Samantha’s eyes were closed. Her head was bandaged and I wasn’t sure if they’d shaved part of her scalp. The scar was going to be bad enough. It ran across her cheek and was a good four inches long. The doctor had said the cut almost went completely through her cheek. It’d taken twenty stitches to close it. I wasn’t sure how she’d take it when she woke up.
She’d always been attractive. It was just part of her. She never had an awkward period, or gained weight, or had a bad haircut. She was just always Samantha. But her parents, especially her father beat it into her head that looks weren’t that important; that they would fade and that she needed to rely on other things, develop her mind. He was hard on her when she was in school, pressing her to do better, and she did, graduating fifteenth in a class of one hundred forty two. But after high school she rebelled and only finished two years of college before dropping out. After floundering, she went into real estate, and I can testify, by the commission checks I’d seen lying around, that she was very good at it.
I sat near her bed and waited for her to wake up. Her breaths were full and even and she didn’t seem to be in any pain. I held her hand and waited for her to open her eyes. The florescent lights were making me sick. My head pounded a little and I couldn’t concentrate. Her left leg was in a fiberglass cast and it seemed to be glowing in the light. I swore, after this, no more hospitals for a long, long time. Her nurse came in and tried to reassure me that she was going to be fine. No sign of swelling yet, things looked promising, only a hairline fracture of her skull, and a concussion, she said; sleeping because of the medication they were giving her, go home and get some rest. After several hours I obeyed. I was eager to get back to Philadelphia, to continue the search through the papers. Eventually I would find something. I just knew it.
The same man was at the counter when I requested my films. I rolled each paper through the machine, scanning through them as fast as I could. I saw Ronald Reagan’s election campaign, never ending stories on the hostages in Iran. I stopped at the end of June. My neck hurt and I was weary. I wanted nothing more than to leave the library, stop and see Samantha, and then go home and go to bed. I put a film in and rolled it. I pushed the button and the film went to the next page. Then I saw it. It was only a tiny article on page eighteen. Hardly a mention. I might have missed it if I hadn’t seen the picture next to it. I read it once and then bent over in the chair, holding my stomach. I’d been on the wrong track all along.
On Friday, the evening of April 16th, four year old James Robert Whitfield was taken from his home in Chestnut Hill. He has not been seen since. He disappeared from the front of his property on Chestnut Hill Avenue sometime around 2 in the afternoon. Police and search rescue teams are scouring the woods and surrounding area. James was last seen wearing a navy blue short sleeved top, blue denim shorts and sneakers. Anyone who has information regarding the missing child, please contact Detective Franchetti at the Philadelphia police department.
A small photo accompanied the article. I looked at that face. I blinked a couple of times and sucked in my breath. Hundreds of little needles were poking my skin. I’d been so fixated on the other James in the black and white photograph, the one that had drowned, that I ignored the toddler reaching for the camera. The toddler, Nick’s brother James. Maybe the only surviving photograph of this child. A secret to be tucked away in an old book, burned if necessary.
Find James. Nick’s last spoken words on this earth. It might have been easier if he’d just told me that he had a younger brother that disappeared. That his mother was crazy. But he didn’t want to tell me. This was a riddle. A game. One last chess match that probably amused him in those moments before they filled his veins with Propoful and he went to sleep for the very last time. How could I possibly begin to find a child that had been missing for over twenty years? The librarian copied the page and I put it in my purse.
I ran down Walnut Street to Dylan’s law office. I’m sure I looked a mess when I pulled open the glass door and demanded to see Mr. McBride. The receptionist scanned me up and down and then asked which one.
“I don’t care.”
Warren McBride came out only seconds later from the back and ushered me to his office.
“I just want to know how much of this you knew.” I asked him tossing the copy of the article onto his desk. My heart was pounding and my head felt a little light but I wasn’t going to leave without answers. He picked it up and read it and then set it down. He put his hand in his chin and looked at me.
“A tragedy.”
“That’s it? A tragedy? But you knew? I came here from Maine and specifically asked if you knew anyone named James and you lied.”
“Nick told me about this when he came down and set up his will.” He took his hand away and sighed. “It’s just a very sad thing, Mackenzie, and it tore the family apart. There was no need to affirm information that was long forgotten.”
I thought for a second. “You didn’t think to wonder why Nick sent me here on a wild goose chase after a long lost brother?”
“I represent Nick’s legal issues; I’m not a gossip hound. It wasn’t my concern.” His voice was harsh.
“Before he died, Nick told me to go there, to the house, to find James. He was very much consumed with his childhood when he was dying.”
“I imagine his brother’s disappearance haunted him. He never got over it. So it’s not surprising he mentioned him before he died. Whatever you decide to do with this information, I don’t want my son involved, is that clear?”
“He’s an adult. He can make his own decisions.” I stared at him across his littered desk. “So, why don’t you just tell me whatever else you know but just left out?”
He was angry. His face was red. “There’s nothing else to tell you. Go home, to Maine that is, and leave Dylan alone.”
I stood up and moved over to the desk. “I’ll leave when I’m ready to leave. My friend is in the hospital, hit by a car. God only knows who hit her, but someone did, and if Cora had anything to do with it, I’ll kill her myself.”
His face had turned white. “She was hit here, in Philadelphia?”
“Yes. And I’m not leaving here without her.” I walked to the door just as Dylan was coming in.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“Ask your father.” I said and I bumped him out of the way and kept going.