The Hours of Change - Story Opening

Prologue

The hospital room is dim and smells of her uneaten food; a plate of cold turkey, mashed potatoes, and peas. The effects of the morphine are wearing thin as she becomes aware of a tender pain at her lower abdomen and, more acutely, that of her restless newborn. It is a boy.

Though she isn’t exceptionally religious, she has named him Joshua, a Hebrew name meaning God Rescues, a name to convince her that, despite the chaos swirling around this child—in war, in terror, in illness—he is protected. His name says so.

She had shared this with the labor and delivery nurses while, together, they rolled her torso back and forth like a mound of dough, relaying a nephew with the same name, trying to remain casual despite the heart monitor’s dangerous dip. Serena’s umbilical cord, a noose on her baby’s neck, had threatened his life. How so?—that a mother could endanger her own child?

Dr. Morin had rescued both of them, all of them. Doug, too, had gone white, a spark of terror in his eyes as he watched the surgeon’s hands, steady as a violinist, cut then unfold layers of her skin to free Joshua from her middle.

“His Apgar scores are just fine and his coloring is perfect,” he had said, gently placing the newborn in her arms. She and Doug, a blissful mess, had marveled at their son. They touched his tiny hands. They kissed his morsel nose. They wept.

Choking up to the memory, she lifts his head to her nipple and cries some more. The door to her room has been left ajar, allowing a streak of light to settle on her bed then widen like a fan across the room. Rebecca, the third shift nurse, has arrived. Her hands smell fresh, like aloe lotion.

“After this feeding, why don’t you take a break, Mom. He’ll be fine in the nursery. We’re actually staffed tonight,” she says, crossing her fingers, “no one’s called in.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, it’s just—”

“Overwhelming?” Rebecca sidles up beside her. Her skin is soft and tan, her eyes kind and black, like an Indian doll’s. “It’s perfectly normal to feel this way after giving birth. And don’t worry, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you have post-partum depression. You’re trying to function on a couple hours of sleep, if that, not to mention that your body is recovering from a major surgery.” She rubs Serena’s hand. “You really need to give yourself a break, honey.”

Serena kisses the soft head of her newborn, considers the advice.

“When Mom takes care of herself, she’s better at taking care of baby,” Rebecca goes on, “and besides, if you fall asleep until his next feeding, probably around 3 a.m., you’ll feel refreshed to see him. You won’t even know he was gone. I’ll be overseeing the nursery tonight and while I’m at it,” she winks, “I’ll try and invent a way for men to grow breasts.”

Serena chuckles; spurring a tender pain at her incision as she cradles baby Josh into Rebecca’s arms. “I guess you’re right. I need my sleep.”

The transition is smooth and Josh remains peaceful, unaware of the change in hands, though Serena feels vulnerable, a peeled apple left alone to rot.

“First sign of waking, I’ll wheel him right back to you,” Rebecca says on her way out.

Serena props herself up and catches a better view while the two of them disappear like ghosts in the dim light. Her hand rises, a silent protest, but it is too late. The sound of the closing door resounds like a gunshot in her mind.

Joshua has been wheeled away.

* * *

Nine Years Later
Franconia Notch State Park - Cannon Mountain, New Hampshire
December, 2009

One

The ski lodge smells of cedar, that and the smoky scent of a crackling fire. Serena’s family is seated on a sofa clothed in moose prints. Heaps of snowboarding gear surround them. There are hats, goggles, helmets, vests and, as usual, single gloves.

“Where do you suppose the match to this one is?” Serena asks, holding up a damp red one.

“How much did that glove cost, Mom?”

Joshua is a caring child, a trait that makes tough love difficult. His nod is modest and she can see that he is genuinely concerned about the cost, as though he has burdened his parents with it. On their combined teaching salaries, it is very possible that he has. But he’s worth it, she decides, knowing that Doug shares the thought.

“As soon as you make it big as a pro football player, you’ll have to take me and your mom out for some serious boarding lessons,” he says, mussing his son’s hair.

“Yeah, right…” Josh smiles to the floor, the weight of his forearms pressed against his knees. With his legs forced apart this way, he appears larger, older.

“Don’t worry about the cost, honey,” she says, then changes the subject. “What kind of soup do you guys want? I’ll go grab us a few bowls.” Her short blonde hair pokes out of her hat like straw. She combs her fingers through the moist ends.

“Do they have root beer here, Mom?”

“How about milk—does a body good, remember?”

“Fine,” he says, grinning. “Strawberry milk?”

“Now you’re pushing it,” she says back, jokingly.

“A bowl of chowder is fine with me, honey.”

“Me too,” Josh adds, “with a side of oyster crackers.”

On her way to the cafeteria, an ache gnaws at her lower back, reminding her of the most recent fall, along with her age. Serena, a former Miss Dance, a stunning blonde, is more enviable off the slopes than on.

“You alright!”

Doug’s holler rings in her mind - the slide-in for the rescue as he yanked her from the snow with the vitality of a lifeguard. Would he have been as immediate in rescuing her without an audience?—if he couldn’t play hero?

Last week, while they were eating out, a waitress spilled a glass of red wine over the lap of a girl seated across from them. Doug sprang from his seat to assist with the mess, blotting up the spill with wads of napkins, humble as a foreign servant. The victim, a doe-eyed twenty-something, gushed while Serena’s mind wandered to his tantrum, just days ago: an unstable muffin had crumbled in her hands, messing his leather seats.

How often do we do the right thing when no one’s looking? The thought—fuel to an unwanted argument—is not worth exploring further, she decides after a minute.

The cafeteria is packed. Skiers sip cocoa and munch on french-fries, their snowpanted legs outstretched below tables meant for two, stuffed with more. Teens obsess with cell phones while mothers dig into Vera Bradley bags filled with books for a disinterested clan of roaming toddlers.

Serena, less modishly, enters the scene wearing her experience: an oversized college sweatshirt and thrifty pair of black yoga pants. She follows the peppery aroma of soup to the far end of the room, to a steamy foursome of stainless steel canisters. Too eager to eat, she is hasty with the lids and ladles. They clang clumsily, interrupting nearby conversation as she draws three bowls of soup and, more gracefully, sets them down on her tray.

There is a sign above the napkin dispenser reminding guests to save trees and use paper sparingly. Shamelessly, she plucks out an excess for her small family and, worse than that, realizes that she has been caught in the act. Someone else is suddenly behind her, along with the pine scent of his cologne.

“I saw your son up there on the White Diamond,” he says, helping himself to a cup of minestrone.

“My son?” She glances back to him. His looks are as strong as his smell. He is clean-cut, freshly showered.

“Little man with the bright yellow vest?" he answers, pulling out a single napkin, "he’s a whiz on the slopes. I couldn’t believe how well he does for someone his age. What is he, about nine?”

“Y-yes, he is. And thank you,” she stammers. “He’s had solid instruction back home.”

He shakes a sugar packet into his coffee, sending forth a second round of his odor. “That’ll do it. Where are you from?”

“Mass…Massachusetts,” she says, reaching for silverware.

“O.k.,” he nods, as though impressed by the state, despite the fact that the mountains of New Hampshire are superior. “I actually train boarders. Instruction makes a huge difference, especially when it comes to preventing injury. You wouldn’t believe the accidents we see with kids who decide to wing it around here.”

“You train here?”

“I do. At the front desk you can get my brochure with the schedule. I do individual and group lessons.” He deserts his tray to dig into his pocket. “Here’s my card.”

“Thanks so much…” she places the card on her tray, “but we’ll probably hold off for the remainder of this winter. I’ll see what my husband thinks about next year. Have a great night, now.”

“Take care,” he says with a wink.

She balances her tray and walks away, the bleachy white of his teeth fresh in her mind. He seems familiar though, she supposes, a man like that is plastered everywhere: in fitness magazines, movies, and commercials. The ski instructor is tall, dark and handsome; a walking stereotype. She begins to wonder if, like Doug, he would rant over spilled crumbs. Wanting his personality to be as good as his looks, she decides that he would not.

Back at the lounge, a televised snowboarding competition is under way. Doug and Josh, intent in watching the soaring boarders, stare at the screen.

“Mom, look at this guy! He just jumped like fifteen feet in the air!”

His enthusiasm is contagious. She sets the tray of soup down on the coffee table, tunes in. “Whoa. They are fantastic. Is that Neil Whitley?”

“Daddy, is that Neil Whitley?”

“I think it is,” Doug answers, though Serena can tell by his altered focus to the soup tray that he has no idea whether or not it is Neil Whitley.

She smiles to herself. Admittedly, she has done the same.

“Hey budsie, let’s have some supper. Oh, and by the way, I met one of your fans in the cafeteria,” she adds, passing out spoons.

Josh tilts his head, a question.

“One of the instructors here saw you on the Black Diamond. He said you looked extremely good for someone your age.”

Doug rips open a package of oyster crackers, dumps them into his soup. “Smart instructor.”

“Hmm.” Josh shrugs the comment off. Neil Whitley is back on the jump. “How high do you think he’ll get this time?” he asks, chowder dribbling from his lip.

Before Doug has a chance to answer, a low voice interrupts. “That guy?”
He is back with his scent and small-talk or, more likely, to drum up business.

Serena wipes the corner of her mouth, adjusts her hat. “Oh, hi…this is my son, Josh, and my husband, Doug. This is the 'fan' I was telling you about, honey,” she says, winking. “I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your name in the cafeteria.”

His arm stretches, first, to Josh— "Hey Bud, I’m Steven Roth,”—and next, to Doug, “your son’s a pro.”

“Thank you.” Doug pats his son on the back and smiles proudly. A semi-athletic parent, he will take partial credit for his son’s skill. Serena frets that he will also launch into a snow story that is too long and exaggerated for the average listener. She cuts the line.

“Steven was telling me that he offers lessons at this lodge, honey. Maybe next year we can think about them?”

Doug scratches his head and answers with a thoughtful nod, the rain-check maneuver a favorite tactic. “Yeah, this year wouldn’t work with our schedules, but we’ll definitely look into it for next winter.”

Josh continues to study him, mesmerized by his height. As though aware of his positive effect on the boy; Steven bends down to his level, hands on knees, and says, “I’ll tell you what, buddy…I’ll offer you a free lesson tomorrow if you want, see if you jive with my style. It’s a little late now but—”

“It’s not too late!” Josh’s head snaps to Serena, to Doug.

“Now? It’s seven thirty, Josh. You must be exhausted and we have a lot to do tomorrow,” she says, sipping her soup.”

“I’m not even tired at all! I swear to God…” he says, shaking his hands to the sky like a preacher. “I’ve never had the chance to snowboard under the lights, Mom. Can I just this once? I promise to go to bed early tomorrow and I am not kidding you.” He uses a spoon to accentuate the point.

Doug scratches his forehead and chuckles, knowing his son, this story.
Roth presses his palms together, creating a shark’s fin that moves with his words, exposing the naked ring finger.

“Well, technically…” he says, “we allow instruction until nine p.m. and typically these lessons are private..." he pauses as though the news is sacred, "not as many kids sign up at night. But it’s up to you guys. I’ll be here tomorrow as well."

“How long will the lesson be, Steven?” Serena asks,

“We’ll be out for about forty five minutes. I can have him back here by eight fifteen if you want,” he says, eyeing his watch.

Doug stands up, makes the decision. “I’ll go out with him, honey.”

“Yes!!” Josh shakes a fist in mock victory, the extension to his night an impressive win.

“Alright, you two. Be safe,” she says. “I’ll go settle into our room. See you soon, Mr. Whitley.”

He is already snapping his helmet into place and his face appears smaller, younger again. She cups his chin and kisses his nose. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

She listens to fragments of snow board chatter—moguls, lift, precision, toe-side turn, pivot—all the way to the elevator. And though a part of her is worried about the decision, one made spontaneously, and much too late!—she is quelled by the image of her son’s joy, of the light in his eyes as he seizes the opportunity to snowboard at night.

The doors of the elevator press shut like a kiss. She rises to the second floor and steps off, the framed picture of a bear cub meeting her gaze from its perch on the opposite wall. He sits adorably in a wicker basket, studying a pine cone. Smiling, she proceeds to her room before hesitating at the doorway, hand on knob. Her heartbeat quickens like a row of falling dominoes. Something, perhaps intuition, tells her to go back downstairs and join the boys.

She ignores the feeling, lets herself in.

 
Two

The second floor bedroom, colonial inspired, is decorated warmly. Two full-sized quilted beds top a creaky hardwood floor. An antique rocking chair, nestled on the diagonal in the room’s corner, sits beside a bookcase, the shelves of which, she guesses, hold poetry and classical literature. The lighting is dim and charming, offering a cozy effect that is irresistibly winter in New England.

At sunrise, the view at the room’s window (the east side), will be magnificent; a landscape of snow capped mountains splintered with sunlight. In the dark, they are bulks of shadow, insidious giants of the night.

She closes the curtain and re-visits the luggage, realizing that, once again, she has over-packed. There are enough clothes to last for a week, yet her family is staying for two nights only. Foiled again, she places heaps of underwear, sweatshirts, and ski-wear in the top drawer of a stodgy oak armoire, allotting the bottom two for the boys. Her eye catches the red of Josh’s favorite baseball pajamas, the fabric of which is worn and faded. She closes the drawer and reflects on his descent down the stairs, same foot leading, when he wore the pajamas baggy, only a year ago.

The telephone ring, an old-fashioned scream, shatters the memory.

“Hello?” Perhaps a problem with the room deposit?

“Hello…Mrs. Davis?”

“Y-yes, this is she.”

“Hi, this is Chloe at the front desk. I’m just calling to let you know that your husband has just come in with a minor accident on the slopes.”

“Oh gosh…” she manages to say, pressing a finger against her bottom lip.

“It’s nothing serious, Mrs. Davis. Just a slight wrist injury…we see this all the time, no worries at all. He’s being taped up now. We’ve advised him to go easy tomorrow and, certainly, to get it x-rayed when you get back home if it gets worse. Wrist injuries are quite common around here, trust me.”

“Al…alright. You know what…” she says, reading the clock, “I’ll be right down.”
*
Chloe is poised at the counter, unaffected by ski injuries. She is wearing a red turtle neck beneath a vest that is hand-knitted and garish in its holiday sell. Her braids, along with sewn-on glitter ornaments, hang long. The ensemble is overwhelming.

“Hello. You must be Mrs. Davis,” she says, looking up from her keyboard.
“Hi. And yes. Is my husband here?”

“Oh, he’ll be just fine, still in First Aid, first hallway to the left…” she says, pointing out the direction before adding, “he fell on his hands, happens all the time with amateurs.”

The assassination is mild. Serena will pardon Chloe’s ignorance knowing that, if present, Doug would laugh the comment off, his sense of humor heartier than her own. She swallows a come-back.

“Thank you, Chloe. I’m just going to pop outside and take a peek at my son. He’s with one of your instructors, Mr. Roth. Steven Roth.”
To the name, Chloe pauses, her response put on hold.

Serena’s heart flutters, a sparrow caught in her chest.

“We don’t employ a man by that name.”

Inside her ribcage, the sparrow flaps. “I met him in the cafeteria earlier,” she thumbs back,“ he was...I mean he gave me his card, says I could pick up a brochure here?”

Chloe’s chest expands as she draws in a slow inhale. “Just a minute, please. It’s possible that he runs private lessons and I just haven’t heard of him.” Her chubby hand picks up the phone but Serena cannot wait.

Her legs move her back; to the door, then the handle. And outside.
The air is moist, smells of night and snow. She whispers his name as she walks, can see him in her mind: hunched over his board, the white helmet, the white spray as he comes to a halt at the bottom and, most endearing, the satisfaction in his eyes as he looks up. She will envision him this way and, like so many times before, at the grocery store, in the mall, at the bookstore, her heart will jump upon learning that he was not lost at all. He was simply out of earshot.

Later, in re-telling the incident to Doug, she will blame the media for creating fear in their obnoxious coverage of everything negative. Let’s not bother watching the news anymore, he’d agree.

A brisk walk takes her to the lodge’s backside, to a mountainous landscape that reminds her of a calendar picture, New Hampshire in December. Now, as though holding a dirty secret, the view appears ugly, overstated.

Her eyes struggles to devour it but can barely scan it fast enough—the rolling hills of white, the chairlift, the clusters of skiers beyond the rope, the hot chocolate tent—all shy of Josh’s hooded red coat. His name protects him, she tells herself, needing to believe it.

Intuitively, aggressively, she moves toward a bright orange ski vest. The instructor is bent over his snowboard, adjusting the bindings. She drills into his space.

“Excuse me, Sir….you work here right?”

He twists back and looks up to her as though to say yes and shoot.

“Hello. Hi. My name is Serena Davis. My husband, Josh…I mean, Doug’s his name,” she stammers, “he and my son, Joshua, were just out here about twenty minutes ago for a lesson with Roth. I mean…” she closes her eyes, “Steven Roth’s the name…we met him—”

“If they’re on a lesson, they probably just haven’t come down yet. What did you say the instructor’s name was?”

By now she is panting. Her heartbeat is irregular. She is irregular. Her panic, she knows, will upstage her looks, blonde looks that have reprieved speeding tickets and coerced men to open doors for her. Fear crawls up her throat like a worm.

"Roth. Steven Roth’s the name,” she spits out. “My husband was ushered into the lodge with a wrist injury, maybe five, ten minutes ago. Front…front desk called me down and said they don’t know his name. I’m concerned,” she huffs. “Would you mind helping me locate them? I mean, I don’t mean to be a pain, it’s just that…I’m worried.” Her story is a work-out. He cannot possibly say no.

As though reading her mind, he springs up. “Come with me, let’s check out the slopes. I’ll beep the front desk to let them know where we are.” He hops on his board and skates forward, one foot doing the work, the other resting at the back as he glides ahead. She floats behind him, a shadow of the person she was ten minutes ago.

“What level is your son at?” he turns to ask.

She hears herself say, “The top one…he’s mastered all of the basic levels and he’s really excellent at the sport, I think it’s—”

“Seven? Then he must be on Point Sara, tough trail but a great challenge for the experts,” the man delivers.

“Sir, do you know this instructor,” she says, nearly breathless. “I mean, he gave me his business card in the cafeteria, nice-looking man, tall, very knowledgeable, dark hair…”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

They are at the ski lift by now, along with a few other groups; a trio of young girls and, further ahead, a pack of young men. The chair-lift stops and moves ahead at mechanical intervals until a teen, fooling purposely, misses her opportunity to hop on. Her friends shout back to her, hilarious.

The man activating the lift has a voice as mechanical as the machine’s.

“Get on the next chair, ma’am. Move up to the line, please.”

Serena and the man with the orange vest are next.

“Quick. Let’s hop on,” he says, guiding her by the shoulder. “So, level seven boarder with an instructor named Roth. Here we come.”

They jump on and the chair swings upward as they settle to its back. He pulls the safety arm down and an emphatic clang confirms the lock. She clutches the metal handle. Her hands tremble to the vibration. Winter trees pass them like old friends.

“Listen, I’m going to scan the left side and you do the same on your right. Point Sara is for expert skiers so it should be less crowded, especially at night.”

He is taking this seriously, nearly shouting beside her. His command is delivered with such conviction that, for a second, she is relieved. She envisions Josh at the top of the mountain, prepared for descent: the bent knees, the slight lean forward, the stiff hands. Sheer focus. She will not holler to him immediately. Rather, she will hold her adrenaline back.

Relief will evaporate from her skin like sweat. If he asks why she came for him (she suspects that he will) she will tell him that she needed to discuss lessons with Mr. Roth. She will offer the white lie generously, for his own good, and he will feel independent, trusted.

The happy ending unravels in her mind like a satin ribbon.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier,” she says. The mountains will salvage their beauty.

“Jim,” he says, tightening the Velcro of his glove strap, “…and yours?”

“Serena,” she says, still dreaming. She will thank him with the gratitude
of a baby bird receiving the sky. She begins to cry. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…he’s such a wonderful boy, you know. I mean, I know every parent thinks that about their kid…but this one,” she goes on, cupping her hand over her mouth, “my child is one of a kind. So caring, so—”

“Please…” he interrupts, touching her arm. “I understand.”

But she does not want Jim to understand. Rather, she wants Jim to strip this problem from her in the same manner that he might pull a band-aid off of a cut, quick and painless, masculine-style. It will only sting for a moment because he will reassure her that parents worry like this all the time. She will believe him. Oh, how she will believe him.

The Jim beside her does not act like the one she imagines. He remains quiet and the fright between them lingers cruelly. She glances back to the lodge. It shrinks in the distance and a mist of snow chafes her face. Her lips are blanched and cold, the skin of the trout. She thinks about removing a stick of lip balm from her back pocket but the small task, now, seems too great to bear. Like sand packed down in a beach pail, she feels stuffed with anxiety. Her mind has room only for Josh.

Only a few skiers glide down the mountain, their bodies swaying in unison, snow spraying at their feet. She stares through them, their bodies morphing to Josh’s shape, to his unique stance as she shuts her eyes and whispers a silent prayer. Bring him back to me….please.

“I’m going to give the operator the signal to halt the lift in about ten seconds. Wait until it stops then hop off.”

Jim’s voice. The wrong voice and the only one she has. He gives the thumbs-up and the chair comes to a squeaking stop.

Serena gets off and attacks the view. A dusky sky casts a silvery glow over the snow. Brittle trees stand tall and scattered between a pair of mountains, dividing two trails. Typically, the area is animated with pink-faced skiers and movement, a gusty vibrancy. At the mountain’s top, tall tales and daring rumors are passed around like a warm plate of macaroni.

Now, a quiet presence surrounds them like a ghost.

Serena wastes no time, darting about the woods like a fish about to be netted. Her nerves are electric, frayed at the seams, and she sees her. Rising uphill on the chairlift.

It is Chloe, back with new that cannot be good.

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 move forward slowly, humbled by the news.

The CSI arrives and secures the sight with taped banners and ropes before conducting the initial walk-through. Pictures are taken, sketches are drawn. Nothing is touched. At least not yet. Theories are drawn about the lost boy based on visual examination.

Murmurs of gossip coat the area. Adults exaggerate their cooperation, stepping back, chiding their little ones for straying but Serena knows that—more viscerally—they are relieved. Thank God it’s not my kid. Amongst them, relief floats like smoke, the passing of a pipe during a tribal ceremony by the fire.

These people are bonded by what she has lost, her son the sacrificial lamb.

Anger presses against her shoulders like a heavy robe. She sits on a cold bench with Doug. beside Chief McKenzie—a burly Irishman leading the investigation. How did they get here? His assistant, a thirtyish detective wearing a black trench coat and angular shoes, stands erect, her black hair fastened into a vicious bun that matches her expression

“Let me introduce you to Detective Hearns…” he says, “when it comes to abductions, she’s unmatched.” In his eyes, McKenzie carries the weight of his history. Like a brawny oak tree, he has been standing for too long.

Ms. Hearns, more confidently, says, “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, especially when it comes to abductions”

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

McKenzie delivers 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 it but, at the moment, she resents both of them.

“Excuse me, but instead of documenting the facts,” she says, her hand raised, “I think we should look some more, just search, just search this mountain, he’s gotta’ be here, I mean this is….” she splays her fingers over her mouth like a starfish, “this is not right. There’s something we’re not seeing, something we just haven’t figured out…”

Tears settle and pool in her eyes, making Doug appear underwater in her stare. She awaits his logic, the explanation that no one else could come up with, because no one else thinks like Doug. But he does not offer one. Swimming in fear, she blinks hard, brings him back into focus. His expression is chilling, a blend of doubt and fear. Doug has nothing to give. Along with Josh, he is somewhere else. The thought is torturous.

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

“Ms. Davis, your husband and I will tackle the sequence. This isn’t easy and I apologize for the factual nature of this exercise but timing is key. We need to stay focused.” Awkwardly, he adds, “If you need some time to look on your own or, anything, go right ahead, Ms. Davis.”

“My son has not been abducted,” she says, biting her lip, tasting salt and fear. “Kids drift away all the time. I will find him myself.” She walks away, her leg muscles tense, the tightened strings of a guitar.

“Ms. Davis, I can assure you that we will give one hundred ten percent here.”

It is the detective’s voice cutting into her thoughts, knifing her from behind. She is not Ms. Davis, she is Serena. And she does not want one hundred ten percent. She wants her son back.

She stumbles ahead, possessed by thoughts that swarm her mind like bees.
The innocence of a life she once knew has been raped and she feels exposed by a possibility she cannot bear—that of losing her child.

A family of pine trees draws her closer. She weaves through sections of open space, needles scratching her face as she moves onward, upward.

There is too much quiet and, instinctively, she pats her sweatshirt pocket for her cell phone before remembering that it is back in the room. Just an hour ago, she was unpacking. Tears flood her, define her. It must be around eight-thirty by now. Josh would have closed his book by now. She pictures him cross-legged on the bed, his head hung over the pages.

To her left, the rescue team mans the slopes. A pair of shepherds sniff voraciously for—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 withdraws from the scene, steps away from it. The intensity of what has happened commands too much of her. There are shouts, orders, directions and strangers creating a scene that she watches like a spectator. These things happen to other people. She needs the truth but the truth is a bone trapped in her throat and she needs air, needs someone to yell, cut!—and end the scene.

Why are you putting me through this?—she says to the sky. I'll be a better mom, I promise you, I will. She closes her eyes and chants, I will be better. I'll be so much better. Please don't take him from me.

In the cold, she presses on.

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. She struggles for a prominent memory, a clue, but her son's face will not leave her, will not leave her, will not leave her; his face beats forward in her mind.

The snowy air is no longer fresh. She clears her throat until a single cough turns spastic and she cannot stop hacking. She coughs and cries and a creature snakes up her throat until she feels unbearably nauseous. She stumbles ahead and falls, and the creature wins. It is vomit, spilling from her like venom, staining the snow 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 his name, “Joshua…Mom, I’m here…I’m sorry!” She cries out his name until it dries up in her mouth. She is dizzy and she cannot breath. The snow wets her ear as she collapses.

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, the tongue of a dog. Her eyes snap open. She shuffles back on her elbows, her nightmare coming back into focus.

“Mrs. Davis,” a policeman says, draping a blanket around her shoulders, “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, her blanket skimming the ground. They follow the rescue dog. “You mean my son was bullied to leave?” He was mesmerized by his height in the lodge, staring up to him admirably, she remembers.

“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—

Doug is there with a sudden answer, his taped wrist glowing with revelation.

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


McKenzie squints to the news and nods affirmatively. “Now that's what I call a lead, young lady. Let’s go fill Detective Hearns in.”

 
Four

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?—he thinks, chewing on a toothpick. His windshield wipers are frosted with ice. An explosion of snow whips against his front window, obscuring his view. He presses the gas pedal harder, despite the grim conditions. 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 fidgets 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 a whimper.

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

“You got divorced?”

He tosses 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 pauses before saying. “Steven, named after his grandpa.”

“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. 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…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, attempting 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 far away.

A thought slices through him. The boy’s perception of him is also skewed. He is supposed to be 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.

Mark is better at this than Steven. And much more courageous. Mark knew that the ploy to help the boy’s dad with his wrist injury would work, though he hadn’t anticipated the struggle to the car. 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 own 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 beneath his helmet, 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, his alter 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.

* * *