“Doc, I need to see the kid.”
The doctor looked over at the closed curtains sheltering Jaxon’s bed. “He’s scared and in pain. I’ve given him a sedative, so he’s probably going to be out for a while. Maybe if we give him a little time.”
“We don’t have time.”
“Why not?”
David held his hand out with a single finger in the air. “First of all, if that is the same Jaxon, that means he’s been held somewhere for the last decade. Anyone who did that could easily have other kids. What do you think he would do to them once he figures out Jaxon is gone?”
The doctor blanched. “I didn’t think about that.”
David raised a second finger. “The second problem is the rumor mill. Small towns know everything. The kid’s name was broadcast over the police radio, and someone with a scanner heard it. I’m not the only one who is going to make the connection. The last thing we want is for his family to hear from someone else.” He added a third finger. “Which brings me to a problem very close to you. The Jaxon who disappeared ten years ago? His mother is a nurse at this hospital.”
“A nurse here?”
“Yes. Heather Lathan. You know her?”
“It’s a small hospital, Sheriff. We all know each other. Night shift in surgical recovery on the third floor.”
“How long do you think it’s going to be until she hears about who you have here in the emergency department?”
The doctor raised both his hands. “Got it. But I’m still not sure he’s going to speak to you.”
“Maybe not, but he’ll talk to her.” David motioned to a heavyset woman in colorful scrubs who had been going in and out of the boy’s room.
Dr. Queen pursed his lips. “If anyone can win him over, it’s Sheila.”
When Sheila joined them, she wasn’t as enthusiastic. The warm, jovial caretaker morphed into a staunch protector of her young charge. She crossed her arms and studied the sheriff with an icy look. “The last thing that boy needs is a bunch of police questions. He needs time to heal.”
“Agreed. But I need to figure out where he came from so I can make sure no other kids are in trouble. That’s it.”
Sheila squinted and studied the sheriff before spinning on her heels. She took off at a brisk walk toward the curtained room. David followed on her heels, but she stopped him just outside the curtain and held up her hand. “Wait,” she commanded then slipped inside.
He stewed in the corridor, frustrated to be kept outside when he needed—needed—some information, but he reminded himself to be patient. He could hear Sheila whispering to the boy, too quietly to be understood out in the corridor on the other side of the curtain. The boy’s mumbled replies were equally impossible to decipher.
Fortunately, Dr. Queen had gone to handle the heart-attack patient, whose loud protests continued to rattle the room. David hoped the doc would be held up for a while and stay out of his way. Nurse Sheila was enough of an impediment.
After several excruciating moments, Sheila pulled back the curtain and invited David to join them with the admonition, “If you upset Jaxon, I will toss you out. Understand?”
He opened his mouth to respond but froze when he saw the kid on the bed. He had never met Jaxon Lathan in person before he was kidnapped, at least not that he remembered, though it was always possible in a small county, but the face looking back at him looked startingly like the photographs clipped to the front of the case file.
Shaggy, matted hair hung long over his bare, bony shoulders, only a hint of the original dark brown sheen coming through the filth. His dull gray eyes no longer held the brilliant, shimmering blue captured in a photo of him with a birthday cake. His face was gaunt and drawn around the cheekbones and had lost the long-ago innocence of the six-year-old child. An ugly, purple scar snaked from his ear across his cheek, marring that once-smooth skin.
Despite the differences, David’s disbelief dwindled. He had stared at the kid’s photo too many times, haunted by his mischievous little grin. Despite the changes wreaked by years of abuse, Jaxon Lathan, missing for a decade, sat in front of the sheriff. He knew that what little doubt danced around the back of his mind could be eliminated with a few simple questions.
Sheila settled into a chair beside the head of the bed. She enveloped the boy’s thin hand within her grasp and spoke quietly. “Honey, this is David here. He’s here to help, and I’m going to stay with you while he’s here. Would you answer a few questions for him?”
The boy’s eyes darted back and forth between the sheriff and the nurse, and he gripped her hand. David tucked himself into a chair at the foot of the bed, making himself appear as small and nonthreatening as possible, which wasn’t an easy task with his tall frame or something he usually did. Being an imposing figure was usually a strength in law enforcement.
With a soft voice, he asked, “Can you tell me your last name, Jaxon?”
The boy looked at Sheila, his eyes wide and uncertain. She smiled and brushed his long bangs out of his eyes. When he turned back to face David, his hands were trembling, and his voice shook. “We weren’t allowed to use our last names. He told us to forget them.”
“He?”
“The man.” The boy looked confused as he searched for words. “His house. His rules. That’s what he always said.”
“Tell me about him.”
The boy drew his legs up against his chest like a turtle withdrawing into his shell. His face drained of color, and his eyes spread wide in fear. He mumbled, “I don’t want to talk about him.”
David decided to circle back to identifying the boy. “He isn’t here, and it’s okay to use last names here in the hospital. For example, my last name is Newman. Can you tell me yours?”
The boy’s breath rasped. “I don’t remember it.”
The answer startled the sheriff. “You don’t remember it? Or you aren’t allowed to say it?”
“Well, it was against the rules to say it. But it doesn’t matter, because I don’t remember it, either.”
He sat back in his chair. “If I said it, would it ring a bell?”
The boy shrugged.
“For example, if I said Smith, would that mean anything?”
The boy shrugged again, his eyes darting around the room. David swallowed, puzzled about how to proceed. He wasn’t getting anywhere and didn’t see any risk to going straight to what he wanted to know. He plunged ahead. “What about Lathan?”
The boy’s eyes stopped and focused on the sheriff. Barely perceptibly, his lips moved in a soft whisper. “Lathan.”
“Is that your last name, son?”
The boy glanced nervously at the nurse, seeking reassurance.
“Jaxon, please look at me. Do you remember that last name, son?”
The boy kept his eyes down, avoiding the sheriff’s gaze, but he nodded ever so slightly. He whispered, “Jaxon Lathan.”
David clasped his hands together to hide the trembling. Be sure, he reminded himself. Be sure. “Can you spell it?”
More confidently, the boy spelled, “L-A-T-H-A-N.”
Two common names with unusual spellings. The last shreds of doubt were dissipating.
More unsettling, though, was the reaction of the nurse. She clearly hadn’t made the connection earlier, but a missing child in a place as small as Millerton would have been remembered, even years later. Her response to the uttered name told him it had sunk into her and wrenched open the memories of the town in shock over the disappearance of one of their own. David knew others would remember as quickly—and many of them would also remember the investigator who had so confidently told everyone the father had been suspected of murdering his own child. But if the boy sat there, living and breathing, he had to wonder what else the investigation had been wrong about.
He needed to be one hundred percent sure. “I want to talk about before you went to that place. Do you remember where you lived before? The address?”
The boy looked puzzled and shook his head. “I don’t remember before. It was a long time ago.”
“Do you remember how old you were when you left where you lived before?”
The boy glanced nervously at the nurse, who squeezed his hand in comfort. He turned back to the sheriff but kept his eyes lowered as he whispered. “Six. I think. I’m pretty sure.”
“What happened that morning? Can you tell me what happened to you?”
Jaxon’s voice sounded more confident. “Connor was a really cool big brother and played games and stuff. We were supposed to stay at the house until Dad got there, but he was late like always. Rode bikes to the park so Connor could see his friends. He went riding on the trails around the park. Said he would be back. Don’t tell Mom he left. Don’t leave the playground. Don’t go home. Stay right here.”
David considered the story told in such a choppy, hesitant manner. The mention of Connor’s name horrified him because he remembered the kid crying incessantly as he confessed to leaving his brother alone while he rode off with his friends. They never published those details because they didn’t want to traumatize him.
He knew he should stop asking questions, but the cop in him persisted. Acid spread through his stomach as he was taken back to that day. He swallowed hard but asked the question because he had to know what he had missed that day. “And…?”
Jaxon leaned against Sheila, who shot the sheriff a warning look. But the story up to that point was one David already knew. Who the little boy had left the park with had always been the question. “Just a little more, Jaxon. What happened next?”
The boy hung his head and whispered, “A man asked for help.”
“Your… father?”
David’s last hope that the investigation had at least pointed in the right direction evaporated as the boy shook his head vigorously. “No. The man.”
“What did he say?”
“He’d lost his puppy and needed help finding it. He had a leash in his hand. No one else was around to help. He was nice at first. His van was parked there. Offered a Coke from the cooler in his van for helping him. The door slammed shut. Duct tape on mouth. Duct tape around wrists and ankles. Can’t scream. Can’t run. Hurt. Can’t fight ’cause he’s bigger.”
David sat back in his chair, horrified at the simple story. “What did the van look like?”
The boy closed his eyes. His answer was monotone, a voice of surrender. “Two-tone brown. Kinda old. The back had boxes and stuff. Smelled funny. Drove a long time.”
“You’re doing good, Jaxon. What was the man like?”
“There wasn’t a puppy. He lied. He smelled and was really mean. He hit and… uh… does stuff. Doesn’t care if you cry. Slapped really, really hard if you talked back or tried to stop him.” Tears welled up in Jaxon’s eyes. He turned to Sheila, who gathered him in her arms. She shook her head at the sheriff as the boy cried, “I don’t want to talk about him.”
“The place. Can you talk about the place? Tell me where it was?”
But the boy could only sob.