A Strangely Amazing Mother’s Day #2
He broke off speaking because a few boys had run up to the car. One of them grabbed him by the arm, trying to stop him.
Corby just looked annoyed.
“Son, your friend is trying to talk to you,” Jackson said.
“That’s Cal and he’s just an asshole—whoops, sorry, Dad, I didn’t say that. I mean I did say that, but I’m sorry I said it. He spends his days figuring out ways to hassle me. He and his group of friends . . . well, I have mine, too. We’re sporty types so we hold our own, but—”
Corby broke off. The other boy had a hold of his arm.
And Cal was crying. Jackson couldn’t quite hear what the boy was saying, but he sounded desperate and urgent. The kid was about seventeen, almost six-feet tall, with dark hair and a face that would be handsome if it weren’t so contorted and tear-stained.
And finally, Corby ducked his head into the car and told Jackson, “Cal needs our help. He’s close to being hysterical and . . . Dad, could you listen to him?”
Jackson glanced back at Victoria.
“Dad,” she said with a very mature sigh, “we know what you and Mom do. If he’s in trouble, maybe you can help him”
Well, of course, if there was a hysterical kid who needed to talk, he would listen. It was probably something minor. But it was Victoria’s presumption that he must help that made him lower his head and smile before lifting it to nod to Corby.
“I’m getting out to speak with him—Cal, right?” Jackson said to Corby.
His son nodded gravely. Jackson frowned and wondered what could have happened that could make a teenager, a self-confident teenager, if not a bully at times, break down in tears like this.
“Cal, my name is Jackson Crow and I’m with—”
“You’re a fed, I know.” Cal said. “And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I knew about you, knew Corby’s dad was a fed, and I .
. . the cops will not liste. Marty just called me and he’s hysterical.
They told him he couldn’t say his wife was missing just because she wasn’t home when he got home.
But they don’t know my sister! She was so excited.
She was giving a lecture today at the college, but she promised Marty she’d be right home, be there when he got there, because she knew how worried he was about her working—”
“Cal, slow down, please. Why would he be worried?” Jackson asked.
“Because she’s about to pop!” Cal told him, wide-eyed.
“Pop?”
“She’s like eight months pregnant . . . huge!
And she’s ready to pop! And everyone has been worried about her because she is like a Mrs. Super-achiever.
The baby is big already, and Marty is worried about complications; and she’s supposed to be having some bed rest; and she never, never lies to Marty.
She’s the straightest arrow known to man.
So, she’s missing! Something bad happened.
And Marty says the house smells funny. The cops wouldn’t even come to the house.
There was no break-in . . . they told Marty just to go for a walk around, maybe head to the store or anywhere she likes to go.
Call her friend . . . I mean, they weren’t mean, they just told Marty that people weren’t considered missing just because one spouse came home and the other wasn’t there.
But . . . something has happened. I know that it has. And it’s my sister!”
Whether the danger was real or not, to this kid there was a catastrophe brewing. And Corby wanted him to help—even if Cal had been a jerk to him. Of course, he could almost feel Victoria staring at him. She wanted him to help, too.
Well, so much for the hot tub.
“Okay, Cal, I’m going to need your sister’s address and your brother-in-law’s full name.
I’ll drop these guys at home and get over there and talk to Marty and see what we can possibly do.
You need to calm down and go home. We’ll let you know anything we know just the second that we do,” Jackson told the boy.
Cal stopped crying. He stared at Jackson with desperate hope.
“Can you give me Marty’s phone number, please?” Jackson asked.
“Yeah, yeah, thank you!” Cal said.
Jackson put a quick call through to Marty Lawson.
The conversation was somewhat clearer than what he’d had with Cal.
But whether a disappearance of a few hours was a real disappearance or not, Marty Lawson was equally certain something was seriously wrong.
He’d called three different law enforcement agencies hoping someone would believe him, but . . .
Law enforcement wasn’t being unreasonable.
Cindy Lawson was an intelligent adult quite capable of looking after herself even if she was pregnant.
Pregnancy did not mean mentally diminished in any way.
They always suggested that people who were worried should check with friends, with family, even look around the neighborhood or seek them out in stores where they’re known to shop, in parks where they might exercise or just enjoy the outdoors, or any venue that attracted the person who might not be missing—just absent and off doing things on their own.
Naturally, he agreed with Marty that law enforcement worked in such a way because it was the usual—unless one was talking about a child.
An adult had to be missing a certain amount of time to be considered officially missing.
“I’ve heard Cal before, saying that Mr. Baseball—sorry, Corby—had parents who were feds. I know you must think we’re crazy, too—”
“Not to worry. There are a lot of things in the world that’s crazy. Be right there and try to get more info so we know where to start,” Jackson told him.
When he ended the call with Marty’s address in hand, he assured the boy, “We’re off to meet your brother-in-law and get going on this.”
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. And you promise—” Cal began.
“That we’ll keep in touch. Yes. I promise. Corby, hop in. Let me get you and Victoria dropped off,” Jackson said.
“Dad, come on, you know I can help,” Corby argued.
And it was true; Corby was . . . “gifted.” That’s how they had met—under strange circumstances.
He’d needed a family, and Jackson and Angela had loved him.
They had adopted him, and he was their son as true as if he’d come from their flesh and blood.
He was truly Victoria’s big brother, a great son.
“And I need you at home right now. I’m going to call your mom and let her know—”
“Oh, Dad!” Victoria said. “I called her while you were talking to Cal. She’s ready—and she didn’t know where we were heading anyway, so . . .”
“So, you need to stay home and watch your sister and pay attention for any calls, Corby. Please.
” Jackson told him.
And at his side, Corby nodded.
Jackson drove. And yes, Victoria had already called Angela; she was waiting outside. The kids got out of the car, gave her hugs, and she hopped in.
“This woman has only ‘disappeared’ for a few hours?” Angela asked Jackson.
He shrugged. “Seems like this kid who came to me—through Corby—is usually something of a bully. But Corby seems to believe that he has a reason to be so upset; the missing woman is his very pregnant sister, so . . . kids. You know. But I figured we should check it out.” He hesitated briefly. “The kids really wanted us to.”
“Of course! Our kids accept a lot because of us and our schedules. If they ask for help—even if we get there and find out this woman stopped at the convenience store—it’s the right thing for us to do,” Angela assured him. “So, basics—”
“The husband is Martin Lawson or Marty, and the missing wife is Cindy Lawson. She had taken a leave from teaching to get in some bed rest, because she’s due within the next month or so.
Healthy, from my understanding of Cal’s crazy hysterics.
But I called Marty Lawson and the grown man sounds hysterical, too.
He understands that no one will accept she’s really missing until it’s been twenty-four to forty-eight hours since she’s been—missing, but he swears he knows his wife.
And Cal said the same thing. The woman never lies, does what she says she’s going to do—and then you add the eight months pregnant into it!
” Jackson told her. “She gave her lecture—on the history of Mother’s Day—spoke to the dean of her department and headed home. ”
“Do they live—” Angela began.
“In the woods? No. A regular street for the area, good neighborhood, with some old Victorian houses, newer structures, and a park. It’s not a mini city within the city or the like, but it’s referred to as Bay Lane,” he told her.
“Oh, I do know the area. One of our techs lives right on the edge,” Angela said. “I was asking where to find out if she could have been whisked into the woods, or—”
“No woods. Nice homes with nice yards that lead to the yards of the houses on the other side of the block.”
“Okay, we’ll meet Marty, you can work on possible enemies, problems . . . and I’ll start a canvas in the neighborhood. Oh, well—is her car there? I don’t think she walked to speaking engagement!”
“Her car is there,” Jackson told her. “According to Marty.”
“The police should have taken that into consideration. But . . . well, I know there are very few jurisdictions of any kind who could give concentrated manpower to a situation when someone has just been missing a matter of hours. Okay, let’s see Marty, the home—and I’ll try the neighbors.”
“It’s a plan,” Jackson agreed.
They reached the Lawson house. It was a handsome Victorian on a pleasant lot—it wasn’t ostentatious. Just a nice home in a nice neighborhood.
Marty Lawson came out of the house as they arrived; he had evidently been waiting anxiously for them.
He was a tall man, mid to late twenties, still decked in his business suit with just his tie somewhat ravaged.
Nicely cropped brown hair, tanned face as if he liked to spend his free time in the sun, and an expression torn with concern.