Authors: Blake Crouch,J. A. Konrath
“You like crocodiles?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“You aren’t scared of them?”
The boy shook his head.
“I got a snake.”
“
Nuh
uh.”
The boy looked up.
“Uh huh.”
“What kind?”
“It’s black and scaly and it lives in a glass box.”
“A terrarium?”
“Yeah.
Daddy catches mice for it.”
“It eats them?”
“Uh huh.
Slinky’s
belly gets real big.”
Mitchell smiled.
“I bet that’s something to see.”
They sat watching the Discovery Channel for twenty minutes, Joel engrossed now, Mitchell with his head tilted back against the headboard, eyes closed, a half grin where none had been for twelve months.
At
, the cell vibrated against Mitchell’s hip.
He opened the case and pulled out the phone.
“Hi, Lisa.”
“Mitch.”
“Listen, I want you to call me back in five minutes and do exactly what I say.”
“Okay.”
Mitchell closed the phone and slid off the bed.
The boy looked up, still half-watching the program on the world’s deadliest spiders.
He said, “I’m hungry.”
“I know, sport.
I know.
Give me just a minute here and I’ll order a pizza.”
Mitchell crossed the carpet, tracking through dirty clothes he should’ve taken to the laundry a week ago.
His suitcase lay open in the space between the dresser and the baseboard heater.
He knelt down, searching through wrinkled oxfords and blue jeans, khakis that had long since lost their creases.
It was a tiny, wool sweater—ice-blue with a magnified snowflake stitched across the front.
“Hey, Joel,” he said, “it’s getting cold in here.
I want you to put this on.”
He tossed the sweater onto the bed.
“I’m not cold.”
“You do like I tell you now.”
As the boy reached for the sweater, Mitchell undid the buttons on his plaid shirt and worked his arms out of the sleeves.
He dropped the shirt on the carpet and rifled his suitcase again until he found the badly faded T-shirt he’d bought fifteen years ago at a U2 concert.
On the way back to the bed, he stopped at the television and lifted the videotape from the top of the VCR, pushed it in.
“No, I
wanna
watch the—”
“We’ll turn it back on in a minute.”
He climbed under the covers beside the boy and stared at the bedside table, waiting for the phone to buzz.
“Joel, I’m
gonna
answer the phone.
I want you to sit here beside me and watch the television and don’t say a word until I tell you.”
“I’m hungry.”
The phone vibrated itself toward the edge of the bedside table.
“I’ll buy you anything you want if you do this right for me.”
Mitchell picked up the phone.
Lisa calling.
He closed his eyes, gave himself a moment to engage.
He’d written it all down months ago, the script in the bedside table drawer under the Gideon bible he’d taken to reading every night before bed, but he didn’t need it.
“Hi, Honey.”
“Mitch, I’m so glad you—”
“Stop.
Don’t say anything.
Just hang on a minute.”
He reached for the remote control and pressed play.
The screen lit up, halfway through the episode of Seinfeld.
He lowered the volume, said, “Lisa, I want you to say, ‘I’m almost asleep.’”
“What are you—”
“Just do it.”
A pause, then: “I’m almost asleep.”
“Say it like you really are.”
Mitchell closed his eyes.
“I’m almost asleep.”
“We’re sitting here watching Seinfeld.”
He looked down at the top of Joel’s head, his hair brown with gold highlights, just the right shade and length.
He kissed the boy’s head.
“Our little guy’s just about asleep.”
“Mitch, are you drunk—”
“Lisa, I will close this fucking phone.
Ask how our day was.
Do it.”
“How was your day?”
“You weren’t crying that night.”
He could hear her trying to gather herself.
“How was your day, Mitch?”
He closed his eyes again.
“One of those perfect ones.
We’re in
Ouray
,
Colorado
now.
This little town surrounded by huge mountains.
It started snowing around
as we were driving down from Montrose.
If they don’t plow the roads we may not be able to get out tomorrow.”
“Mitch—”
“We had a snowball fight after dinner, and our motel has these Japanese soaking tubs out back, full of hot mineral water from the springs under the town.
Say you wish you were here.”
“That’s not what I said that night, Mitch.”
“What did you say?”
“I wish I could be there with you, but part of me’s so glad you two have this time together.”
“There aren’t many days like this, are there?”
“No.”
“Now, I just want to hear you breathing over the phone.”
He listened.
He looked at the television, then the boy’s head, then the ice-blue sweater.
Mitchell held the phone to Joel’s mouth.
“Say goodnight to Mom, Alex.”
“Goodnight.”
Mitchell brought the phone to his ear.
“Thank you, Lisa.”
“Mitch, who was that?
What have you—”
He powered off the phone and set it on the bedside table.
When the boy was finally asleep, Mitchell turned off the television.
He pulled the covers over the both of them and scooted forward until he could feel the hard ridge of the boy’s little spine press against his chest.
In the back window, through a crack in the closed blinds, he watched the snow falling through the orange illumination of a streetlamp, and his lips moved in prayer.
The knock finally came a few minutes after
, and nothing timid about it—the forceful pounding of a fist against the door.
“Mitchell Griggs?”
Mitchell sat up in bed, eyes struggling to adjust in the darkness.
“Mr. Griggs?”
More pounding as his feet touched the carpet.
“Griggs!”
Mitchell made his way across dirty clothes and pizza boxes to the door, which he spoke through.
“Who is it?”
“Dennis James,
Ouray
County
sheriff.
Need to speak with you right now.”
“Little late, isn’t it?”
He tried to make his voice sound light and unperturbed.
“Maybe I could come by your office in the—”
“What part of right now went past you?”
Mitchell glanced up, saw the chain still locked.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
“I think you know.”
“I’m sorry I don’t.”
“Six-year-old boy named Joel McIntosh went missing from the Antlers Motel this evening.
Clerk saw him getting into a burgundy
Jetta
just like the one you drive.”
“Well, I’m sorry.
He’s not here.”
“Then why don’t you open the door, let me confirm that so you can get back to sleep and we can quit wasting precious minutes trying to find this little boy.”
Mitchell glanced through the peephole, glimpsed the sheriff standing within a foot of the door under one of the globe lights that lit the second-floor walkway, his black parka dusted with snow, his wide-brimmed cowboy hat capped with a half-inch of powder.
Mitchell couldn’t nail down the sheriff’s age in the poor light—late sixties perhaps, seventy at most.
He held the
forend
stock of a pump-action shotgun in his right hand.
“I’ve got two deputies out back on the hill behind your room if you’re thinking of—”
“I’m not.”
“Just tell me if you have the boy—”
A radio squeaked outside.
The sheriff spoke in low tones, then Mitchell heard the dissipation of footsteps.
A minute limped by before the sheriff’s voice passed faintly through the door again.
“You still there, Mitch?”
“Yeah.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’m
gonna
sit down.
I been walking all over town since seven o’clock.”
The sheriff lowered out of sight, and through the peephole, Mitchell could only see torrents of snow dumping on the trees and houses and parked cars.
He eased down on the carpet and leaned against the door.
“I was just speaking with your wife.
Lisa’s concerned for you, Mitch.
Knows why you’re here.”
“She doesn’t know any—”
“And so do I.
You may not know this, but I helped pull you and your son out of the car.
Never forget it.
Been what, about a year?”
“To the day.”
Drafts of frigid air swept under the door, Mitchell shivering, wishing he’d brought a blanket with him from the bed.
“Mitch, Lisa’s been trying to call you.
You have your cell with you?”
“It’s turned off, on the bedside table.”
“Would you talk to her for me?”
“I don’t need to talk to her.”
“I think it might not be a bad—”
“I had a meeting the next morning in
Durango
.
Had brought him along, ‘cause he’d never seen the
Rockies
.
That storm came in overnight, and you know, I just…I almost waited.
Almost decided to stay the day in Ouray, give the plows a chance to scrape the pass.”
“I got a boy of my own.
He’s grown now, but I remember when he was your Alex’s age, can’t say I’d have survived if something like what happened to your son happened to him.
You got a gun in there, Mitch?”
In the back of Mitchell’s throat welled a sharp, acidic tang, like tasting the connectors of a nine-volt battery, but all he said was, “Yeah.”
“Is the boy all right?”
Mitchell said nothing.
“Look, I know you’re hurting, but Joel McIntosh
ain’t
done a thing to deserve getting dragged into this.
Boy’s probably terrified.
You thought about that, or can you not see past your own—”
“Of course I’ve thought about it.”
“Then why don’t you send him on out, and you and me can keep talking.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I just…I can’t.”
Mitchell heard footsteps outside the door.
He got up quickly, glanced through the peephole just in time to see the battering ram swing back.
He stumbled toward the bed as the door exploded off its hinges and slammed to the floor, two men standing in the threshold—the sheriff with the shotgun trained on him, a deputy with a flashlight and a handgun.
Mitchell shielded his eyes, specks of snow blowing in, luminescent where they passed through the LED beam, couldn’t see the man behind the light, but the sheriff’s eyes were hard and kind.
He could tell this even though they lived in the shadow of a Stetson.
The sheriff said, “I don’t see the boy, Wade.
Mitchell, let me see those hands.”
Mitchell took a deep, trembling breath.
“Come on, Mitch, let me see your hands.”
Mitchell shook his head.
“Goddamn, son, I won’t tell you—”
Mitchell swung his right arm behind his back, his fingers wrapping around the remote control jammed down his boxer shorts, the room fired into blue by the illumination of the television, the laugh track to Seinfeld blaring, Wade screaming the sheriff’s name as a greater light bloomed beside the lesser.