent, she would have to back off. She didn’t really want to go down this path without her blessing. It felt wrong.

  She wouldn’t use Andy or his mother just to advance her career. If she continued with the story it would be because she wanted the truth as much as Mrs. Clark did. She stared at the stack of messages on her desk. Networks and newspapers from across the country wanted to talk to her.

  She could do this even if Mrs. Clark changed her mind after all the notoriety—as long as she was careful not to cause pain for the woman. Of course she would never do such a thing. Mrs. Clark and her husband had been victims of the worst kind of crime. They didn’t deserve to be hurt any further. Halle couldn’t be the reason for that.

  She wouldn’t be.

  Her cell rang and she checked the screen. Mom.

  “Hey, Mom.” She almost added that yes, she would be home for dinner since that was likely the reason for the call.

  “Hey, sweetie. Just wanted to warn you that the reporters have already started to camp on the sidewalk.”

  The crew had been here in the parking lot all day every day this week. They had figured out her schedule, particularly when she headed home. So far, a deputy had escorted Halle to her car each evening. But she hadn’t called for an escort today. The reporters had figured out her MO. Now they waited for her at home.

  She couldn’t hold it against them. She would do and had done the same thing.