What Follows After: A Novel (15 page)

It had taken August thirty more minutes to make his way home than he had planned. That stinkin’ rear tire went flat on him. He’d been eyeing both of them for the last month or so, hoping to squeeze a few thousand more miles before he had to fork over the money for a new pair. The spare he’d stuck on there wasn’t much better than the tire that had blown. But it would have to do for now.

The other thing that had slowed him down were all the people out shopping, on a Tuesday morning no less. It was the craziest thing. Worse than shopping on Saturdays. And this town didn’t have but a few hundred residents. Seemed like nearly all of them had picked that moment to replenish their cupboards. Only time he’d seen anything like this was two years ago when Hurricane Donna had come through.

He didn’t like chitchatting with people, but his curiosity was getting the better of him. He was just about to break down and talk with someone when he overheard a small group of ladies by the produce tables all lathered up about something they heard the president say last night. He’d heard people buzzing on the bus ride yesterday about the president going on TV, but August made no plans to listen to him. Why should he? He’d voted for Nixon in
the last election. Since then, he’d noticed how the whole country seemed to go ape over JFK, especially over his wife, Jackie. But August was no hypocrite. Figured he wouldn’t pay much attention to politics till ’64 when the whole thing started back up again.

But hearing these old ladies go on, you’d think JFK had announced the world was coming to an end. If that was true, he didn’t see much good in filling up your kitchen with a month’s worth of groceries.

Something was going on with Cuba and the Russians; he didn’t know exactly what. August didn’t pay for the newspaper to be delivered every day. The routes didn’t come out this far from town anyway. So he’d picked up a paper at the store and put it in the grocery bag to read when he got home.

He was just turning onto his street now, a shady dirt road. Plenty of quiet, few people. Houses spread far apart, just the way he liked it. The neighbor on one side lived up north most of the year. The neighbor on the other side had tried to make friends when she first moved in a few years ago. But there were ways to discourage things like that. People generally got the message you wanted to be left alone if you kept sending it loud and clear.

He started things off right by not even answering the door that first time when she’d brought over some homemade blueberry pie. He made sure she knew he was home too. She had kept knocking a good while, then finally gave up. August had let the pie sit there a couple of hours, occasionally peeking out the window until he was sure she was looking. Then he walked out, picked up the pie, and carried it over to the trash can. He had tossed it inside, making as much noise as he could.

It was quite a sacrifice, especially when he’d realized it was blueberry. But it had to be done. She’d left him alone pretty much all the time after that.

As he drove down his long, bumpy dirt driveway toward the house, he knew right off the bat something was wrong. Couldn’t quite place what it was, so he slowed to a crawl.

Then he saw it. The bedroom window. Bobby’s window. It was open, the thin green curtains blowing in and out. He knew for certain that window was closed when he’d left for the store. He accelerated the car to the end of the driveway and slammed on the brakes. He got out and ran toward the house, leaving the food, even left his car door open.

There was no way he’d let this happen again.

“Bobby!” he shouted as he ran to the right side of the house. “Bobby, you in there?” There was no answer. He leaned inside the boy’s bedroom. No one there. But he knew that already. That was why the window was open. The boy had gotten out! August had been gone so long, Bobby could be anywhere by now. How could August have been so stupid and not checked to make sure the window was locked?

The water.

Boys loved water. Attracted them like bees to pollen. Instantly, he set out running. “Bobby!” he screamed over and over, eyes looking all around. He couldn’t lose him. Not again. “Bobby! Where are you, boy?”

When he got to the water’s edge, he almost jumped right in. Horrible memories flashed through his brain. But he quickly realized Bobby wasn’t there. It was just a memory, a dark, terrifying memory.

Then where was he? He turned and began to scan the property all around the house, but there was no sign of him. He ran toward the neighbor’s house on the right side, calling out his name. Maybe Bobby had gone there. This was the neighbor who lived up north. If Bobby tried them, no one would answer the bell.

August ran all around the property but saw no sign of him.

He took off toward the neighbor’s house on the other side, which was a good distance away. For a moment, he thought about stopping at his house for his gun. If Bobby had gone to that neighbor, there might be some trouble. But when August reached the clearing, he happened to look down by the water.

That was when he saw him.

A little boy, walking along the water’s edge, about halfway around on the south side. Had to be him, had to be Bobby. August hadn’t seen him before; that big cluster of bushes must’ve blocked his view. August moved toward him, but this time he didn’t call out the boy’s name. Didn’t want to take the chance he’d scare him, cause the boy to set off running. He did that, Bobby might fall right into that water and drown.

Besides, he didn’t know the people over that way and how’d they feel about him trespassing on their land. So he decided just to run quiet like, a little ways off the waterline. As he ran, he came up with his plan.

He’d come at Bobby from behind, hide a moment in some palmetto bushes, make sure nobody saw him run up, and snatch Bobby. He’d probably have to cover up the boy’s mouth to keep him from screaming his head off on the way back to the house. He didn’t want to, but it had to be done.

Of course, if anyone did see him, he could just tell them he was running after his boy and had to carry him like this, because the boy knew the spanking he’d get when they got home. For running off and for playing near the water. Everyone spanked their kids when they misbehaved.

And he had one more thing in his favor . . . none of his neighbors would have any reason to question him about bringing his boy back to the house, since none of them knew what happened the last time.

August kept his eye on Bobby as he rounded the first curve. Bobby was still walking away, in the wrong direction. And he was way too close to the water’s edge. August would have to teach him a lesson, one he wouldn’t soon forget.

Bad little boys that didn’t mind had to be punished.

Bobby would have to spend some time in the dark place. And he’d better get used to it too, because that’s where he’d have to stay from now on, whenever August left the house.

About three o’clock that afternoon, Gina and Rose left for the grocery store to pick up some food for the next few days. Gina was a little annoyed that the FBI hadn’t called back yet. Colt had just left to play with his best friend Murph, who lived across the street.

Scott had initially told him not to talk about the situation with Murph, until Colt explained that Murph already knew the first part, about them running away, and had done his best to talk Colt out of it. He might as well know the rest of the story, Scott decided. Maybe Murph could be some comfort to Colt. Before his son had run out the door, Scott said, “Make sure Murph knows he can talk to his folks about this and that they can call me if they need to.”

“I will.”

A few minutes later, the phone rang. Scott picked it up.

“Hello, Scott? This is Vic Hammond. Sorry I’m late calling you, but a few things came up.”

“Anything about Timmy?”

“We’ve talked a lot about him, but there aren’t any new leads, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“It is. So, you calling about the decision to start treating this as an abduction?”

“Yeah, we made that call over an hour ago. I was going to call you then, but a reporter was standing right here, so we worked on putting together a press release, which I just authorized to be wired to all news outlets and other law enforcement agencies. Things should start getting a lot more active very soon.”

Scott sat in the chair next to the telephone. “Is there anything we can do? Anything at all?”

“For now,” Vic said, “just be prepared to take any phone calls from reporters. Most of them are following up on stories related to this whole Cuba situation, but I’m pretty sure some will see this as a big story and try to get an interview with you and Gina.”

“Gina and I talked about it, and we are willing to do things like that. We want to do anything that’ll help get Timmy back.”

“Good, we appreciate that. We’re going to try to get coverage on the radio and local television news too, not just the newspapers.”

“The radio and TV?” Scott repeated. Mike heard this and took a step closer.

“Yes,” Vic said, “lots of people are listening to their radios all day, trying to get the latest on this crisis with Cuba and the Russians. And they’ll be watching the TV news every time it’s on. In the next day or so, our plan is that everyone in Florida, maybe even in parts of Alabama and Georgia, will hear about Timmy.”

“You think there’s a chance Timmy’s in Georgia or Alabama?”

“Could be. Nate pointed out that once that bus hit Jacksonville, it could have turned west toward the panhandle.”

Scott hoped not. The whole state of Florida already seemed way too big a haystack to search through.

“Nate and I will have our hands full shortly, running down every lead that comes in, as well as recruiting more help, so it might be a little hard to reach us. You still have my card?”

“I do.”

“Well, just call that number. They’ll be able to reach us, and I’ll get right back to you.”

“Will do,” Scott said. “And thanks, Vic, for everything you’re doing. You and Nate.”

“We’ll do all we can,” Vic said.

They hung up, and Scott filled Mike in on the details. Just as he finished, the phone rang again. Who could it be? he thought. He picked it up on the third ring.

“Hello, is Scott Harrison there?”

It sounded like Scott’s boss from GE. “Is that you, Mr. Finch?”

“It’s me. Scott?”

“Yes, sir, I’m here.” Finch had never called him at home. Scott wasn’t even sure how he got the number.

“Hey, I’m glad I got you. Just wanted to call and tell you how sorry we are about your boy being missing.”

Wow, Scott thought, this was unexpected. “Thank you, Mr. Finch.”

“But one of them came home, right?”

“Yes, last night.”

“Haven’t heard anything about it on the news yet. Maybe it’s getting drowned out by all this news about Cuba. That was really something, what the president said last night. Mark Mitchell was the one told me about your boys, down at the Castaway Motel.”

Mark was Scott’s assistant, the one filling in for him today. “I just got off the phone with the FBI, as a matter of fact. You should start reading and hearing about the kidnapping later today. They wanted to wait a little while to make sure this wasn’t a ransom-type kidnapping. They didn’t think it was, but they had to be sure. That’s why I had to stay by the phone, just in case.”

Finch didn’t reply immediately, then he said, “Things have really started hopping down at the Castaway this afternoon. The Expo’s just a few days away.”

Well,
now
this phone call was starting to make more sense. Scott didn’t reply.

“Talking with Mark there—just got off the phone with him—he seems a bit overwhelmed by it all. Know what I mean?”

Scott did. He wished he didn’t. He wanted the illusion that Mr. Finch actually cared about him to last at least a few moments longer.

“This project is really your baby, Scott. I can see Mark handling all the behind-the-scenes aspects, but he doesn’t really have your gift of gab. Not even close. I think if he tries to give some of those talks you were planning to give, he’d bore people to tears. And he really only knows about half of what’s going on, so I don’t see all the Q&A sessions working out too well, either.”

Scott couldn’t believe this. This was the kind of pressure you applied when a worker was home milking a sore throat or a cold, not when their child was kidnapped. Was he kidding? Of course, Scott knew the answer. He glanced at Mike, who was standing by the coffeepot, pouring another cup. He was pretty sure Mike couldn’t hear what his boss was saying, but he had to be careful with his own replies. “I’m really sorry about that, Mr. Finch. But I don’t see how I can help. Nobody knows how important this Expo is more than me. I’ve been working on it nonstop for weeks. But sir, my son was kidnapped yesterday.”

“Oh, I know,” Finch said. “You need to be available for your family at a time like this.”

“With all respect, sir, I don’t need to be available
for
them, I need to be here
with
them.”

“But I thought you said the FBI cleared up that this wasn’t a standard kidnapping, so you don’t really have to stay chained to the telephone anymore, right?”

“Mr. Finch, I need to be here.”

“I see.”

Scott doubted that.

“You don’t think there’s a chance you could split your time between the two places? The Castaway’s only, what, ten minutes from where you live?”

“I really don’t, Mr. Finch. At least not the rest of the day, and probably not tomorrow. If the press stops calling after that for a while, then maybe . . .”

“No, I understand, Scott. You do what you gotta do. We’re all pulling for you over here. Look, I’ve gotta go. Got a meeting to attend before I call it a day.”

They said their good-byes and hung up. When Scott looked up, Mike was standing there.

“Was that your boss?”

Scott nodded and released a chestful of frustration.