121: I haven’t been writing.
I’ve lost track of the days.
Father would be mad.
Father would be mad indeed.
It was 3:24 in the afternoon, I knew that much, my internal clock, but I had no idea of the day or how long I had been here now. So much of the same, each sameness blurring into the next.
When the door to my room clicked with the turn of the lock, I looked up to find Dr. Oglesby standing in the opening.
“How are you today, Anson?”
“Fine.”
The word came out soft and low and seemed to take him by surprise, the first time I had spoken or responded to him in days.
I sat on the edge of my bed, then stood up, stretching my legs.
Normally, the doctor smiled when he came for me for our sessions. Today he did not. His eyes darted around my room—my empty lunch tray on the dresser, yesterday’s clothing rumpled in a pile on the chair—the paper clip was tucked under the corner of my mattress and I thought I saw his eyes linger even there for a second, although I was sure to be careful when I placed it, mindful of the camera.
“Let’s go, Anson.”
He opened the door wider and gestured for me to go first.
At the nurses’ station, Nurse Gilman did not smile as we passed; instead, she looked down at some papers on her desk and shuffled them.
The girl’s door was open.
I looked inside, hoping to see her propped up on her bed. She was not in the room. There were no sheets on the bed, and the room was completely empty—more so, soulless.
“Where is she?”
The doctor put a hand on my shoulder, pressed me forward. “Come along now, Anson.”
There were two men sitting outside the doctor’s office, both in rumpled suits. They looked up as we approached.
One of the men stood up. “Is this him?”
The doctor’s grip on my shoulder tightened, and then he let go. “Detective, this is Anson Bishop. Anson, this is the detective I told you about, Detective Welderman, and his partner, Detective . . . I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”
The other man stood up, smoothing out his slacks. “Stocks, Ezra Stocks.”
“Go ahead and turn around, Anson. Put your hands behind your back,” Detective Welderman said.
I did as I was told.
Cold steel slipped over my wrists and clicked tight.
Handcuffs.
The detective clicked both sides one more time, until they bit into my wrists. “They’re tight.”
“Yep.”
I thought about the paper clip under my mattress. I could open the handcuffs with the paper clip.
“Let’s go.” Welderman again, pushing at my back.
Detective Stocks led the way past the guard desk, through the metal door that opened with an electronic buzz, then down a series of hallways, an elevator, and finally out the front door. I could hear Dr. Oglesby behind me, talking in a hushed tone with Detective Welderman, but I could not make out the words.
A white Chevy Malibu waited at the curb, the paint covered in a layer of dirt and grime. Stocks opened the back door.
I planted my feet firmly on the ground. Welderman pulled up on the handcuffs, causing my arms to rotate painfully at my shoulders. “Keep moving, kid.”
He pushed me toward the car.
“Can I speak to the boy for one second? Privately?” Dr. Oglesby said from behind me.
“Keep it fast.” The grip on my handcuffs dropped away, and both detectives went around to the front of the car. Stocks pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Welderman raised a hand. “No time,” I heard him say.
The doctor turned me toward him and kneeled on the sidewalk. “I gave you every opportunity to talk to me, Anson, every opportunity. There is nothing else I can do for you.”
“Where is the girl?” I asked. “Where did she go?”
“You need to cooperate with these men. You’re young, you can get through this.”
“I want my knife back.”
The doctor leaned in close. I thought he was going to hug me. Then came a whisper in my ear: “What knife?”
The doctor stood up, took a step back from me. “Good luck, Anson. I wish you nothing but the best.”
He gave the detectives a wave, and both men returned.
Stocks forced me into the backseat, closing the door with a thud.