The Hours of Change - Chapters Three - Five

Three

The amber alert has been made and the investigation tumbles in. The mountains of Franconia Notch, as though embarrassed by the news, turn red as emergency vehicles illuminate them. Car doors slam. Flashlights beam. Men and women in uniform galvanize a rescue team to do whatever it takes to find the child.

Skiers glide forward slowly. Grief has quieted them.

The designated ski area, roped off, forces bystanders back, their faces cold with worry for the lost boy. Murmurs of gossip coat the area. Clouds of breath linger then fade into crisp air—air coated with winter, night, and the sudden treachery of both.

Doug and Serena sit on a wooden bench that is not meant for this. They sit beside Chief McKenzie, a burly Irishman leading the investigation. His detective, a pert woman in her thirties, chooses to stand while mobilizing a small electronic device which, most likely, will be used for recording. Her hair is fastened into a vicious bun that sits properly at the nape of her neck.

“Let me introduce you to Detective Hearns,” he says, eyeing his partner, “when it comes to abductions, she’s unmatched.”

Abductions. She hears the word but, like a letter placed in the wrong mailbox, it seems to belong to someone else.

Ms. Hearns nods confidently. Her lips are a thin line ending in a pair of commas. “If we put our heads together, we can crack this one, folks. Not a lot of time has passed and that’s a good thing.”

McKenzie uses his hands to deliver more, “We should have this entire area combed and sniffed out within the hour and the force is blocking off highway exits and major intersections as we speak. Right now, I’d like to run through the sequence of events, exactly as they happened, prior to the incident.”

Incident. The loss of her son has become an incident, the shatter of her world a mere protocol in police culture. Chief McKenzie and Detective Hearns should not be blamed for this horror but, at the moment, she resents both of them.

“Excuse me, but instead of documenting the facts,” she says with a halting hand, “I think we should look some more, just search, just search this mountain, he’s gotta’ be here, I mean…” tears finish her ramble.

She wipes her wet face and stares at Doug, in search of an answer to the madness that has found them. He does not offer one. His face is chilling, grey. It is his way. He can give nothing because he has nothing. Along with Josh, Doug is somewhere else. The thought is torturous.

“Serena, I was with him last. I’ll go through the facts,” he says to the ground.

“Mrs. Davis, your husband and I will tackle the sequence. This isn’t easy and I apologize for the cool nature of this exercise. If you need some time to look, or…” McKenzie struggles for the right words, “anything…we’ll be here.”

Cloaked in pain, she whispers, ‘find him’ and walks away.

The detective’s voice cuts through the air from behind. “Mrs. Davis, I can assure you that we will give one hundred ten percent here.”

She reflects on the promise, one offered with respect to the crime and, to a lesser extent, to her grief. But Serena she does not want one hundred ten percent. She wants her son back.

She walks and stumbles ahead, possessed by thoughts that are in control of her now. Her mind is dark and fuzzy - the innocence of her life an hour ago has been raped. She breathes in deeply, sensing a panic attack, until a family of pine trees seem to call her from the mountain's edge.

She moves in. Snow coated branches enshroud her like a shawl. She weaves in and out of the trees, her feet snapping over twigs, her breath reckless. Uphill, she travels, searches, as though hypnotized. The air is still, holding a secret it seems, and she instinctively pats her sweatshirt pocket for her cell phone. Then her mind settles like a fly on the memory of her hand closing the drawer to tuck it safely inside the accent table. Safely inside. She was safe then. And now? Why? Why this?

Tears flood her, define her. It must be around eight-thirty by now. Josh would have closed his book by now, Harry Potter, the third one. She pictures him, cross-legged, concentrating on his page as a waft of Christmas-smelling air attacks the vision, souring it with the cold truth. She cups her nose with cold hands, hoping to suffocate the smell, the scene, and the hours that have passed.

To her left, one hundred feet away, the rescue team swarms the slopes. Through her tears, the scene blurs like a watercolor print. She blinks, brings the image comes back into focus, a moving picture of German Shepherds. Voraciously, they climb, sniff, and move in the snow, in search of…she cannot bring herself to think his name because to think it, to say it, will validate that he is gone and he is not gone. He simply hasn’t been found yet.

She steps back, withdraws from the dog scene, suddenly feeling as though her life depends upon this detachment. The intensity of the situation seems to swallow her while her mind, still needing to know, takes in voices. There is shouting - a name, a direction, an order - and she longs to hear someone yell, cut!—to end the scene.

She reaches to the ground, uproots a boulder, and smashes it against a tree trunk. But the sound, compared to the one in her mind, is but a whisper. She faces the sky. The trees form a tent to her view and her eyes search for an open space. She finds a small opening through the trees.

'God, why are you putting me through this? Why? I'll be a better mom, I promise you, I will.' She closed her eyes, chants, 'I will, I will, I will be better. I'll be so much better. Please don't take him from me.' Warm tears push through her face. She snaps out of prayer.

Change the subject, keep going. Don’t quit. Don’t’ stop. Think. To think, just think, Serena. Stay focused, stay alert, it’s what makes the difference. What was notable about Roth? Fucking bastard of a being. What was he wearing? What did he talk about? The questions jam her mind, push against her throbbing skull. She struggles to concentrate, on everything and on one thing only. But it is his face…the brown eyes, the long-eyelashes, and the modest smile that will not leave her, will not leave her, will not leave her. Her mind beats forward with her heart, with her steps.

The snowy air, once invigorating, is now stifling. She clears her throat until a single cough turns spastic and she cannot stop hacking. She coughs and cries until it seems that a creature is worming through her throat. She is suddenly nauseous, can barely breathe. She stumbles ahead and falls. The creature must come out and it does - vomit - a demon spilling out of her, staining the white ground as it dribbles over her chin. On her knees, she shouts his name.

“Joshua!”—and again, “Joshua!” She stands, struggles to balance as she repeats the name, “Joshua…Mom, I’m here…I’m sorry!” She cries out his name and she is dizzy and wet and the snow is an icy pillow that she collapses into.

It is dark. For a moment, she is free.
* * *

It is after nine o’clock when she shudders to the warm sensation, a wet rub on her face. A tongue? A dog’s? Her eyes snap open and her heart trembles as she shuffles back on her elbows, remembering what should have been a bad dream.

“Mrs. Davis,” a policeman says, wasting no time to wrap her in a blanket, “we have a lead. Your son’s snowboard was found in one of the tents. The good news is that we haven’t found any signs of violence or force. The surrounding footprints indicate no resistance. The bad news is…though we can’t be one hundred percent sure at this time…we believe that your son was coerced to leave.”

“Coerced?” With her thumb, she wipes dried vomit from her chin and stands.

Together, they walk, her blanket skimming the ground, the dog leading the way. “You mean my son was bullied to leave?” His face, the wide eyes, mesmerized by Roth’s height in the lodge…

“Well, he may not have been intimidated to leave. But we think that this man came up with a strong enough reason for Josh to leave with him.”

“That’s impossible. He knows better.” Her breath tastes sour, of rotten eggs, “We’ve educated him, both of us, and the school, on strangers, on what to do when—”

“You wouldn’t believe how cunning the abductor can be in these situations, Mrs. Davis. We see it all the time, even with bright kids.”
Strong enough reason. What would be a strong enough reason for Josh to defy everything he knows, everything he’s been taught about—

She gasps, momentarily paralyzed by a revelation, prompted by the sight of…

It is Doug, walking toward her, his wrist taped up.

“For his dad! For the care of this father! That’s it!” she cries. “I think Roth made my son believe that, somehow, they were going to help Doug with his injury!”

The policeman’s eyes widen as he hastens his strut. “Now that's what I call a lead, young lady. Let’s go fill Detective Hearns in.”


Four
8:37 p.m

The escape was easier than he thought. Unwatched, his Subaru Outback glided onto route 142 with ease, heading straight for the charming town of Bethlehem. Who would suspect the pathetic bible belt? Certainly not one of the Hasidic Jews roaming the streets of the hideous town. And besides, the disguise would work out perfectly, especially the absurd beard. He'd fit right in with the freaks. Hell, maybe he'd even be inclined to convert. Not likely, he chuckles to himself, chewing on a toothpick.

The windshield wipers are frosted with ice. The snow flecks the glass with speed, as though blown in by a machine. He presses the gas pedal harder, despite the road's ice. He has no choice. The police, he knows, have already begun to invade the major highways in search of the boy.

“Can you just tell me where we’re going?” the boy asks through tears, his voice strained as he wiggles beneath a tight wrap of gauze bandage.

“I told you we’ll be there in about twenty five minutes. Should have been fifteen but this weather’s miserable.” He lets up on the gas, flicks the heat on higher. “Have I mentioned that I had a son once? Looked just like you, you know.”
The boy presses his eyes shut for a moment. He does not respond.

“Don’t ever get married.”

“Where’s your son?” he asks, his voice cracking.

“Across the country with my lovely ex-wife.” He squeezes the steering wheel and leans forward in concentration.

“You got divorced?”

He flicks him a glance. “You know about divorce, eh?”

“A kid in my class lives only with his dad…because his dad got to keep him. Your son stays with his mom?”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice.” An ice patch sends the vehicle into a fish-tail skid. Assertively, he rolls the steering wheel in the opposite direction, gaining balance on the road again. “Sorry about that.”

“What’s your son’s name?”

He rubs the stubble of hair beneath his nose. “Steven, named after his old man.”

“Is my dad's arm going to be alright?”

By now, chunks of ice encrust his wipers, making the view impossible. He shoots a look behind him and yanks the wheel to the right for a quick pull-over. “Don’t even think about moving,” he warns, cranking up the defrosters before pushing himself out of the driver’s side. A waft of cold air attacks the car’s interior as he turns to say, “Oops, I forgot…you’re taped up and belted in. And…to answer your question…it's just a wrist injury. He'll be fine.”

Gently, he pushes the door so that it remains open a crack and scurries to the vehicle’s side. There, he bends over the hood, reaches for the driver-side wiper, and unfolds it so that the arm protrudes upward. With a gloved hand, he swipes the first layer of snow from the blade, noting the entrapped chunks of ice within.

He bends the wiper’s arm back and begins plucking it against the glass in attempt to dislodge the ice. For the most part, he is successful. But a stubborn piece clings and, being the kind of man to perfect things, he bangs the blade one last time then uses his arm to rub away the slushy mess. Now, through the glass, he can see the boy better, though his image appears blurred, as though he is underwater.

A thought jabs him then. The boy’s perception of him is also skewed. He is supposed to be Steven Roth, the cool snow board instructor offering a night lesson. But this? He vows to help Josh understand how adult decisions, like choosing which trails are the most fun to ski down, can be a matter of perception. He will remind him of the road less traveled, of how the best path to take is, sometimes, not the most popular.

Strong adults like him are supposed to know what to do when it comes to unfamiliar territory. And so, it made perfect sense to grab the first aid kit together, two sets of hands always better than one. He had anticipated the struggle to the car but the gag had changed things. No use screaming when nobody can hear you, right?

Sure, Gloria’s ‘gag’ was of a different nature, a more manipulative approach to controlling his boy—the lies, the courtroom drama, the final move across the country—but her abduction was far more sinister than this! She lied, betrayed him. Nothing can top off her sins, he thinks, shooting a glance to Josh.

For a moment, in seeing the boy's beautiful eyes, he is overcome by the notion that two wrongs don’t make a right. But then the face of his ex invades his mind, a smoking devil. She is leaning back, cackling, and her poison floats from her nostrils in wispy tendrils. The image burns his spot of empathy. Two wrongs may not make a right, he decides, but the second one sure does ease the pain of the first.

It is his final thought before terror faces him; the careening vehicle, closer, black, metal. The devil wins. Pain. Lights out.

* * *
 
Five - 10:13 p.m

It is decided that it’s best for the parents to stay rooted at the ‘point of abduction’ in the event that Josh is able to contact his parents. With the roads being treacherous, an unnecessary accident would only complicate matters and such disasters are actually more common than one thinks. McKenzie’s argument had needed some persuasion, with Doug nearly pushing him out of the way in a combative protest. He would bring his son back on his own terms. Serena had managed to convince him otherwise.

“Doug, he’s right. There’s no use in both of us getting hurt in the process of saving Josh.”

Hearing his son’s name, it seemed then, had quelled Doug’s anxiety and, frozen to the word, he had released his grip on McKenzie. “Guess you’re right.”

Now, his eyes focus strangely on the scatter rug below the quilted bed. The stare appears sedated, almost possessed, unlike gestures that are rash—the biting of a thumbnail, the compulsive study of a police report that he tears through with a solitary right hand. The left one—wounded, guilty—curls inward at his lap, a shamed dog.

“Why didn’t you take him in with you?” The blame, with a mind of its own, unfurls like fire on paper.

His head follows her words, her heat, in a motion so slow, it is nearly haunted. “My fucking wrist snapped, Serena.”

She flicks a glance at the doorway, speaks to its back, “Your wrist snapped. And you couldn’t possibly take care of yourself and someone else.” She closes her eyes, feels the wrong of her words.

“We were together when it happened for Christ’s sake,” he says sharply.

She angles herself to face him, to make sense of what has already been said before. “So you were at the bottom of the mountain at this point?”

“Yes. We had just reached the bottom of the mountain when I slid the wrong way. I would have fallen backwards but I overcompensated…” he rubs the back of his head as though shaking wet hair dry, “and that’s when I fell forward on the heel of my hand.”

“What did Josh do after you fell?” she asks in a hoarse whisper.

“He was concerned, he…” his thoughts trail off as he squeezes his face shut. Serena watches him remember.


“Dad! Are you alright?” Josh slides to his father’s side, his snowboard angled perfectly for a quick stop.

Instinctively, Doug clutches his wrist and attempts, unsuccessfully, to hide the pain.

“You hurt your hand, Daddy?”

He winces, kneeling in the snow, levering himself up with the right hand, “I think I just fell the wrong way…” and glances back at a speedy Roth who flies in from behind.

“Oh geez. I think it’s broken pal. You fell on your hands didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he says back, removing a glove, “I shouldn’t have leaned over so much.”

“If I were you, Doug, I would have it wrapped. It takes no more than three minutes, right near the front desk. Chloe’s used to dealing with these injuries.”

Josh studies Roth’s words, believes in them. “Dad, you have to get it wrapped up.”

He scratches his head, “Alright, I guess you’ve got a point. I’ll…I’ll be…” he shoots a look to the lodge, “be back in a few minutes.”

“Tell you what,” Roth instructs, “we’ll shoot down for one last ride and be here when you get back.”

“Point Sara again?”

Josh senses the ambivalence, a slight tone change, in his dad’s voice. “Do you want me to come in with you, Dad?”

“Naw, I’ll be fine. Go enjoy one last run. Me and my bum hand will meet you at the bottom.”

Roth chuckles, “Seriously, man, it happens all the time. We’ll see you in, say….ten minutes?”

“Sounds good.”

He fumbles singlehandedly with his bindings before stepping out of his snowboard and carrying it away like a notebook. On his way to the lodge, he looks back at his son, gliding away with Roth and chatting, their bodies parallel to each other. With a gloved hand, Josh appears to be demonstrating a swooping motion. The small jump at the end of Point Sara.

The pain in his wrist shouts at him, reminding him of two things: Number one, it could have been a lot worse, could have been a hip, leg, or even ribs! And, number two, it could have been Josh. He walks away, relieved to be the one feeling pain.


She sees him awaken from the memory in an outburst that sounds primitive, a howling animal.

“Oh honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” she approaches him and sits down, cradling his head in her chest. “I shouldn’t have resorted to blame.” Her tears drizzle his hair. “We’re gonna’ do this, Doug. Our baby is going to come back to us.”

Rebecca wheeling him away at the hospital. She wishes that she had said no. A scene from his birth floats into her mind. “He will be rescued, Doug, he has to be. He’ll bring us back to us. Now let’s go get him.”

10: 19 p.m

They shake off emotion, stand up and say in unison, “Outside.”

“Grab your coat,” Doug adds. “Let’s just be present out there. Be visible. And search in the woods some more. You hear it all the time, Ser, kids being found when they’re close by. Remember that kid from Quincy, parents thought he was gone, but he had hopped in with a hitchhiker to go to a convenience store.”

“Good, that’s good, Doug. We can’t out-rule that he could be closer than we think, closer than anyone would expect. Let’s bundle up, though.”

“Where are my shoes, I mean boots, I’ll need boots, right?” He finger-combs the top of his head.

“Definitely. Here, they’re right by the door.” Unnecessarily, she points them out and watches Doug bend over them. He stuffs his socked feet into them with remarkable swiftness, despite the limp companion. Then he pauses at the doorway and offers Serena a final thought.

“We’re going to find him,” he says.

“We have to find him,” she says in a voice that has been resurrected by Doug’s confidence. Her husband is back, prepared for the fight. It is not his fault that this has happened to their child. A wave of adrenaline shoots through her, a fluttery sensation that reminds her of the first time she fell in love with Doug.

She scoops her keys off of the end table and follows her husband out.

10:22 p.m.

The door’s security lock slams shut while, immediately, another couple, leaving their own neighboring room, makes eye contact. The burden of Serena and Doug’s problem is too great to ignore. It is also too great to articulate—to find the right words to empathize with the unimaginable. For a moment, the couple remains tangled in the conflict. Finally, unwilling to bear the silence any longer, the man speaks up.

“I’m…I’m sorry about what’s happened. We heard….I mean it’s on the news and everything…is, is there anything we can do?—I’m a parent as well, I can just imagine what this must be like and—”

Serena saves him. “Thank you for asking. Right now we need to make things happen and be present for our child. Thank you for thinking of us, though,” she stammers, feeling as though she should give them more, but deciding against it. Time is not on their side.

Doug shadows her thoughts. “Yes, we must be on our way. But thank you.”

“Oh, of course! We’re sorry!” the woman chimes in, embarrassed.

“Oh no, don’t be,” Doug says. “Have you seen the news clip, the picture of our son?”

“Y-yes,” the couple says in unison.

In motion, Serena calls back, “Please stay posted on the news. And call the emergency line if you can help us in any way. Any piece of information is a huge help.”

10:23 p.m.

Chloe is tapping away at her keyboard, wearing her holiday attire and Serena is struck by the memory of their first confrontation, hours ago, over Doug’s wrist. If only she had known what was to come.

To the bustling sound of Serena and Doug, she looks up from her work, offers a stern string of information.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Davis. I’ve notified Chief McKenzie to contact me via e-mail, cell phone, whatever’s easiest, if anything comes up. In addition to that, I’ve organized a team, basically our Ski Patrol,” she says with her hands, “to comb the slopes through the night. They’ll be working 24-7. We’re going to do everything in our power to find your little boy.”

Chloe cares. To this revelation, Serena’s eyes water. “My son will be rescued, Chloe. Thank you for all you’re doing.”

Chloe smiles weakly, her face the blotchy pink of uncertainty. Serena cannot bear the face. She tugs at Doug’s arm. “Let’s hurry.”

10:27 p.m

Being inside of the hot chocolate tent is excruciating. There is a row of wooden picnic tables, the middle of which holds ripped open empty packages of hot chocolate and Styrofoam cups that lie stained on their sides. She and Doug study the cups for a moment before they lock eyes, holding a mutual thought: One of these could have been Joshua’s.

Robotically, they move toward the cups and it is she who picks one up, holds it to her nose, and, tentatively, smells it.

“Oh God.” Doug says, sitting down, cupping his mouth.

She closes her eyes, sits beside him, palms his knee. “I can picture him in here, tearing open the packet, feeling so— ” She begins to sob and shake before composing herself again, “so independent, you know. That’s what we all loved about this sport, the—”

“The freedom,” Doug answers. “Let’s get on the lift and check out the expert trails again. This is a waste of time.”

“Alright,” she wipes her face clean with her glove.

They walk out together, heads down, trying to be focused again.

A shuffling sound, boots on snow, awakens the trance and Serena looks up to a bulk of man in the short distance. Before she can say it, Doug says, “McKenzie.”
They walk faster to meet him but The Chief’s stride remains constant; a steady walk, a steady gaze. Within moments, the three of them stand angled atop the snow.
“Serena, Doug,” he says with a quick nod to both, “I have some news that I wanted to share with you in person.”

Her world is a vacuum. There is no one left but McKenzie.

“There was an accident on Route 302. Roth was the driver...”

Existence spins away.

“Your son, Joshua, was in the passenger seat.”

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t…

“And he’s going to be just fine. He’s at Lincoln Medical Center right now, but it appears he’s just been banged up a bit.”

An embrace. A collapse. And sobbing.

There are no words.

Joshua has been rescued.