This short story, set in the world of “Moonlight,” encompasses a brief hour in an otherwise ordinary night for our favorite vampire detective. There is no sex, no romance, and very little violence, but if you’re bored you may want to read it anyway.
Rating: PG
First published: 2/12/2008
Finding Innocence - Chapter 1
“You have to help me! Please!”
The woman’s frantic voice carried across the open lobby to the back corner of the hotel where Mick St. John had just emerged from the adjacent lounge. The private investigator had just tied up loose ends with a client, and was on his way out, when he stopped short, hearing the anguished pleas of the woman standing at the front desk.
Although it was just early evening, the PI was tired. The case he had been working hadn’t been particularly complicated, but it had, as his client so tritely put it, required him to shed new light on certain information. Unfortunately, that light had come in the form of daylight. St. John had been up with the unforgiving sun for several days straight, and even though his exposure had been limited and his usual nourishment had sufficed to heal any physical damage, the change in routine had definitely taken its toll.
Ordinarily, after a week like this, he would have welcomed the deep, dreamless sleep that came like hibernation from the troubling realities of the day. But tonight, what he truly longed for was a chance to unwind. This penetrating fatigue, he decided, was nothing that kicking back with “Birth of the Cool” and a double shot of Macallan wouldn’t cure. He had been headed toward the main entrance, but, as was its custom, fate tapped him on the shoulder and pointed him in the opposite direction.
“Please – he’s only eight. You don’t understand!”
Renee Williams, an average-sized woman with dark brown hair and expressive dark eyes, looked to be in her late 30’s. She clutched a small red sweatshirt to her chest, as her eyes darted anxiously around the open expanse. She was by no means hysterical, yet her distress was obvious. A child was missing. Her child was missing.
The private investigator stood, eyes focused on the front door, as he listened to the exchange at the desk. He bowed his head with a sigh – the barely audible sound of a decision being made. So much for kicking back. For Mick St. John, the tune had changed and Miles Davis was going to have to wait.
“We’re doing everything we can, Mrs. Williams. Security is searching the hotel as we speak,” the desk clerk assured her. “He’s probably just looking around. You know how little boys are.”
“You don’t understand,” the distraught mother insisted. “He’s not a typical eight-year-old…”
“Is there anything I can do?” asked a soft, low voice from behind her. Turning, she saw a tall, striking man with longer, wavy brown hair swept off his face, and caring green-blue eyes. He was well dressed, wearing a stylish long black coat over a black striped shirt and black pants. Her first overwhelming impression of the stranger, however, was the strong, quiet confidence that somehow reached through her growing panic like a firm steadying hand.
“It’s my son – he’s missing. But, I don’t know…,” she hesitated.
“Mick St. John.” He answered the question she hadn’t yet posed. “I’m a private investigator. I can help.” He nodded once, as if to affirm the sincerity of his offer, and brushed his coat out of the way to reach into his back pocket. He pulled out his credentials, and flipping them open, held them up for her to examine. It was important, he knew, to allay any doubts she might have about trusting a stranger.
“Mick!” The quiet exchange was quickly interrupted by a shout from across the lobby. The head of hotel security raised a single finger, asking for a moment of patience, as he returned hurriedly to the vicinity of the front desk. The other hand rested on the wireless earpiece he wore. Adjusting the receiver, he fired out directions, presumably to a subordinate searching elsewhere in the building.
“No – the service entrance is locked. First floor is secure. Continue with a floor by floor search.” When he had finished, the newcomer turned his attention to the pair at the desk. “Mick,” he acknowledged the PI again with a pat on the arm. “I’m glad you’re here. We could use another pair of eyes.” Then, to Mrs. Williams, he added, “He’s the best, ma’am. We could really use his help.”
The PI’s brow furrowed. “You call the police, Reg?”
“He’s only been missing – 10, 15 minutes tops. Man, you know they won’t come out this soon. We’re reasonably sure he’s still in the building, but there’s special circumstances, Mick. Here - let Mrs. Williams fill you in.” He guided the PI and the shaken woman to a couple of armchairs in a quieter corner of the lobby.
“Mrs. Williams - what can you tell me?” Mick asked, watching the woman to settle into one of the chairs before he took a seat across from her.
“Matthew - my son - is eight, but he’s not your average eight-year-old, Mr. St. John. Matthew is autistic.” As she spoke, Renee Williams looked carefully at the private investigator’s face, watching – waiting actually - for one of the reactions she was accustomed to receiving when she told people about her son. Uneasiness, indifference, pity – it was usually there, written on their faces. But looking into this man’s eyes, there was no judgment or hesitation, only kindness and concern.
“He’s been doing so much better lately – at home,” she added. “His life is fairly regimented, but it works for him. It just that this trip – it’s been so overwhelming for him – such a change to his daily routine. He’s really been out of sorts.”
A wry smile crossed the PI’s face. He already felt a connection with this kid. Getting the rug pulled out from under him by a change in routine? That had a familiar ring to it – he could relate to that.
Mick knew that time was critical. He had no doubt he could find the boy – he had already detected the child’s scent on the sweatshirt that Mrs. Williams was ruefully twisting in her hands. Still, he felt compelled to hear her out. In his line of work, listening was crucial – it could mean the difference between trying and succeeding. Besides, once he located Matthew, he would need to know how to approach him.
“Please - tell me all you can about him.” His words were warm and encouraging.
As Renee Williams calmly began her description, it occurred to the PI that perhaps she had recited this litany too many times before. She looked past him, as her seemingly well-rehearsed words came quickly, almost flowing out in one long sentence.
“He has high-functioning autism – which means he can speak fairly well and is aware of his surroundings. He repeats himself a lot, talks to himself. His mood changes abruptly. He has a lot of trouble with sensory input. Sometimes he tunes everything out and other times he overreacts to the slightest touch or sound. You should see what he does when the sun gets in his eyes. He holds up his hand and screams like he’s in pain…”
Mick raised a single eyebrow.
“…When we’re in unfamiliar situations, he plays his Nintendo DS - a lot. It helps relieve the stress. He’s smart with some things, terribly naïve about others. He has an incredible memory, but he has trouble distinguishing fantasy from reality. We’ve spent years trying to get him to recognize the difference.” She paused for a breath and then continued. “But, the main thing - what I’m really worried about – is that he just doesn’t understand danger at all. He could walk right out in front of a car without realizing …”
Her voice broke off. Swallowing hard, she wiped the palm of her hand across her cheek, and tried to compose herself. She needed to be strong. After a brief silence, she spoke again. “I’m sorry – when I get nervous, I talk too much.”
“What you told me? It’s very important,” Mick reassured his spur-of-the-moment client. “Please, don’t apologize.”
Nodding gratefully, the woman reached into her purse and extracted a photograph, which she held out to the private investigator.
“He’s very small,” she offered, “for his age, I mean. He looks more like he’s five or six. The way he acts, that’s what most people think.”
Mick nodded as he studied the picture of a cute little boy with short, brown hair, lighter than his mother’s, and large hazel-brown eyes. He wore oval wire-rimmed glasses, with rather thick lenses, and, somewhat surprisingly, an engaging, impish grin. To Mick, he looked like an average American kid. He didn’t look any more like an autistic child – than Mick St. John looked like a vampire.
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I'm thrilled that this story is being highlighted.
