STOLEN (5 page)

“I don’t know.” He replayed the moment just before the kid
sunk his sharp canines into his thigh. “It sounded like ‘dirty,’ but I could be
wrong.”

“Sophie told me that he wasn’t responding to any of her
questions at all. She thought that he might be in shock or possibly has a
hearing problem, or perhaps he is even autistic.”

Her cellphone buzzed, letting her know she had a text
message and she glanced down at it. He knew their lunch was over when she
quickly took another bite into her sandwich and washed it down quickly with her
diet drink.

“He’s awake; I’m going to go see him now. Do you want to
come back with me?”

She didn’t have to ask twice. Marty gathered up the
remainder of their meal and deposited it in the wastebasket. If her mother saw
what the couple left over, there would be hell to pay.

“These were in the back of the pickup. I figured the kid
might need something familiar.” Justin said, as they all gathered in the
corridor outside the boy’s room. Jean had joined them and was frantically
trying to open a bag of chips she had gotten from one of the vending machines. Marty
watched as she used her teeth to tear into it; the bag exploded, scattering
chips across the floor. Cussing under her breath, she began to pick them up,
but one of the hospital’s orderlies stopped her with a wave of his hand,
signaling that he would take care of the mess. She gave him a half-hearted
smile, letting him know how grateful she was.

Justin held up a child-sized striped polo shirt and a pair of
jeans. The shirt was clean but wrinkled. As Marty took the shirt from the pile
in Justin’s hands, he noticed it still had a strong scent of laundry detergent.
Stuck to the chest pocket was one of those paper name tags. Written in red
marker, in block letters, was a name. TRISTAN.

Marty read the name out loud and watched to see if he got a
reaction. The boy was laying curled up in fetal position, both hands curled
into a fist. Brown, wavy curls fell, covering what he remembered as his round,
deer-like green eyes, but he was still able to see the kid was watching them
suspiciously. The moment Marty said the name out loud, the boy’s eyelids closed
shut and his facial muscles tightened from clenching his teeth. Marty was
pretty sure that the boy had heard him and the question of his having a hearing
problem, in his opinion, was now moot.

Justin handed Hope the jeans and then pulled out some paperwork
from his pocket and began to read the contents aloud.

“The dead guy, Archie Blakey, aka Fred Blakey, aka Freddie Archman
has a rap sheet a mile long. Man was arrested and convicted in 1978 for
molesting a seven-year-old boy. Spent one year in prison in the state of
Washington. Arrested again in Oregon in 1985, accused of trying to abduct a
neighbor’s six-year-old son. He was represented by a court appointed attorney
and acquitted on some technicality. He was arrested in New York for soliciting
in 1988, and a few more misdemeanors, but there doesn’t appear to be any
convictions. A few traffic infractions in 1990 after that, and one domestic
dispute arrest in Oregon, but we can’t find anything else.”

He went on.

“The guy in surgery fits the description of the registered
owner of the pickup. Troy Blakey; age twenty–eight. Address on record is also Fort
Rock, Oregon. No priors. The deceased, Archie Blakey, had some I.D. on his
person with the same exact address.”

Marty saw Jean and Hope look at each other. They were
engaged in some sort of silent communication being conducted with their eyes.
The two of them seemed to know what the other was thinking.

Marty turned and directed his question to Hope. “What?
What’s going on? What are you thinking?” he asked her.

She shook her head, but it was Jean that answered his
question. “Same address, same last name. I just hope we don’t have another one
of those father and son sociopath teams.” she said, taking the report from
Justin’s hand.

“Do you think they’re father and son?” Hope asked her.

Then it finally hit Marty, they were both thinking about
Dennis and Arnold Maurer, the infamous father and son serial rapists and serial
killers.

Jean handed the paper back to Justin. Folding the sheet of
paper, he placed it back in his pocket. He started to walk out of the room, but
stopped. “They have been searching the system for missing kids that fit this little
boy’s description, but so far nada. We don’t have a clue who this kid is.” He
turned to face the boy lying on the hospital bed.

Marty could tell this was hitting him personally, just like
the rest of them. He had a little boy at home and another one on the way.

“There is no missing juvenile around his age, matching his
description with the name of Tristan in the system, nothing even remotely close.”
Frustration dotted his words.

“Maybe that’s not his real name.” Jean offered. “Maybe
that’s the purpose of the name tag. Maybe these guys were trying to train him
to answer to it. Somebody has got to be desperately looking for this kid. We
just have to look harder.” She said, glancing over at the boy. He hadn’t moved
a muscle. The lids of his eyes were still shut as if he was asleep, although Marty
thought he saw them flutter. He had the feeling he was paying very close
attention and heard every word they were saying. Marty was pretty sure he saw
him cock his head slightly when Justin made mention of ‘the guy in surgery.’ It
could have been his imagination, and he could have been mistaken, but he got
the strange feeling that he was listening to their conversation for a specific
reason.

Marty watched as Hope grabbed the rolling stool from the
corner of the room and placed it close to the head of the bed. Now there was no
doubt, Marty could see the boy’s eyes flutter underneath his still closed lids.

“Tristan?” She whispered softly. His eyelids flew open and
he shifted his bottom and pushed himself, using the heels of his feet until he
was flush against the wall, his hands clutched in tight balls, making two fists.
Knowing that every reaction she had would determine how the boy related to her,
Hope didn’t react at all except to give him a half smile. She gently bit down
on the left side of her bottom lip and the corner of her mouth curled just a
bit. She watched and waited until his hands seemed to slowly open and his
fingers relaxed a bit before she spoke again.

“Tristan, you’re safe here, we aren’t going to let anyone
hurt you.” Her smile was warm and she made every movement very slow and
deliberate, hoping to gain his trust.

“DIRTY!” The word came out extremely loud and fast; everyone
else in the room jumped back at his sudden outburst; but Marty noticed that
Hope had the composure not to react. The boy repeated it over and over again. “DIRTY,
DIRTY, DIRTY.” He hollered as he shook his head violently, a mass of brown
curls whipping around, slapping his own face. His arms and legs, extended,
pounded the air.

Marty went to stop her, but controlled his instinct as she
took a chance of getting hurt by maneuvering herself so she was able to reach
out and grab the boy’s shoulders. Once she had his shoulders secure in her
hands, she shook her head and deliberately began mimicking his movements. “No,
Tristan, you’re not dirty. You’re safe now; no one’s going to hurt you. I’m not
going to let anyone hurt you.” She told him.

Marty watched as the little boy’s eyes began to focus on
Hope and she slowly changed the rhythm of her own head movement. Tristan’s
breathing became less frantic and he seemed to follow her lead and his hair
stopped whipping around and now he appeared to be imitating Hope’s movements.
Eventually, he sat still, staring at her, and then his eyes shifted to the pile
of clothes on her lap. With his eyes locked on Hope, he quickly grabbed for the
pair of jeans, thrusting the other clothes onto the floor. He started anxiously
rummaging through the pockets until he found what he was looking for. His hand
came out wrapped around a plastic purple whistle, and without any hesitation,
he raised it to his lips and blew as hard as his little lungs would let him.
With each blow, he stopped and looked around, as if he was waiting for someone
to answer his call, and every time there was no response to his frantic blows,
his expression appeared to become more despondent.

She
didn’t want to stop him, but the whistle was
loud and piercing and they were in a hospital. She put out her arm, her palm
facing up. She didn’t come out and ask him for the plastic noisemaker, but he
knew what she wanted. Tears now ran down the child’s face, she felt his frustration
as he placed the toy in her hand, his big green eyes still fixated on hers.
Instead of putting it away, she raised the whistle to her own lips and blew
hard. She turned around, facing the door, looking in the direction he had
looked after each blow and looked as disappointed as he had when no one new
entered the room.

“Tristan, can you tell me how old you are?” Hope asked,
trying once again to engage him in a conversation. He responded by staring at
her, a blank look in his eyes. She tried another method. “I bet you are eight
years old. Yup, I think you are eight!” Nothing.

“Tristan, can you tell me what your last name is?” Nothing.

Someone spoke up. “Maybe he doesn’t speak English.”

Hope tried to engage him in conversation again. “Tristan,
are you hungry?” At first he didn’t move and then he slowly opened his mouth
and gave a soft grunt. Unless he was reading her lips, there was no question
now that he could did not have a hearing problem, and there was no language
discrepancy. Hope turned to one of the nurses and asked her to get the boy
something to eat. She turned back to him. “How about a cheeseburger? Would you
like that, Tristan?” Again, he answered with a grunt and a nod of his head.

Hope turned back to the nurse. “Vanessa, can you get Tristan
a cheeseburger and some french fries?” Hope looked back to the boy, hoping to
see if the mention of the fries got a response. The little boy’s head bobbed up
and down twice.

Satisfied, and somewhat elated, she instructed the young
nurse to run the errand. “Yes, a cheeseburger and fries.” Just before the nurse
left the room, Hope added to the order, “and a large glass of milk please.”

The small group that had huddled in the room was blocking
the doorway, but one by one they spread out so Vanessa was able to maneuver her
way out the door to get the child some food. The group, consisting of medical
and law enforcement, stood there captivated by the child, not quite knowing
what to make of him. It was just a few hours ago he was screaming gibberish and
running through the hospital trying to escape, and now he was passive and
remarkably submissive.

Unlike Michaelah, who was found filthy, her blond hair so matted
and dirty everyone thought it was brown; Tristan seemed to be well groomed. His
hair looked and smelled as if it recently had been shampooed, and his
fingernails, although a little dirty, looked short and well-manicured. There
was no apparent bruising on him, except for a few fresh scratches from what
Hope thought to be his encounter in the woods and running through it partially
undressed. His teeth appeared clean and well maintained, with his right top
front tooth slightly overlapping the one next to it. She got the distinct
impression that someone had taken great care in his dental hygiene, as she
recalled noticing a white filling on one of his molars in the back of his open mouth
just before he blew into the whistle.

The appearance and condition of the two children were
dramatically different and she wondered why the discrepancy. Was it possible
that Tristan was kidnapped just hours earlier? Michaelah had been missing for
several months; which would account for her lack of good hygiene. Hope took the
polo shirt and the boy now known to them as Tristan allowed her to pull it over
his head. He lifted his butt as she pulled up the jeans and zipped them. As she
did, she consciously made a list of questions that she wanted to bring to Marty
and Jean’s attention, but she did not want to discuss them in front of the boy.
So she filed them away in the back of her mind and continued to try and build a
rapport with him.