A Son's Tale. Tara Quinn Taylor
Читать онлайн книгу.
trying to take up residence within him. “She said he was missing from school. He’s probably just playing hooky. Or hiding out with a friend in the bathroom. It’s summer school so things are a little less strict and kids have more of a tendency to roam.”
“Some jerks once locked my little brother in his locker,” Bella said, sliding her electronic notebook into her backpack. “He was there for an hour before anyone knew he was missing.”
“His teachers didn’t miss him?”
“They had a sub and it was during lunch break.”
And someone should have noticed he was gone. Like they’d obviously noticed Morgan Lowen’s son was missing.
“They should check the lockers for him,” Bella added, standing in front of him with her backpack slung over one shoulder.
“I’m sure they’ll find him.” Cal slid a couple of folders, notes, into his soft-sided leather briefcase.
“I didn’t even know she had a son.”
Cal had. He knew, too, that she’d given birth to and raised the boy completely on her own, but he wasn’t going to gossip about another student. What he wanted to do was get back to his office in case she contacted him. He and Morgan had never crossed the line between teacher and student; he’d kept his interest in her completely professional, but he’d be kidding himself if he said he wasn’t attracted to her.
And Cal did not kid himself. He couldn’t afford the luxury.
Morgan had been having some troubles with her son. He knew because she’d missed class in the spring due to some antics the boy had pulled at school.
He hoped she’d also let him know that Sammie was fine.
“She doesn’t wear a wedding ring.” Bella was still standing there.
Again, Cal said nothing and Bella, after staring at him for another several seconds, shrugged.
“Well, I just hope everything’s fine. Have a great weekend, Dr. Whittier. See you Monday.”
She walked out, allowing Cal to hurry to his office.
* * *
MORGANCOULDN’TREMEMBER the four-block drive from Wallace University to Rouse Elementary. She’d run out of class and ended up in the parking lot of her son’s school. She’d called her mom. But only to ask her if she’d heard from Sammie. Grace Lowen was going to be taking Sammie to Little League practice Saturday while Morgan officiated sack races at the day care. Morgan had told Sammie that morning to call his grandmother and remind her of the next day’s practice.
Grace hadn’t heard from him.
The call with her mother lasted about thirty seconds. Morgan didn’t let on that anything was amiss. She didn’t know for sure that it was.
And she couldn’t deal with her father at the moment.
Julie was pacing the sidewalk at the entrance of the parking lot when Morgan pulled up in her eight-year-old Ford Taurus, purchased used the year before. Julie jumped in and Morgan pulled into the closest parking spot.
“Oh, God, Morg, I have no idea how this happened,” Julie said, glancing toward the door of the school. “Mr. Peterson has already called the police.”
The school principal. A man Morgan had always thought was calm and rational, ready to call the police?
“He’s got to be hiding someplace,” Morgan said, swallowing panic. “Did they check the bathrooms? The girls’, too?”
Julie nodded.
“What about the shop? Did you check the shop? You know he wanted to finish that little wood car he’d started last session.”
Julie was already shaking her head. “He asked to use the restroom,” she said. “The hall security camera shows him going into the boys’ restroom at the end of the hall, and in twenty minutes of tape, he never came back out. But he’s definitely not in there.”
“What about the grounds camera?”
“It’s broken at the hinge, but we can’t tell if the break is new or not.”
“How long ago did he leave class?”
“He asked to go to the bathroom half an hour ago. As soon as his teacher reported that he hadn’t come back and wasn’t in the bathroom we went to the security camera. I texted you as soon as I saw the film.”
“Have they checked his locker?”
“Yeah. His suit and towel for swimming are in there.”
“What about his lunch?”
They were out of the car, hurrying toward the walk.
“Today is picnic-on-the-lawn day, remember? We provide brown-bag lunches.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Picnic-on-the-lawn day had seemed so far away.
“They’ve locked down the school, Morg. Come on. We have to get in there. They’re waiting for you… .”
The fear in Julie’s eyes held Morgan frozen for a split second. And then she ran.
* * *
CALPUSHEDTHE BUTTON on his office answering machine before he’d taken his seat behind his desk.
As if there’d be some news about Morgan Lowen’s son there already. Just because her urgency was coursing through him like a river with a broken dam didn’t mean that he was in any kind of loop that would be privy to her private information on an immediate basis.
Still, he couldn’t just sit there. A child was missing. Something had to be done.
He was overreacting, of course. Kids went missing every day, and almost every single time they turned up. Morgan was probably with Sammie at this very moment. Maybe scolding him for having given her a scare. Or taking him for fast food hamburgers, which she’d told Cal she’d done last April after Sammie’s problems at school. She’d wanted her son to talk to her. Rather than punish him, she’d wanted to know why he’d acted out.
“This message is for Dr. Caleb Whittier. Dr. Whittier, I left a message yesterday. My name is Detective Ramsey Miller. I’m with the Comfort Cove Police Department in Comfort Cove, Massachusetts. It’s important that you return my call… .”
Cal cut off the message before the man recited his numbers, including one for a private cell, a second time. He hadn’t been anywhere near Comfort Cove, a coastal town not far from Boston, since he was seven years old. Not since the accusations had forced him and his father out of town.
He’d be damned if he was going to waltz back there of his own accord. Other than this office line at school, his numbers—landline and cell—were unlisted. His father’s cell was a pay-as-you-go with an untraceable number. They rented instead of owning so that there was no tax record of the residence. They used a P.O. box for mail. He paid taxes, but Frank didn’t. His father worked at the local nursing home, doing handyman and janitorial work, and the rent on the home they lived in was free in trade. Cal hadn’t lived thirty-two years without learning a thing or two about protecting his father from the stalkers who’d all but ruined his life.
Bile rose in his throat as he thought about the tall, proud man who’d once stood at the helm of one of Massachusetts’ most prestigious private high schools, getting up every morning to fix bathroom plumbing and mop piss off floors.
His father had not only been one of Massachusetts’ most respected educators, he’d also been a damn good basketball coach. And in the past twenty years the only ball he’d touched professionally was the float ball in a toilet.
There were two other messages. One confirming that while the adventure vacations group had sympathy with Cal’s plight, the thousand bucks he’d put up for his father’s fishing trip was not going to be refunded, regardless of the circumstances. The second