Noah's Rainy Day (38 page)

“Or grab the flight attendant’s mic and sing ‘Feliz Navidad,’” I added.

“It’s what willful, energetic, happy little boys do,” Jack said.

I wished I weren’t sitting beside Jack and that I was facing him instead so I could study his face. He knew this from direct experience, his son forever frozen in time at the age of six. He had probably replayed every single movement, activity, and decision related to his son over and over in his mind. He’d know. And it’s probably the reason this moment caught his eye. Someone like me with no kids might not have caught the subtlety. But now that they had pointed it out to me, I remember doing the same thing. Only as my brothers stuck their tongues to the inside of the frozen windows and made slobber faces in our station wagon on the way to school, us girls were making flowers or tiny feet from the heel of our curled hands, using pinkies to dot the five toes.

“I would have expected any child on the video to be scared, upset, looking lost, or maybe crying or trying to pull free from the grip of the stranger who’s taking him. But this child is happy and laughing,” I said. “I wonder if he knows the man?”

“He did pull free, and see how the man reacts? He looks the other
way first, around him to see if anyone notices, then hurries after the child. Definitely suspicious behavior,” Gates said.

“He looks terrified,” I observed. “At least judging by his body language.”

Jack nodded. “Right. The man’s reaction was what made us pause the first time. And if it weren’t for the slobber face moment, I might not have looked closer at what I first thought was a little girl being led out of the airport by her father. On second glance and after clarifying the close-up of the child, I’m thinking this is the boy.”

Jack’s finger tapped the keyboard until a large image pulled in slowly on the screen.

Streeter said, “See? The eyes. It’s definitely him.”

Jack pulled up a picture of little Max and put the image side-by-side with the photo we’d been showing to drum up witnesses.

“Oh my,” I said under my breath. “It is him. It’s little Max!”

“It fits, Streeter, the time of this video with the account by Kevin Benson,” Jack confirmed.

“And with the scent that caused Beulah to hesitate in the short-term parking. But why hadn’t she followed little Max’s trail from the bathroom out this door?” Gates asked.

Jack looked over at me and then answered, “I’m speculating, but the smell of shoe polish, especially as much of it as this guy would’ve used on the boy’s hair, probably confused or overpowered the scent for Beulah.”

I nodded. “That’s what I told Streeter last night. Makes sense.”

“Replay that,” Streeter said. After rewinding and playing the clip several more times, Streeter told Jack, “Stop it, right there. What’s that?”

Jack zoomed in on the hump on the man’s back. “Oh, I see that now. I didn’t before.”

“It’s a backpack, probably filled with the clothes he dressed him in: the light coat and stocking cap and what looks like sweatpants for little Max. See? He probably just slid those over little Max’s knickers.”

“And that’s where he had the black shoe polish. In the backpack,” Jack added.

“Oh, sure. Look how baggy the pants are on the child. And the coat is too big,” Tony said. “What’s he carrying?”

“Peanut M&M’s,” I said. I knew my candy. “That’s probably how the
guy got little Max to come to him. Offered him candy. And look how happy little Max is.”

“He doesn’t even know what’s happening,” Streeter said.

“Unless he knows the guy, like Liv suggested. Unless someone hired him to do his or her dirty work,” Tony said.

“I just don’t think this was all part of a plan like that. I really think that sex offender list will help us, Chief. I don’t think someone paid Kevin Benson’s girlfriend to convince Benson to meet her in the main terminal and distract him so this guy could snatch little Max. It just doesn’t fly,” I said. “Besides, who in their right mind would hire this guy?” I pointed at the slovenly man on the screen.

“I agree with you, Liv,” Streeter said. I noticed him studying the man on the video as closely as I was and wished I could read his mind. “And not a kidnapping.”

Jack said, “And even if something tragic happened—like the boy was accidentally killed—a kidnapper would most likely go through with a ransom attempt, if that was the plan all along.”

Streeter turned his wrist. “It’s been more than twenty-four hours and no call. We have hourly reports from both field offices in New York City and Los Angeles, who’ve been monitoring the Williamses’ phones. Phil is watching their every movement. Our best use of time is to find this man and worry about who hired him or his motives later. I agree with Liv. I think the list of local child sex offenders is key, Tony.”

“Might be dozens. It will take time to locate each person on the list,” the chief said. He hitched a hip and huffed, I assumed with exasperation, which is what we all felt.

Jack replayed the clip as we all watched the man’s movements in slow motion. “We’re working on the exact sequence of events on this guy and the so-called little girl once they left the airport.”

Streeter said, “We have to find this guy. And fast. Before it’s too late.”

Noah

MY DAD PLEADED WITH
my mom. “No, no, no, Frances. If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, stop. We can’t do anything about it.”

“We could call the child protective services people,” Mom suggested.

Yes, yes
, I screamed.

“No,” Dad said sternly. “No, we can’t. They’ll think we’re crazy. Think about it, Frances. How are we going to explain that our son who cannot talk, write, or sign told us that he witnessed a young girl getting abused by our neighbor? It will never fly. They’ll just think we’re lunatics.”

Not a girl. Not a girl. The boy. Maximillian!
I kept saying, the moans tangling up with my parents’ discussion.

“But Gabriel, we can’t just ignore this. What about that little girl? Isn’t there something we can do? Maybe we should call Liv.”

I squealed. Then I heard my dad walk over to the window. Maybe he would see what I couldn’t. Maybe he’d spot Sammy playing in the backyard. Maybe the creepy neighbor photo guy would come barreling out of the house again and yank Sammy back inside. Maybe my dad would see a reason to call the police.

“Let me think about it. We’ll come up with something.” I felt Dad
lean down to tickle my stomach, saying, “Good job, kiddo! But listen here, cowboy. I don’t want to see you banging your head against the window again, you hear me? You’ve got a knot and a bruise the size of a golf ball.”

I didn’t care. It was worth it. If my parents called the authorities, they would figure out that the girl next door was actually the missing boy from television.

Dad scooped me up and carried me downstairs. “So we have Christmas dinner on our own tonight. Your mom thought maybe we should eat whatever we want.”

That brought a smile to my lips.

After eating my fill of leftover roast beef, mashed potatoes and homemade gravy, and so many cookies I felt like a stuffed piñata, I shoved my thick tongue out my lips to tell my mom
Enough
. Dad lifted me from my chair and laid me on a blanket in front of the living room television while my parents did dishes. It was early and the sun was still shining, but I hadn’t eaten much lunch before my seizure and almost nothing last night. I should be exhausted, but the thought of that poor kid next door missing out on Christmas kept my mind too busy to sleep.

I heard my mom ask my dad, “What do you think we should do about the girl next door?”

“I don’t know,” Dad answered.

“I was thinking maybe we could take a plate of Christmas cookies over there. Just be friendly? Maybe see if the girl’s okay. Discreetly, of course.”

“Of course,” Dad said. “I wish Emma were here. So our inquiries after the little girl might not feel so intrusive. Like we’ve been spying on him or something.”

“Well, we could say Noah saw her,” Mom suggested.

I frowned, didn’t smile. My lip started trembling.

“Not a great idea, huh, Noah? And Emma wouldn’t have cooperated anyway, even if she were here. Maybe I can say I saw the little girl from the window.”

As they finished the dishes, I heard my parents clanging plates and clinking silverware as they loaded the dishwasher. My attention was split between them and the lady on the television. I had hoped they’d finished. But they hadn’t. If they didn’t finish soon, they’d miss the lady altogether. I needed to do something fast.

I squealed as loud as I could to get their attention. I hated to have to do this again, but I held my breath and hurled my head like a spear, but this time my target was not the window. I heard quiet in the kitchen. They must have heard the thud of my head against the television screen. Stars circled my muddy gray vision. I was pleased.

My mom was first to run into the living room. Dad was right behind her. They stood above me and stared as they watched me push my weight onto my elbows, lift my head high, and fling myself at the television set again.

They stood, silent.

On the screen, they watched as the images of the now familiar missing boy named Maximillian Bennett Williams III flashed across the set. The volume was up high enough that they could hear the giggling boy. He called to his nanny from the top of a slide. “Nanny Judy! Nanny Judy! Watch this!” His giggling was distinct, infectious. To drive the point home, I mustered enough energy to lift myself off the floor again and to launch myself a final time at the TV. Even to me, the thud sounded like a bowling ball being dropped on a concrete driveway.

My head was pounding. WHAM, WHAM! But at least there was no giant finger plucking at the inside of my rib cage. I would be fine.

Mom knelt and scolded, “Noah! Stop doing that!”

When she rolled me over on my back, my gray eyes darted about in an effort to focus on hers and not on the circling stars. I squeezed my eyes shut to stop the throbbing.

My parents remained still. They listened to the rest of the news story as the female reporter spoke somberly into the microphone. “The authorities have not confirmed reports that kidnappers have contacted the Williamses. Mr. and Mrs. Williams insist nothing has changed since the earlier press conference, still offering a quarter-million-dollar reward for information leading to the return of their son. We will stay on top of this story as events unfold. And we here at Channel Nine News are hoping for the safe return of little Max Williams.”

“Now what, Noah?” Dad asked.

Mom added, “You seem obsessed with this kid. Are you trying to tell us something about him, too?”

She got it. I knew she would. I smiled and moaned happily, which was saying a lot since my head kept pounding and throbbing.

“Do you think the missing boy is being hurt by someone just like the little girl next door?” Dad asked.

I was confused about how to answer that question. The answer was definitely
yes
but if I answered the question that way, my parents would misunderstand why I was banging my head against the television. I wanted them to notice the missing boy’s giggle.

Dad had tried to figure out what I was thinking but missed the mark. What do I do now? Mom was so close and now was getting off track. Too much time had passed while I was making up my mind on how to answer, while I tried to blink the stupid stars away that kept circling and spinning. My parents assumed my answer was
no
anyway.

“Noah,” my mother asked. “Do you think that there are some similarities between the girl next door and the missing boy?”

This time, I smiled and darted my eyes upward. Better that they stay alert, even if not exactly on target.

“Do you think maybe the little girl is missing from some other home? That she doesn’t belong to our neighbor?”

I arched my back. My limbs jerked and stiffened as I smiled. My mom had finally understood. Sort of.

“Not good,” Dad said.

She patted my tense leg to calm me. “We’ll take care of it, Noah. Don’t worry. But you have to stop this head banging thing, okay?”

Gladly, I thought. I heard them slip back into the kitchen for a moment, noticing the sounds of crinkling saran wrap as it zipped across the sharp blade of the box. They were fixing a plate of cookies. They believed me! Their faith in me made me so happy, I sucked in a high-pitched screech.

“Let me go, Frances,” Gabriel insisted.

“Don’t be silly,” Frances reasoned. “Besides, if you go, it won’t look as convincing. Not many fathers go over to the neighbors’ to bring cookies as a gift. That would be weird.”

“Then we’ll go together.”

“You have to stay with Noah. Why don’t you call Boots, just to be on the safe side? She might want to know about this.”

Yes! Yes!
I screamed in my mind. I wanted to show Auntie Liv what I recorded with my football pin. If I got anything. And she’d figure out right away that the kid next door was little Max.

“You can call Liv yourself when we get back. Noah will be fine staying here by himself for a few minutes, won’t you Noah?” Gabriel said.

I smiled. I liked the idea that they would both have a chance to see the little girl and hopefully recognize that she wasn’t a girl at all but the boy on television. After a few seconds of the sound of coats and boots and hats being pulled on, Mom and Dad were out the front door.

And I was left alone.

BY THE TIME SHE
and Gabriel arrived at their neighbor’s door, Frances’s heart pounded in her chest. Nervously, she rang the doorbell. Listening to the faint noises behind the door, Frances held Gabriel’s hand, trying not to look too nervous in case their neighbor was watching through the peephole or from behind the curtains.

After several seconds, she rang the bell again. No one came to the door.

“Come on, Frances,” Gabriel said. “You tried.”

Frances pounded on the door with the heel of her fist. Eventually, the door opened, an odor wafting from inside that reminded Frances of a hospital. Or a laundromat. She couldn’t quite place the smell. Bleach maybe? The large, slovenly man on the other side of the door had a pocked face. Childhood acne, she wondered? She’d never seen her neighbor up close, only from a distance, his face always obscured. But now, here he was. His eyelids were heavy, his lips thick. His hair was black and shiny, as if it hadn’t been washed for a few days. It could have been from gel used to slick the thick hair into place, but Frances didn’t think so. Her bet was bad hygiene. Really bad. His sickly pale skin appeared translucent and made Frances think of what a mole would look like if it took a human form. He wore baggy khaki pants and a badly wrinkled flannel shirt that smelled musty.
His wide feet were covered with dingy sweat socks, and a few unclipped toenails poked through holes in the left sock.