HAVE YOU SEEN THIS CHILD?
This is the standard disclaimer. They don't belong to me. This story is not intended to violate any copyrights held by Paramount, UPN, or Pet Fly Productions.
Author’s Notes: I wrote this story as a gift-fic for Spacepixell, as requested and inspired by the Loopster. It is based loosely on the movies ‘Face on the Milk Carton’ and ‘Running on Empty’.
Beta’d by Loopster.
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1968
The battered old van drove a third circuit of the nearly deserted campus. Here and there students hurried through the chilled air, little puffs of breath marking their passage. Long shadows, created by the yellow lights dotting the pathways, added to an already eerie, surreal atmosphere. A slight breeze shook the trees, dislodging an array of orange, red and gold leaves, which were swirling haphazardly to the ground. A full moon was beginning its lazy climb into the night sky, casting its soft, rippled reflection across the surface of the lake that bordered the campus on the east.
The van came to a stop in front of an old brick building. Ivy vines, divested of their lush green leaves by the onset of autumn, sprawled up the sides of the building, creating a spider-web effect. The side door of the van quietly opened and three figures, clad in black and carrying several duffel bags, exited the vehicle and hurried toward the entrance, glancing nervously about as they ran. One of the figures jimmied the lock on the stately old door, and the three slipped inside.
Six minutes later the door opened again and the three silent figures dashed across the lawns, their movements unhindered by the bulky packs that they had carried into the building. The van drove off quickly but squealed to a stop a block away to avoid hitting a group of students that had materialized in a crosswalk leading away from the campus library. The students idly took note of the van and the agitated looks on the two faces that were visible through the windshield. Once the walkway was clear the van sped off again.
Two minutes later, a huge explosion rocked the campus. In a shower of glass, bricks and splinters of wood, the Science department’s research and development building, which had stood on the campus for over fifty years, came crashing to the ground.
1977
For third grade picture day, eight-year-old Jacob Preston had decided to wear his favorite dark blue plaid flannel shirt. His mom had already sent a note to school stating that Jacob was to be excused from the ritual, but the precocious child had discarded the note, filled in the order form himself and handed it in. He couldn’t understand his mom’s aversion to pictures; his friends’ houses all boasted framed photographs or stacks of albums, which documented and preserved their families’ march through time. There were baby pictures of him; he had seen them. But they in no way resembled the child he now looked at in the mirror.
He and his mom moved around a lot. Franklin Elementary was the fifth school he had attended since kindergarten. Sometimes they would travel for months at a time before settling down in what was usually a small, out of the way town. They had been in Oak Creek since mid summer and Jacob hoped that this time they might stay for a while.
Picture day was fun. All of the kids were wearing their best, or favorite clothes. Many of the girls had ribbons in their hair. Most of the boys groaned about the ties they were subjected to wearing. Several classes were cut short and jostled around to accommodate the photographer. The children all anxiously waited amid promises to exchange pictures with best friends and worrisome attempts to stay neat and presentable for their turn in front of the camera. Having never been through the ritual before, Jacob loved it.
Jacob had earned and saved a small amount of money by doing chores around the neighborhood. He had grandparents that he had never met that would sporadically send him money for a birthday or a holiday, although the cards never arrived on time. He thought it would be a wonderful idea to surprise his grandparents with a framed picture of himself. He was pretty sure his mom wouldn’t object. He thought maybe his mom and grandparents didn’t get along. Mom never wanted to talk about it. But if they cared enough to send him gifts, Jacob thought they might like to see what he looked like.
The day the pictures arrived, Jacob was disappointed to learn that only package deals could be purchased. He didn’t have enough money for that; he explained his plight to the nice lady taking the orders. Glancing through the pile of orders she had already taken for dozens and dozens of photographs to be handed out to a myriad of relatives, the woman took pity on the small boy in front of her who wanted only two pictures…to surprise his mom and far away grandparents…and allowed him to buy two of the ‘proofs’.
Jacob stopped at the thrift shop on the way home and bought two old picture frames. When he got home, his mom was still at work. He carefully cleaned the frames and placed his pictures in them. He held one out at arm’s length and grinned. The blue shirt looked good with his bright blue eyes. He felt the space in his mouth with his tongue where teeth, missing in the picture, were now beginning to come in. He took great care wrapping the frame that he had chosen for his grandparents, enclosing a short, heartfelt note along with it. He dug out the envelope that he had rummaged out of the trash after the last card had arrived and addressed the package. Praying that he had enough money left to mail it, he skipped down to the post office.
When he arrived home, his mom was sitting at the kitchen table staring at the other framed picture. She asked him nervously where and how he had gotten it. Jacob proudly explained himself, concluding with his successful trip to the post office.
His mother paled and began to cry. Not knowing what else to do, Jacob stood next to his mom, gently rubbing her shoulders and soothing her with eight-year-old words of wisdom and comfort. After several minutes, his mom stood, gave Jacob a hug and made a couple of phone calls.
Within two hours four suitcases, holding as many of their belongings that could be jammed in, were standing at the front door. When a car pulled into the driveway and tooted its horn twice, his mom grabbed his hand. A man he had never seen before came to the door, hugged his mom briefly, and then helped carry the suitcases to the car. Without any explanation to Jacob, his mom pulled him into the car and they left. No one ever saw Jacob Preston again.
Present Day…
Blair wiggled himself, cross-legged, into a comfortable position on the couch. He possessively clutched the remote in one hand while readying his notebook and pencils with the other. A few minutes later Jim sidled into the room and plopped down on the opposite end of the couch. He glanced at the TV and frowned. Looking around the immediate area…floor, coffee table, couch…his gaze finally came to rest on the object of his search. A brief skirmish ensued and Jim, grinning in victory, brandished the remote in his right hand. The channel quickly changed to ESPN.
“Come on, man. I had the remote first.” An unsuccessful attempt to recapture the small black object failed.
“PBS, Chief? You’ve got to be kidding. It’s the playoffs.”
Blair knew there was no way he was going to win this one, but he had to make the token effort. “It’s an assignment. For a psych class I’m taking this semester. There’s a documentary on about missing children…you know…who would abduct kids and why. The motivation, psychological profiles…”
Jim raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Right. You have a professor who says you have to watch this show, right now…tonight?”
Blair pursed his lips and stood with a huff. He threw the notebook and pencils on the table and trudged over to the TV. Wordlessly, he began pulling tapes from the rack until he found one still sealed in clear cellophane wrap.
As Blair began fingering the buttons on the VCR, Jim stood and came over to watch, an odd, quizzical look on his face. “What are you doing?”
Ignoring the older man, Blair continued playing his fingers across the machine. After several minutes, he tore the blank tape from its wrapper and shoved it into the VCR. Still kneeling on the floor in front of the TV, Blair placed his hands on his thighs and stared up at Jim. “There. Happy?”
“I would be if I knew what the hell you just did.” Jim still had a puzzled look on his face.
Blair began to laugh. “You’re kidding? Right?” Jim’s expression clearly stated that he wasn’t. “Oh man…I don’t believe it! You don’t know how to program the VCR, do you? Is that why the time keeps flashing for days after an outage? Cuz you don’t know how to reset it?” Blair had rolled onto his side and was laughing manically.
Jim was smiling in spite of himself and nodding his head. “Laugh it up, junior.” He walked back to the couch and sat with a bemused, tolerant look on his face as he watched his young roommate try to compose himself.
Blair crawled across the floor and pulled himself up onto the couch, still laughing. He giggled on and off throughout the entire first quarter, until Jim sent him a look that suggested that any possible humor that could be found regarding Jim’s technical skills had been exhausted.
The young grad student wiped the tears from his eyes and the smirk from his face as he settled, once again, into a comfortable position and watched the rest of the game with Jim.
Blair decided to watch the tape that same night. The next few days promised to be quite hectic…lectures, classes, office hours, meetings at the PD, a stakeout with Jim…he didn’t know how soon he’d have the time otherwise.
The documentary had ended and a public service clip was being aired. The announcer stated that there were still hundreds of open cases of missing or abducted children and the last twenty minutes of their allotted time would be used to run pictures and names. An 800 number scrolled along the bottom of screen, advising viewers to call if a face was recognized.
Blair scribbled in his notebook, absently glancing up periodically at the young innocent faces popping onto the screen. He stretched and rubbed wearily at his eyes, before grabbing the remote to stop the tape and rewind it. He took one final look at the TV and froze. The face that just vanished had looked familiar. A shaky hand reached for the remote and wobbly fingers fumbled with the buttons until the correct one was found. He re-played the tape slowly.
A girl, a girl, a boy, a girl…a boy. “Omigod.” The anguished whisper escaped his lips before he was aware he’d uttered it.
He knew that face… Jacob Preston.
Blair jumped to his feet and began to pace back and forth in front of the TV. His hands alternately combed through his curls, and then waved about aimlessly as his mind raced. As he passed the TV for the ninth time he stopped, transfixed, and stared disbelievingly at the smiling, happy, innocent face of Jacob Preston. He tore his gaze from the screen, turned to begin his pacing anew, and ran straight into Jim.
“What’s wrong, Chief? Your heart is going a mile a minute.” His guide’s agitated state had brought Jim out of the light sleep he was in. Blair had not even been aware of the older mans’ approach.
The young grad student silently willed himself not to look at the TV; his nimble mind went blank; he was trembling. Jim was holding him by the upper arms now, a concerned look creasing the handsome face. “You’re starting to scare me here, junior.”
His resolve faltered and Blair’s eyes darted quickly, almost imperceptibly, to the frozen picture on the screen and then back to Jim. The detective caught the rapid eye movement and his gaze followed Blair’s.
Jim relaxed his hold and guided Blair and himself to seated positions on the couch. Blair closed his eyes and slumped against his friend. Jim kept one arm draped across the kid’s shoulder, holding him upright.
The message banner across the bottom of the screen was frozen, its message slightly fuzzy and wobbly. “Have you seen this child? Jacob Preston… Age 8…Last seen September 29 1977 Call 1-800-93…”
The deep blue eyes…the brilliant smile…the untamed riotous curls, still harboring strands of toddler-gold…the blue flannel shirt, which had an adult sized twin hanging in the closest of the small room under the stairs.
“Blair.” The softly whispered word was both a statement and a question.
The kid rested his head on Jim’s shoulder, his eyes glued to the image in front of them.
A light rain began to fall and tiny drops rattled against the glass balcony doors and overhead skylight. A soft, lonesome howling blew through the alley below as the wind picked up.
Jim repositioned them both, allowing Blair to draw his legs and feet up onto the couch and curl into a ball, his head now gently cradled in Jim’s lap. Jim pulled the afghan from the back of the couch and dropped it onto the small, trembling figure.
The sentinel drew his guide to him protectively as a faltering, impossibly young-sounding voice began recounting the story of Jacob Preston, Age 8.
The End