Jaxon With an X Read online

  Closed curtains indicated five occupied beds. A young couple in neighboring units ached from minor bumps and bruises after their car had slipped on the icy roads and into a ditch. One man loudly proclaimed he had chest pains, damn it, and he was going to sue everybody if they didn’t take care of him right now. A lady who had avoided going to her doctor three days earlier because of a lack of insurance had flu symptoms that had morphed into pneumonia, and she now faced a much larger emergency room bill.

  But the fifth curtain held David’s focus. It hid a boy named Jaxon.

  A waist-high counter separated the corridor from the open workspace in the center of the emergency department. Computer terminals glowed, awaiting data entry, and a bank of video screens—most connected to vacant beds and dark at the moment—displayed patient statistics. Coffeepots percolated their energy-giving substances, files sat neatly in wire racks, telephones blinked with waiting calls, and a half-eaten sandwich waited on a paper plate for its hungry owner’s return. The complainer’s voice—“I’m going to die in here of a heart attack, and none of you care!”—elicited eye rolls from a pair of nurses as it carried over the soft beeps of the few operating monitors.

  A uniformed deputy leaned over the counter with his back to the entrance, talking with a young nurse. Based on her smile and twinkling eyes, David guessed she found the uniformed officer entertaining. Enthralled in the conversation, the young man didn’t seem to notice the approach of the six-foot-four-inch sheriff until he stepped behind him and cleared his throat. “Can I interrupt your chat?”

  Deputy Patterson straightened and spun, his equipment belt jangling. His face blushed as he stammered, “Sir, I didn’t know you were coming here.”

  Chatting with a nurse was hardly an unprofessional act, so David smiled at the young man’s flustered response to let him know he was fine. He had been young once, long ago, and would have been attracted to the nurse, too, if she hadn’t been young enough to be his daughter. Not that he saw his kids much anymore. His ex-wife and children lived in Charlotte with a new husband-slash-dad who kept steady banker’s hours and earned a salary that could pay for college tuition.

  Patterson was proving to be a great young deputy with a lot of potential. His training officer had bragged about his rookie performance and recommended him, based on his military experience, for a trainee role with the SWAT team. In a small department, David knew all of his deputies and wanted to develop Patterson. “Tell me what you know.”

  The deputy pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket, flipped it open, and stared at it. He closed it again and sheepishly shrugged as his face turned red. “Not much yet. The boy was exhausted and fell asleep in my car before he could answer many of my questions. All I got out of him was his first name.”

  “Jaxon? X and not J-A-C-K-S-O-N?”

  “Yes, sir. ‘Jaxon with an x.’ The kid said it just like that.”

  Just like my Jaxon told his first-grade teacher. But don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s just a coincidence. With a clenched stomach, David asked, “No last name?”

  “No, sir. He didn’t say anything else at all. And he didn’t have any identification in his pockets, so no last name and no address.” The deputy paused, and his face scrunched in puzzlement. “The really weird part is I didn’t find anything at all in his pockets. No keys, cell phone, wallet, money. Nothing. My nephew always has crap in his pockets. What boy doesn’t?”

  The sheriff waved away the question with a flick of his hand. “Walking barefoot in the snow? Did I hear that right?”

  “No, sir, not exactly. No shoes or socks, but he had burlap sacks wrapped around his feet and tied with twine. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. No coat, gloves, or hat. Hell, sir, the docs found he wasn’t even wearing underwear. It’s amazing he didn’t freeze his nuts off.”

  David chewed on his lip. A quick check with his office during the drive over confirmed none of the neighboring states had issued Amber Alerts. No recent missing-children reports matched or even came close. Twelve-year-old kids didn’t just walk away unnoticed, but until someone reported him missing, they had few clues to his identity except what the boy told them. For the time being, that was almost nothing.

  “You confirmed with highway patrol no reported wrecks in the area?”

  “Yes, sir, I checked. HP handled a few fender benders in the gorge overnight, but nothing serious. No one unconscious or anything like that. No one saying they were missing a boy. Same thing on the Tennessee side. I checked with a trooper I know over there.” The man’s face reddened further as he floundered in front of the sheriff. “Well, I mean, I kind of met him last night.”

  “Good thinking to reach out to him.” A young deputy, David thought, but thorough. He kept his tone gentle. Encourage, don’t discourage. “Maybe a car over the railing that hasn’t been reported?”

  “I was up and down that stretch of road several times last night. Never saw a guardrail torn up or any other sign of anything like that. HP said the same thing. And the snowplow guys would have noticed.”

  “Get day shift to make one more pass on the interstate to be sure. Maybe he was a hitchhiker who had to get out of a car quick. Once we can talk to him, we’ll figure out how he got there.”

  “I’ll do one more sweep myself if you want before I go off shift.”

  The beeping monitors counted the seconds as David shifted the conversation where he needed—to confirm it wasn’t his Jaxon and then focus on the poor kid. “Let’s get a good description prepared to send out. You say he’s around twelve?”

  “I doubt that, Sheriff,” a voice called from behind. “That boy is older than twelve.”

  9

  My first morning away from there has been surreal—marked by the intense irrational reality of a dream.

  Just a few hours ago, I sat in the back of that deputy’s car as he asked his questions, but I didn’t trust him enough to answer. Why should I? He’s from the government. A cop, no less. All I’ve ever heard is never to trust government people, and certainly not cops, with their cages inside their cars and back doors that only open from the outside.

  I shouldn’t even have given him a name. Should’ve refused to say anything at all. But I did eat his sandwich, drink his water, and enjoy the warmth of his car as the feeling returned to my numbed body. I was warmer than I could ever remember being. I was so comfortable, so full, so warm. I couldn’t help it—I fell asleep.

  Next sound I hear is the car door opening. I pretend to stay asleep, a trick I learned years ago, and smell the deputy’s sweat mingled with a fragrant smell—cologne—a perfumed liquid—as he leans into the car and scoops me up in his arms. He settles me into a wheelchair while I keep my eyes closed. I feel the cold air swirl around me and hear the chatter of others joining him. I wait until he steps back then jump up and run.

  I make it five steps. He and this big black guy grab me and sit me back down. I’ve never seen anyone with dark skin like that, though others have told me and the dictionary alluded to it. Fascinating how people can be different.

  The deputy curses under his breath—nothing I haven’t heard before—and calls me slippery, though I don’t know if he means tending to slip from the grasp or one not to be trusted. I guess both definitions fit.

  Once they have me reseated, the deputy says, “Jaxon, we’re gonna help you. I promise. But you have to stay put, or I have to handcuff you to the chair.”

  The other guy defends me. “Come on, Jon. That ain’t no way to treat a kid.”

  “Kid? Jackrabbit’s more like it, Horace, so you better watch him, or you’ll be chasing him down the halls.”

  “He’s scared. That’s it. We’re good, right, Jaxon?”

  He’s right, I’m scared. I don’t know if Horace is a regular them or a government them, but I’m supposed to hide from him either way. I can’t figure out how, though, because he’s bigger and faster than me. He chatters away as he rolls me through glass doors that swoosh open without anyone
touching them then swoosh back closed as soon as we’re inside. I don’t know what made them open and close, so I am trapped again until I can figure it out.

  I decide to bide my time and watch for another chance to escape. I can do that. I’ve waited years before. I can do it again.

  We roll up beside a bed, and a nurse is standing there in colorful blue scrubs with cartoon characters all over. She smiles at me and says, “Good morning, Jaxon, my name’s Carla. You doing okay?”

  I nod while she draws the curtain closed around us and looks at my clothes. My shirt and jeans are ripped in several places, caked in mud, and covered in blood stains. My feet are still wrapped in burlap. “Would you be okay slipping out of those clothes and putting on this gown instead? It’s clean, you’ll be more comfortable, and it’ll make it easier for us too.”

  I reach for the ropes holding the burlap to my ankles but hit the finger with the ripped nail. I wince, and Horace drops down to his knees and tsks. He loosens the knots for me and unwraps my feet. They both grimace and shake their heads when he reveals cuts, bruises, and open sores.

  Horace drops the burlap and ropes into a plastic bag while I slip off my shirt and hand it to him. I reach for my pants, but he hands me the gown first and helps me get into it.

  Modesty—propriety in dress. It isn’t something I’ve ever had the privilege of, but apparently, it matters to them.

  Once the gown is secured, he has me slip off my pants and add them to the bag. He waits while I stand there and then says, “Underwear too.”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s okay. The gown will keep you covered.”

  I shake my head again and speak for the first time since giving my name to the deputy. “I don’t have any.”

  They exchange glances, but Horace seals up my bag of clothes. He helps me get into bed, and I savor how nice it is. It’s warm, dry, comfortable, and has clean sheets. My head rests on pillows. Actual pillows. As many as I want, Horace says. I’ve never rested my head on anything other than the floor, my arm, or someone else. It’s heaven.

  Horace and Carla leave and pull the curtains that surround my bed closed. As I listen to their shoes squeak away, I debate getting up and trying to run again, but I don’t know how to get those glass doors to open for me. Besides, I saw that deputy leaning against the counter right outside the curtain, his hand outstretched to take my bag of clothes from Horace. I have almost worked up the nerve to try anyway when the curtain pulls back and Carla returns.

  “I’m gonna get an IV going—it’s just a saline solution for now until the doc comes in—and I’m gonna take some blood just like a Cullen, okay?”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. Blood I understand, and it scares me that she wants to take some, but what’s a Cullen?

  “You know, Twilight? The movies? The books?”

  I stare at her.

  “Edward Cullen. Sparkly and moody.” When I don’t answer, she continues, “Or maybe you’re more of a Stephen King fan… Barlow… Salem’s Lot.”

  I shrug.

  “Count Dracula? A vampire?”

  That one’s in the dictionary. I gasp and ask, “Are you really a reanimated body of a dead person who sucks blood from his victims?”

  Her eyes grow big, and her smile falters. “Oh, no, honey, it’s just a little joke I tell. It makes… well, usually, it makes people laugh. Don’t worry, though. I just need to draw some blood for tests.”

  She reaches forward and gently holds my wrist. She swabs the skin with a cool liquid and then picks up a needle off a tray she has wheeled in, “This might hurt a little bit, but it will be over real quick.”

  She runs her gloved finger along my veins and lines the needle up with it. I watch it pierce the skin and slide smoothly into the vein. Blood flows into the connected vial. She replaces that vial with another, fills it, and then another vial. Once she has drawn enough, she slips the needle back out of me, caps it, and disposes of it in a red plastic box. “There. That didn’t hurt too bad, did it?”

  That seems to be a harmless question, and answering it doesn’t break any rules of giving away information. “Nah, not at all. Kinda like a bug bite or a bee sting. Not near as bad as a rat chomping on your finger.”

  Her eyes widen again, and her face pales. She pats my arm and mutters, “Poor baby.”

  She flips my hand over, sterilizes the back of it, and slips another needle into a different vein. Instead of drawing blood, she tapes it into place then connects a clear plastic bag of fluid to it. “Don’t worry, just saline. It’ll rehydrate you, which will make you feel better and help your body fight off infection.”

  I can’t imagine feeling better that I am, being all warm and cozy, so I don’t even think much about escaping when she steps out of the room again. Besides, I can see the deputy still standing out there, so there’s no point in trying.

  Carla returns with a thin man in blue scrubs and a stethoscope draped around his neck. He appears to be in charge. “Good morning, Jaxon, I’m Dr. Queen. How are you feeling?”

  I shrug.

  “Any pain? Discomfort?”

  What else can I do but shrug?

  “I’m told you have quite the collection of cuts and scars. Do you mind if I look?”

  I don’t understand why he would ask permission. I’ve always been told what to do. Saying no has never been an option.

  His hands are warm and gentle as he inspects me, pausing before each step to tell me what he is going to do. Then he leaves as abruptly as he arrived.

  A few minutes later, a heavyset guy with a beard comes into the room. “Hey, Jaxon, I’m Bert. Doc said he wants to see your insides. Is that cool with you?”

  Not really, Bert. That sounds like it’s going to hurt, but it’s not like I can refuse. As he and Carla help me into the wheelchair, I think about running, but then they pull the curtain back, and the deputy is still standing there. Maybe he’s never leaving. We go through a pair of doors and into a room with equipment mounted to the ceiling.

  “Okay, buddy, let’s get you up on this table.”

  I do as I’m told. He positions me on the table and moves equipment around. “Okay. Lie still for me, buddy.”

  I tense as he steps from the room. Clicking and buzzing sounds fill the air. When they stop, Bert comes back in. “Okay, now flat on your back.” He rotates equipment, aims, and says, “Stay still again, buddy.” He steps from the room. Click, buzz.

  I’m waiting for pain, but it doesn’t seem to be coming. After several more repositions, exits, clicks, buzzes, and reentries, he helps me settle back into the wheelchair. Confused, I ask, “So when you going to cut me?”

  He stops. “What?”

  “To see my insides.”

  “No, buddy, that’s not how this works.” He runs his hand through his beard and glances toward the empty doorway. “Come on, let me show you.”

  He wheels me into a room next door and turns a big screen to face me so I can see it. He taps away on a keyboard, and a picture pops up on the screen. “See, that’s your rib cage.”

  I’ve seen bones, so I know a rib cage, but mine? “That’s me?”

  “Yeah, that’s you.”

  I lean forward and follow the bones as they branch off from the sternum. I point toward a bright, white line on one of the ribs. “Why does that look different?”

  “Rules are, only the docs are supposed to diagnose things.” Bert looks over his shoulder again. He turns back to me and lowers his voice. “But I don’t see any harm in telling you that’s an old fracture. You can see several of them.”

  Fracture—the act or process of breaking.

  “So that’s where the bone’s broken?”

  “Well, more like used to be broken. Your body has healed it as well as it can.”

  “So anywhere I’ve had a broken bone, you can tell?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He presses a button, and the photos slide by on the screen. “Like here on your arm. You can see a couple of o
ld breaks.”

  “And they’ve all healed?”

  He stared at the screen. “Well, some have healed better than others, but yes.”

  “So you’re done taking pictures?”

  “For now, yes. The doc will probably order a CT, too, to get an even better look.”

  “A CT?”

  “Don’t worry, buddy, it doesn’t hurt either. I promise.”

  He rolls me back to my cubicle in the emergency room and helps me settle into my bed. As he departs, he leaves the curtain open a bit. It’s my chance to escape, except I can see the deputy talking to a tall man in the same uniform. The doctor walks over and joins them. There’s no way I can slip away unnoticed, so I settle back to wait.

  10

  David watched out of the corner of his eye as the boy was rolled back into his emergency-room cubicle. Like his deputy, he would have guessed the boy’s age around twelve, given his short stature and thin frame. But if the doctor was right, if he was older, then he might have been… Not my Jaxon. Couldn’t be.

  Dr. Gregory Queen slipped a folder into the holder on the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee. In Millerton, most residents could trace their family back several generations. The doctor, however, was a rare outsider. He had arrived at the hospital two years earlier, fresh out of residency and a new employee of the outsourcing company operating the small-town emergency room. He had never settled into small-town life, so he didn’t attend the usual functions with the sheriff—Rotary, Kiwanis, the big churches—anywhere the town leaders were. The man wasn’t trying to put down roots in Millerton, the sheriff thought. Probably waiting on a chance at a bigger city hospital.

  Impatient, Deputy Patterson protested, “But from his size… I mean, I picked him up in my arms like he was nothing. My nephew is eleven and weighs more than he does. No way that kid is older than twelve.”