A Measure of Blood (31 page)

“I'd say somebody ate or took a couple of beef jerkies. Don't think they hit the beer. My truck is gone. That's the main thing.” Adams doesn't look or sound much like a professor. He is squat and muscular, bald-headed by choice, and talks like a blue-collar toughie.

“Description of the truck?”

“Ford 250. Black, 1979.”

Potocki is on the phone in a second, updating the Amber Alert. Dolan and a trooper take some quick prints of the place, the others stand outside the doorway so as not to contaminate the scene further. Adams points out where he has two cameras fixed to the trees to catch the movements of elk. They're both disguised to look like tree bark.

“Hope those cameras are working,” Dolan mutters, but Christie can't help being excited by the luck of possible camera evidence.

“That Nadal was a problem kid,” Adams says as he takes out the memory cards from the cameras.

“Tell us anything you know,” Christie says.

“Nadal? Didn't like anything. Didn't like anyone.”

“His mother described him as hurt,” Christie says.

“Well, maybe. I always felt bad for him. He was, you know, far away, not in the here and now. I brought my laptop. I can play clips from these cards. There might be something. They're motion-­activated.”

And, moments later, there it is. Man and boy walking into the woods, boy reluctant.

Christie sweats, mops his brow. Please, not dead, he thinks. We'll get through anything else.

The films show the man and boy went into the woods but also that they came back. The films do not show the red Bug, but it has to be somewhere since the truck is gone; so the assembled party sets out scouring the woods and pretty soon the car is found.

“Perfectly good car,” says Adams.

“He must have known we were looking for the VW. He's a computer geek. Where does he get on the Internet?”

“Not here,” Adams says. “This is my refuge from it.”

Potocki says, “He could be anywhere. I mean he'd know how to nose up to a house or a business and borrow web access, so to speak. Filch. Warjack. Or he might have gone to a motel and gone legit.”

The troopers agree to keep someone there to watch the cabin.

Christie and his people take turns walking in the woods, seeing what they can see, and in spite of their panicking hearts, noting the astounding beauty of the place.

“I followed a path,” Colleen says. “Some tree markings. Very tiny. They appear to stop. Like they went so far and returned. It would make sense of what we saw on the camera, the timing. Matt came back with him. That's good.”

“They're gone from here,” Christie murmurs. “They have the truck. They won't be back.” And so he and his crew get in their two cars to drive back to Pittsburgh.

Christie drives with Colleen in the passenger seat. “Someone will see the truck,” she says. “Surely.”

But he's thinking about the boy's predilection for running and he's thinking if it hasn't happened yet, that's a bad sign.

THE BOY IS
CRYING.
He's trying to do it quietly, but he's crying. Nadal wishes he could undo the fact that he hit him. “What's going on?”

“I'm sick.”

Nadal is pretty sure it's just an excuse to stop the truck, but he does anyway. When they get out, Matt throws up everything he's eaten. He's bent over, heaving, and Nadal touches his head, because that's what his mother used to do when he was sick. Matt jerks away, frightened.

When they get back into the truck the boy looks for napkins and tries to remove a splash of vomit from his shirt.

“We could use some water,” Nadal says.

The boy nods.

“Wonder if there's a stream around.”

And now the boy starts crying in earnest. He's used to showers and TVs and full refrigerators. Can they risk a meal in a restaurant? No, they can't, no. When Nadal sees a sign for a motel, he thinks,
Yes, all right, let's have a calm day again—TV, order food in, check the Internet, get showered up—everything calm.

He can't stand the crying.

“What do you like to eat? Just tell me. Look, I'm not going to hit you again.”

“I don't know.”

“What feels good on your stomach? Soup?”

“I don't know. Maybe soup.”

“I think you need a nap. We were up most of the night.”

“I slept a lot.”

“Sleep is good for us. Try to sleep now.”

“Okay.”

“If you stay in the truck, if you behave, I'll get us a room. Can you stay? Behave? You have to stay lying down. Okay?”

“Yes.”

Some twenty minutes later, he pulls up at a Red Roof Inn. There's a restaurant next to it, not much else to see. On his way inside, he turns back to the truck. Can't see the boy. He's staying down. Nadal pulls out his money and Stanton Adams' registration.

But the young woman at the desk says, “We're not allowed to take anybody without a driver's license and a credit card.”

“My wallet was stolen. I'm getting replacements for everything.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Well, I have other ID and I have money to pay.”

“I'm sorry, I can't.”

He leaves, slamming the door. He didn't like her at all. She thought she was somebody special because she stood behind a desk.

The boy is curled up still.

He drives for another hour and decides on another motel, this one with a name that means nothing to him. Everest Motel. It's hard to find these lone ones that are not part of a cluster of chain motels. All he knows is he, too, wants to stop, regroup.

At the desk, an old fellow looks to be half-asleep and gives him no grief. Doesn't even watch him signing in. Nadal turns from time to time to look at the truck. All is still.

“You have any food delivery in case I don't feel like going out?”

“Mostly pizza. Pizza okay?”

“Might have to be.”

“You're bushed?”

“Yeah.”

He drives around the side. The room he was given is not totally out of view, but he didn't want to make a fuss. He carries his things in, watching the boy, who doesn't move and who almost looks like a baby, curled up, his thumb toward his mouth—not in, but like a memory.

He will be a good father. He will be better than he has been.

He carries the boy in. Nobody seems to notice. He trips twice, manages to get the kid on the bed.

“You're not sleeping?”

The boy's eyes open. “No.”

“You want TV?”

“Yes.”

“You like pizza? It's about all they have.”

“I like it.”

“Pizza it is. Take off your shirt. I'll wipe it off.”

“I might need clothes.”

“I know. It's on the list.”

“What list?”

“All the things we need to do.”

He puts on the TV and hands the remote to Matt. “Anything you want to watch is okay.”

He finds some papers on the bureau and those include the pizza places, two, one of which he chooses. He orders an extra large pizza and two Cokes.

Matt is channel-surfing.

Nadal opens his computer and boots up. The dialogue box keeps telling him he is not on the Internet. He calls the front desk.

“We don't have Internet in the rooms, but you can get on my machine here in the lobby.”

Lobby. He might have to do it. Eventually. He can't leave the boy now.

They watch a Steelers–Ravens game. Matt starts to talk to the TV. “Come on. Get him. Stop. Grab it.”
He does all this quietly, but still, it's something. It's nice to see him interested. Things get calmer.

The pizza arrives. The delivery man sees father and son watching TV. “Go Ravens,” he says.

Matt looks up, surprised. When the man leaves, he asks, “Where are we?”

“This is Ravens territory, I guess. Here. Eat.”

The motel is not as empty as Nadal thought. He hears cars pulling in, doors slamming. He keeps watching the boy.

Nadal realizes what he can do with the phone. He unplugs it where the wire meets the instrument and puts the phone under his bed. Matt appears not to notice.

THE ACTORS SLOG
AROUND,
worse than they are on an ordinary Sunday, this time both hungover and aware they may be bumping up against a tragedy. So after Marina, who is taking over the rehearsal, has done her best to rally them, after she has reviewed all the blocking they've done so far, she calls Jan Gabriel to offer what comfort and assurance she can.

It turns out it's Jan who catches her up. “Your husband called us. They're trying to trace another car now, a truck, I mean. It seems this man took Matt to a cabin in the woods … ” Jan's voice cracks. “But no blood. He's hopeful, he says, that Matt is alive.”

“I have hope, too,” Marina says softly. “Please try to do something to comfort yourselves.”

“What? There isn't anything.”

“Watch TV?” Even at rehearsal, one of the kids has tuned in the Steelers game on his iPad and the others gather around when they are not onstage. “Everything is going well here.”

“Good, good.”

“Someone will see him. Stay hopeful,” Marina says in as bright a voice as she can manage. She and Jan don't hang up.

The Steelers play. The kids manage to cheer every so often.

“Try to watch football,” she tells Jan. “Really, it's very occupying”. Even she wanders over to the iPad.

Marina pictures back roads, fumbling at motel desks, a man going backward in his life: becoming a young man in the woods with his father, becoming a kid in Florida with his mother, then a child in Puerto Rico.

He's going to Puerto Rico, she thinks.

FOR NADAL AND
MATT,
it is a calm day, just what Nadal wanted. They watch TV all day. Both television and pizza make them drowsy. When they get a little hungry at ten at night, they order another pizza. Nadal looks for comic movies on the TV because they make his son laugh. When it's midnight and he's pretty sure Matt is really tired, he puts him to bed.

“I'm going to need another shirt,” Matt says.

“I know. Tomorrow. I'll take care of you. I'll get you anything you need.”

Matt nods and closes his eyes.

Nadal sits up. Just sits on the bed, worrying. He's tempted to go to the front office to use the computer there when Matt is asleep. He opens the drapes to look out. Too many cars. Too many people.

He must sleep. Tomorrow he will start in earnest for Florida and he won't stop until he gets there. He starts to pace, uncertain. He can't go back. Ever again. What's done is done. He has to go forward. Even if … he has doubts. He wipes them aside. He looks out the draperies at the cars in the lot. Everything is still, so still now, just glaring lights. He cries for a long time, quietly, so as not to wake the boy. He knows about men who step up and take care of a child, not asking, not wanting to know if it's theirs. He's seen it in movies. They're the good guys.

Monday

MATT IS HALF-ASLEEP WHEN
the man comes to him in the morning, saying, “Here, take this.” Matt tried to stay awake all night, but he slept some of the time. To keep himself awake, he watched the clock numbers changing. He also watched the man sniffling, maybe crying at the window. He had to remind himself that the man hid the phone, yelled, hit him. He had to remember those things.

He pretends he doesn't hear the “take this.” He groans and rolls to his stomach.

“Son, take this. We're going to get going soon. We have a long way to go today.”

He opens his eyes a bit. The glass of water. The pill. The pill that makes him sleep.

He takes the pill. He drinks the water.

“Another,” the man says. “Here.”

He takes it, afraid it will go down. The first one is in his cheek. He squirrels away the second one, afraid to swallow.

The man gets up. He must pretend to sleep. He must pretend to be almost dead.

A long time goes by. He watches the clock. When the man goes to the bathroom, he gets the pills out of his mouth; yes, two, he can feel them, and he stuffs them in his jeans pocket.

When the man comes back, Matt tries to look like he's in a deep sleep while the man attempts to put his shoes back on him. He's awkward enough at it that he smashes Matt's toes, and Matt lets out a sound.

“Easy. Easy. I'll get them on.”

He groans. His heart starts to thump hard. The man will know he's awake.

He is lifted up over the man's shoulder. He feels the gray blanket over him. It's the truck again. He hangs limp. Today is the day he will do something.

The truck starts up, but moves only a few feet. The motor is running, but Matt can hear the man get out.

Matt lifts his head. The man is in the front office. It's not quite light out. Nobody is up in the other cars. Nobody is walking. If he runs now, the man will snatch him up.

IN THE FRONT
OFFICE
the man behind the desk says, “Sorry, bud, our Internet connection is down. It's so iffy out here.”

Nadal curses, kicks the counter. “This is a lousy place.”

“Hey, it's not my fault. It's the damn company.”

Nadal realizes he's going to have to go into town, find a Starbucks or something.

The kid is sleeping.

After an hour he finds a Caribou Coffee. He pulls in and shuts off the engine. He opens his laptop. Only one bar. Inside it must be better. Plus … coffee, milk, some pastries, some Internet, and he can be on his way.

He checks the back of the cab. It's okay. The kid is still knocked out.

There are lots of people around here, though, so Nadal needs to make this quick and get away.

He goes inside. He plunks himself down at a table and logs on. Okay, yes, the bars are coming up. He checks the Amber Alert.

Oh, God, oh, God.

They've changed it. They aren't looking for a red VW Bug now. He almost shouts his alarm. They're looking for the truck. The black truck. They even say the truck belonged to Stanton Adams. He can't use the truck again; he can't use the
name
again. He's got to get out of here.

He looks up to see the boy climbing from the back of the cab into the driver's seat, opening the door, and running, running to a corner. He grabs up his laptop and sees the boy hail a passing school bus.

The bus stops.

The boy gets on.

He's not his son. Can't be, not if he—

He slams out of the coffee shop to his truck, door still open. He starts it up and follows the school bus.

THE DRIVER SAYS,
“WHAT'S UP, KIDDO
? That's not the bus stop.”

“Um. I didn't know.”

“What's your name?”

“Matthew Brown.”

“You're not on my manifest.”

“I know. I'm new.”

The other kids watch him curiously. He walks to the back of the bus. The driver turns to look, keeps going.

“Do you have a cell phone?” Matt asks the kid next to him.

“Not allowed.”

“Does anybody?”

“The driver.”

The bus stops. Two more kids get on. The doors close and the driver walks to the back of the bus.

“What's up?”

“I need a phone.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Yes.”

The driver hands over a phone. “Hurry. I can't be late.”

For the third time in his life Matt dials 911. “I need you to call Detective … Commander Christie in Pittsburgh. Tell him I got away.”

The driver takes the phone from him. “Look. I don't know what's going on. This kid was running. He got on my school bus. I should keep moving. I gotta keep moving. I have a schedule.” He listens. “He told me Matthew Brown.”

All around the kids are getting out of their seats, excited.

“You run away from home?” one asks, wide-eyed.

“No.”

The driver is saying, “Hillcrest Elementary.”

Outside the window the black truck zooms past and keeps going.

CHRISTIE AND COLLEEN
ARE IN A
car in minutes. “Four hours to get there,” he says. He'll drive eighty-five, of course, and though she would, too, Colleen feels her hands knuckling.

He hasn't called Jan Gabriel yet. He doesn't even mention picking them up. Colleen knows what he's up to. She can't hold her tongue. “Boss, don't we have to at least
call
Jan and Arthur? They're devastated.”

“I know. I will. I just want make sure we get there first. Find out what condition he's in.” He begins cursing at the morning traffic. “Come on, come on.”

“I know what you're up to,” she says quietly.

“For God's sake, look where he landed. He must be twenty-five, thirty minutes away at the most from—”

“I get it, but you're still arranging lives.”

“I'm a monster. I know.”

“Not a monster, Boss. Just, I hate to see you get hurt.”

“Me? Christ, it's hardly about me.”

He's going to hurt Gabriel and Morris who are a good match, not a perfect match. They're B-plus in this instance.

The phone rings. Christie flips it open, reads the screen, and taps the speaker button, telling her, “Somebody at the school.” The voice says, “This is Detective Don Bolden. We have your Matthew Brown here. He was definite he wanted me to call you.”

“Matt seems okay?”

“He's going to be okay. I'm out in the hallway here. We don't think there's been any sexual contact. He admits to being hungry. He needs a shower. He's in shock. The boy showed me two Benadryl he was supposed to take. The guy who took him wanted him doped up or sleeping.”

“Is he talking?”

“A little. We have to take him to a hospital first thing of course. He doesn't want to go, but of course …”

“I don't know Baltimore. Is the hospital anywhere near Peabody Institute?”

“About fifteen minutes. Why?”

“Huh. I know somebody who works there who—let me talk to Matt? Is he there?”

“Down the hall in the nurse's office. I'm walking toward it now. I see him. There's our brave fellow. Here he is.” Then Bolden says, “This is Detective Christie on the phone. He's on his way here to see you.”

“Hi?”

“Hey, Matt. You got away. How did you do that?”

“Pretended I was sleeping.”

“Smart. Good. Did he hurt you?”

“He hit me once.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Sometimes he was nice.”

“That must have made it hard to figure out what to do.”

After a second, he says, “Yeah.”

“You did right.”

“You said to call you if I needed anything. So I asked for you.”

“You did right. I'm going to be there soon. Let them get you breakfast and all that. They have regulations to examine you at the hospital. Just … put up with it. It won't be awful. It won't take long. Then I'll be there.” Color rises on his neck and face.

When Bolden is back on the phone, Christie asks, “Your men are looking for the black truck?”

“You better believe it.”

“Nadal Brown might dump it. Might already have.”

“We're looking for it with or without him.”

When they terminate the call, Christie says, “We got a good one, Don Bolden.”

Colleen agrees.

Finally, Christie calls Jan Gabriel and Arthur Morris. “Good news. Very good news. We found him.”

Colleen can hear them shouting, weeping in the background. If Christie has his way, if he does, oh, man, their joy will be very short-lived.

“How? Where?” Arthur asks.

“He ran away from his abductor.”

“Was he hurt?”

“He's rattled. He's probably okay. He's near Baltimore.”

“Baltimore?” There is the faintest whisper of suspicion in Morris's voice. “Should we—”

“Sit tight if you can. If you can't, call me back and I'll tell you where to go.”

So the would-be parents will get there thirty minutes or at most an hour later than she and Christie will.

As soon as he terminates the call, Christie says, “You have Zacour's number?”

“In my phone.”

“Call his house.”

She presses in the number. There is no answer. She puts on her speakerphone so Christie can hear the series of rings and then an answering machine.

“Could be out running, but, wait, he teaches today,” Christie says. “Did you keep the number for the Peabody Institute?”

“No, but I can get it.” She takes the shortcut and calls Information and is rung through.

After she is transferred several times, she is told, yes, he teaches there and will be in session this afternoon, from noon on.

“Better slow down, Boss. We need to live.”

“You're right. Okay. I'm going to call Marina.” He turns off the speakerphone but his volume is loud enough that Colleen can pretty much hear the whole conversation. He tells her, “Good news. Matt ran away finally. He's safe. In Maryland. We don't have Nadal Brown yet, but somebody will get him. Colleen and I are on the road. Irwin exit. An hour to Breezewood.”

Then it's something like, “You're looking for Nadal yourself?”

“I'm leaving that to others. But believe me, I see a black truck on the road, I'm going to be on it.”

Colleen hears words she can't make out and then something about Florida, and something about Puerto Rico.

Boss smiles. “You've talked to Brown, eh?”

She's pretty sure Marina says, “In a way.”

“Catch you later.” He closes his phone. “Marina being a profiler.”

“She's very good.”

“I know.”

NADAL PARKS THE
TRUCK
in a strip mall, which he realizes soon enough is the wrong place to get the license plate off. There are maybe twenty people coming and going, hurrying to their own tasks or their vehicles. He doesn't know what to do. He rattles around in the glove compartment. Christ, no tools. He gets out and places his backpack in the bed of the truck and tries to use a dime to get the plate off. His fingers fumble hopelessly. He needs a Phillips-head screwdriver.

“Everything okay?” a young, maybe teenage, guy asks.

“Need to put my new plate on and I forgot to bring a Phillips-head.”

“I think I have one. You need a toolkit in your truck. I thought truck people always had tools.” The kid laughs. “My father wouldn't be caught anywhere without a kit.”

Nadal tries to think of light responses but he can't. He murmurs a thank-you and waits. The kid brings him a kit and takes out the screwdriver he needs. Trembling hands again—do they show—he removes the plate and hands back the screwdriver.

“Where's the new one?”

“I have to pick it up,” he says lamely. “My mother has it. In the … store.” He stuffs his old one in his pack and mumbles, “Thank you. It's nice you helped,” and before the boy can point out that he's going to need the screwdriver again, Nadal walks to the first store he sees, a Dick's Sporting Goods, where, once he's inside, he wanders agitatedly through the aisles.

“Help you?”

“You sell phones?”

“Walmart. Up the hill.”

He hurries out, doesn't see the kid, and drives his truck up to Walmart, up at the end of the mall but not in it.

“Need to buy a cell,” he tells the first clerk he sees, a man who appears to be a senior citizen, a bit slow.

The man says, “Well, okay. Let's see.” He picks one off the shelf and begins reading. “This one … okay. Charge for a minimum of six hours …”

Nadal, caught off guard, drops his backpack on the floor. “Damn, damn, damn. I forgot it had to be charged. I—”

“Be my guest,” the man says, pulling a phone from his pocket.

“It's long distance.”

“Doesn't matter. All goes in the same pot.”

“I have to call Information. They charge for that. Unless, unless you have Wi-Fi here. I could use my laptop, maybe find it.”

“Go ahead. I can afford two fifty. I can see you need to make a call.”

Nadal accepts the phone and walks aside down an aisle. He first gets his mother's friend's phone number. Then he makes the call, breathing so hard he doesn't know if he can speak when Violetta answers. “It's Nadal,” he manages. “Is my mother there?”

“She's … right here. Just a minute.”

“Nadal? Are you okay?”

“No. I think … I think some police think I did something.”

“Where are you?”

“I don't know. I don't know.”

“I'm all packed to go back home. I was just about to start for the airport.”

“Your ticket isn't until next week.”

“I got my flight changed to leave today. Violetta helped me. Nadal. Can you … get back home?”