by Joe Stanley

2

Detective Stephens pulled up to the house, wondering where he could park. There were police cruisers, an ambulance, and several news vans clotting the street. He was forced to park down the block.

Though a missing child is a horror for any community, and one in which every passing moment adds pressure, he took his time. He reviewed the information he had been given one last time, and stepped out of the car.

He spied a group of children watching the house from the corner. Waving, he walked toward them. He noticed the traces of fear in their expressions, but these were soon gone as he smiled and introduced himself.

“Do you guys know the little boy that lives there?” he asked, hoping for some insight into places the boy might have gone. He was surprised by their answer.

“No.”

“You don’t?” he asked, looking confused.

“No, he never comes outside.”

“Never? So I guess you didn’t see him today.”

“I think he’s afraid to come outside.”

“What about at school? Do you see him on the bus?”

“Yeah, I guess he can’t be afraid to come outside if he can go to school.”

The detective’s smile was wiped away almost immediately.

“It’s his mom. She’s mean. She won’t let him come outside.”

“Mean?”

“Yeah, she yells a lot.”

“Well, all parents yell sometimes…”

“She yells a lot! Almost every day.”

“That is a lot.”

“Will he come back?”

“I hope so,” he answered, “The police are going to do everything we can to make that happen soon.”

Seeing their smiles, he said “Now I’ve got to go inside to see if I can help.”

He knew that things were worse than they seemed. Some people called it intuition, but he called it a curse. He hated being right, and he always found himself surprised by it, which made it worse somehow. Once he was inside and introduced, his heart just sank deeper.

The foster parent, Ms. James, was as phony as they get. He didn’t like her a bit. He took her story and promised to help, hoping that his hidden suspicion was a better act than hers. After a few whispered conversations with the other officers, things were looking grim. He went through a mental list and found three reasons that made him expect the worst.

First, the neighborhood children had not seen the boy today. If anyone would have noticed him outside, it would be them. Children are far more observant than most people give them credit for. It was through them that James’ temper had been revealed.

Second, James had the feel of a liar. When he compared the story she gave him with the story she had given the other officers, it had changed more than once. Additionally, her demeanor seemed inappropriate to the situation. He supposed that could be explained by the fact that she was a foster mother and lacked the familial bond a biological parent might feel, but a gnawing in his gut told him that James wasn’t worried about the boy because she already knew what had happened.

Finally, and worse than any other reason, was the garden… and the shovel. It was a likely place to dispose of a body. With a high privacy fence, it was indeed possible for her to have buried him without being seen, and she was obviously used to digging.

As much as he was convinced that the possibility had to be the correct one, he knew he could only wait for other options to disappear first. Volunteers had come to the search the neighborhood starting at the house and spreading outward. As night came, the chances that the boy had wandered off seemed as faint as starlight. If he had just wandered away there was only so much distance he could travel, especially considering his medical history. Though the volunteers had to move slowly to be thorough, they should have over taken him.

The likelihood that he had gotten lost or run away seemed slim. It was possible, he admitted to himself, but it was only a small chance. It was all that kept him from dragging James downtown and having her garden ripped up. Considering that the search had gone on for hours, the boy either had help leaving the area or he had never left at all. Neither possibility gave the detective any hope.

As the hour grew late, James’ doctor had suggested she have a mild sedative and try to get some sleep. Stephens had kept his cards close to his chest, and his patience was wearing thin. He had to hold it for a little longer, or by the time he came back with a warrant, James might be in Canada or Mexico.

As the search was called off for the night, he sat in his car. He hoped the boy would come running out of the night, so he lingered. He looked at the house with disgust, as by all appearances it should be just another happy home. He swore that if she was responsible he would make her pay.

He always wished that he could stay professional, not taking any case personally, but somehow he always felt connected. He supposed that being personal with a case came with the implication that other cases had not received his full attention. He knew it wasn’t true, but it felt like a failing anyway.

As he sat in the dark, looking at the house, he thought of the boy and the garden. In his heart, he already knew what the truth was. He wanted to dig up that garden and drag James to the hole… He caught the fury before it got the better of him and assured himself that she would get what was coming to her. Justice would be served and he would be there to see it through. As a man of the Law, he carried a badge and a gun and the conviction that he fought the good fight. He had taken criminals off the street his whole career and he took a little satisfaction in believing that he had helped to make the world a safer place.

That confidence had gotten him through some very close calls. Even under fire, fear had never bested him, but here in the dark he wondered a question that shook his faith.

What can justice do for the dead?

He turned the key in the ignition. As the engine growled to life, a faint sound caught his attention. He killed the motor and stepped out, straining to hear what he though had been a muffled scream. A long moment passed but there was nothing else. He gasped for breath that he had been holding and reluctantly got back in the car. He waited a moment more and turned the engine over again, this time driving away into the night.

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