Ben Cheetham - Blood Guilt

As a half-moon of reporters thrust microphones at him, Garrett began, “As you know, at some point between the hours of midnight and four AM last night, an intruder forced entry to the house behind me and abducted Ethan Reed. We’re circulating this recent photo of Ethan.” He held up a photo of Ethan’s fragile, androgynous face, and Harlan felt a sharp little sting in his chest.

“In terms of physical description,” continued Garrett, “Ethan is around four feet five inches tall and slimly built. At the time of his abduction, he was wearing red and blue Spiderman pyjamas. We believe this abduction wasn’t an act of impulse. The intruder appears to have known which room Ethan slept in. This leads us to conclude that the intruder may have watched the house prior to taking Ethan. With this in mind, we’re urging members of the public to get in touch if you saw anybody in the area over the past few days or weeks who may have looked out of place or who you haven’t seen previously. Similarly, did you see any vehicles in the area that you haven’t seen previously? However irrelevant you think what you saw might be, please contact us. A coordinated search of the local area is being carried out, involving more than two hundred officers and thirty detectives. We’re searching houses, open land, outbuildings and sheds, as well as stopping and questioning motorists. But we’re also asking the public to keep your eyes open. Ethan may be with a dark-haired white man of medium height and build.”

Jesus, no wonder they’re watching me, thought Harlan. The description fitted him perfectly. It also fitted thousands of other men in the city.

“Susan Reed has asked me to read a brief statement on her behalf,” said Garrett, transferring his gaze from the camera to a sheet of paper. “To whoever’s got my beautiful son, Ethan, please don’t hurt him. Please let him go. If you or anyone else knows where Ethan is please bring him home safe. Ethan is my life and my love. Knowing he’s out there somewhere and not here where he belongs is devastating beyond anybody’s ability to describe. Please do the right thing and give me back my little boy.”

Garrett thanked the reporters, and as they fired a barrage of questions at him, turned to re-enter the house. The camera cut back to the studio. The news reader said something, but Harlan wasn’t listening anymore. He was desperately trying to process everything he’d just heard. What the hell was this all about? Ethan obviously hadn’t been snatched in the hope of extracting a ransom from his family. And there was no domestic angle. Which suggested the motive was sexual. Harlan winced like someone in pain. If that was the case, experience told him Ethan was almost as good as dead. The only slight positive he could see to hold onto was the fact that Susan and Kane were still alive, even though, presumably, at least one of them had seen Ethan’s kidnapper. Which meant that whatever else the kidnapper might be, they weren’t an out-and-out killer.

The television was now showing an aerial shot of Susan’s house and the surrounding area. A forensic tent had been erected in the tiny yard at the back of the house, covering the door and downstairs window — no doubt, one of which was the point of entry. Uniforms were combing an alley beyond the yard, some leading hounds attempting to pick up Ethan’s scent, others leading German Shepards specially trained to sniff out human remains. Further afield, more uniforms were talking to local residents. It was off camera, though, that the work which Harlan knew was the real key to finding Ethan was taking place. Detectives would be building up a picture around Ethan — scrutinising his family, extended family and school friends; trawling through phone records and computer files; calling on local sex-offenders; looking for that vital scrap of evidence, that tiny piece of the jigsaw that would crack the case.

Harlan’s phone rang. He snatched it up. “Are you watching it on the telly?” asked Jim.

“Yes.”

“Insane, isn’t it? I mean, what kind of fucker snatches a kid from his bed like that?”

“So how did it go down?”

“Like Garrett said, sometime between twelve and four someone forced the kitchen window and took the boy.”

“Come on, Jim, you’ve got a lot more than that.”

Jim was silent a moment, then he said, “First you’ve got to promise me you’ll stay away from this case.”

“How am I supposed to do that when I’m a goddamn suspect?”

“Don’t be coy with me, Harlan. You know what I mean. I can hear that cop’s brain of yours cranking into motion. You want to play armchair detective, fine. Just make sure it goes no further. Besides, no one here seriously considers you a suspect, not even Garrett.”

“Then why am I being watched?”

“Procedure. We can’t take any chances in a case like this. You know that.”

“Look, I’m not about to start tearing this city apart searching for Ethan Reed. All I want is to hear the details of the case, see if anything jogs in my memory. After all, I was sat outside the vic’s house for several hours two days before all this happened. I might’ve seen something without realising it.”

“Okay, Harlan, but I’m trusting you as a friend not to get any more involved than you already are.” Jim took a breath, and as if reading from a sheet of paper, continued in an atonal voice, “Ethan shares a bunk-bed with his brother, Kane. Both were in bed asleep by ten. Susan went to bed at midnight. Sometime after that, Kane woke when he heard his brother say, who are you? He saw Ethan stood in his pyjamas facing a figure dressed in a black sweatshirt, camouflage trousers, gloves and a balaclava. The figure whispered to Ethan, be quiet or I’ll kill you and your brother. Kane pretended to be asleep, but kept his eyes open just enough to see that the figure’s wrists were white with dark hairs on them. He also saw that the figure was holding a handgun. The figure led Ethan from the room. Kane remained in bed, terrified that if he moved or made a sound the figure would return and carry out his threat. At approximately four o’clock he went to his mother’s bedroom. It took him a while to wake her up because, like most nights since her husband’s death, she was out of it on sleeping-pills and alcohol.”

Guilt loomed like a tainted shadow at Harlan’s back again. He shook it aside. This was no time to give in to emotion. If he was going to be of any help, he had to keep his head clear. “Maybe the kidnapper knew Susan was on sleeping-tablets.”

“Maybe. Maybe our guy knows her. Or maybe the brothers confided in their friends and teachers about her problems. Or maybe one of Susan’s friends or someone in her family or extended family talked with their spouses or friends about her. Or maybe our guy doesn’t know Susan and was crazy or stupid or desperate enough to do what he did anyway. Or maybe-”

“Alright, I get the point. What about leads? Any concrete leads?”

“Just one. At approximately three AM a milkman saw a silver VW golf with tinted windows cruising up and down the street. He thought the driver might be aiming to rob him, so he took down the number plate.”

“What’s the reg?”

“I don’t think you need to know that?”

“You’re right, it probably won’t make any difference. But why take the chance?”

“No, I think I’ve told you all I want to for now. I’ve got to get back to it. Remember what I said, Harlan. Keep your head down.”

“Just tell me one more thing. What does your gut say? Dead or alive?”

Jim considered this a brief moment. Then he said, “Dead,” and hung up.

Dead. The word kept ringing in Harlan’s mind. Dead or soon-to-be-dead. That’s what his gut told him too. Everything he’d heard pointed to a sexual motive. And no sexual predator willing to go to such extremes to get their hands on Ethan was going to leave him alive to tell the tale. Harlan figured the police had a window of maybe two days to find Ethan. After that, forget it.