The Lost Son: A Mystery Thriller Read online

  The Lost Son

  A Mystery Thriller

  Ramona Light

  © Copyright 2022 - All rights reserved.

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  Contents

  1. Blackout

  2. Gospel Radio

  3. Parasites

  4. Roadhouse Blues

  5. Evidence Wall

  6. St. Alban’s

  7. Pauline’s Cafe

  8. Billy?

  9. Surprise Visit

  10. The Bust

  11. Skinheads

  12. Shampoo Tears

  13. Lunch

  14. It’s Your Fault

  15. Dancing Grass

  16. God’s Work

  17. Eleven

  18. How Upset?

  19. Modus Operandi

  20. Not Last Weekend

  21. Letter

  22. Doctor Zaihib’s Office

  23. Stakeout

  24. Think or Know?

  25. The Exorcist

  26. Tail

  27. Princess Diana

  28. DNA

  29. Printer

  30. Parole Officer

  31. Stay Calm

  32. A Match

  33. Jamie Koufax

  34. Mother

  35. Justice?

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Blackout

  “Ma’am?”

  The voice came to her as if being spoken underwater. Boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios, Lucky Charms, and Froot Loops ran along the shelves on either side. Georgia Mitchell felt like she had been asleep—and she supposed in a sense, she had—and someone had just thrown a bucket of cold water in her face. This feeling—the one that always made her heart race and her body break out in goosebumps—wasn’t new, but it had been nearly two years since she had experienced it last.

  During this period of time, she had given in to the irrational belief that maybe, just maybe, her dissociative amnesia had gone for good. All of the doctors told her that in most cases, the blackouts (or time lapses) lessened over time, and since her accident 27 years ago, she had hoped this synopsis had finally been proven correct.

  Yet here she was, lost, confused, and worst of all, terrified, in the cereal aisle of her local Walmart. With the fluorescent lights and meticulously packed shelves, it was hard to tell if it was night or day. Popular chains like Walmart, McDonald’s, and the rest always kept the exact same standard from their incarnation, like a hundred-year-old painting in a museum. They never seemed to age, and even though the staff constantly changed over time, they always seemed to look the same—young, bored, and defeated.

  “Ma’am?” the voice repeated behind her.

  Georgia turned around on legs that felt like they might buckle at any moment to be greeted by a kid surely no older than 16. His face was a mess of angry acne, with surprisingly beautiful blue eyes trying everything they could to shine through the pubescent punishment that had commandeered his looks. Georgia could see from his name tag that the kid was named Marcus.

  “Are you okay?” Marcus added, clearly concerned.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Georgia managed, still trying to get her bearings. She wished this boy—although only trying to be nice—would leave her alone.

  “You just seemed to drift off there,” Marcus said through a nervous laugh. “I passed through here an hour ago, and you were lookin’ at the same box of Cap’n Crunch.”

  That brand of cereal had been Carter’s favorite. She had always kicked up a fuss about buying the stuff, as the sugar content was through the roof, but William would playfully fight his son’s corner, and she inevitably relented. Her husband had a way of smiling so charmingly she would melt on the spot, but William hadn’t smiled in seven years, at least not around her, and Georgia guessed that since the terrible tragedy that took her Carter away, she hadn’t done much smiling either.

  Being that William was in the medical profession, Georgia had always presumed that when they had their child almost 16 years ago now, he would have been quite strict on such things as sugar intake and TV time. And he had, to an extent, but she supposed every parent changes their stance once their own child is born, and William had been no different in that respect. And Georgia had been guilty of switching off too; so much so that she had been lax enough to keep scrolling through her phone as Carter played on the jungle gym and someone took—

  “Ma’am,” Marcus repeated with a little more impatience in his high-pitched voice. “Are you going to be okay?”

  Georgia could see a yellow smiley face on his blue Walmart vest, the clear features of it a polar opposite of the acne-covered teenager’s complexion. She knew she needed to be alone to figure out not only how long she had been ‘out’ but also what she had done during that time.

  “Really,” she told him, smiling as best she could, “I’m fine. Thanks so much for checking on me.”

  Marcus gave one more concerned look, his crystal blue eyes turning to slits for a second, and then went on his way, the scuffed white Nike sneakers on his feet shuffling on the perfectly polished linoleum floor.

  Ever since her first blackout after the accident that took so much more than her peace of mind, Georgia had always felt the same way coming out of them. There was that moment of loneliness—like the whole world had been whispering behind her back—and then the sickening realization that she would blindly have to retrace her steps and figure out what she had done.

  Her particular case of DA had initially baffled all of the doctors who worked with her, as her unique blackouts seemed to last longer than any they had originally encountered. Often, she would come out of one having gone about her business—making conversation, making dinner, and one time, even making love—after a whole day had passed. For anyone who didn’t suffer from such a condition, it was almost impossible to understand just how horrifying it could be.

  It wasn’t just the lost time. It was the knowledge that it could strike at any moment, and everything you cared for in your life was in the hands of someone—or something—else. But it had been just over 23 months since her last episode, and even then, it had been approximately a year before that one too.

  Maybe it’ll be another three or four years until the next one, then? she told herself as she continued to stand by her half-full cart.

  But Georgia knew she was being hopeful more so than realistic. The doctors had never found a trigger for her blackouts, and through all of the testing—different food allergies, light patterns, stress levels—nothing had ever stood out clearly. In a darkly ironic twist, the moment she most regretted in her adult life had not occurred because of one of her episodes. No, what happened that summer’s day had been all her own doing, and it had been her idle scrolling that had diverted her attention away from Carter and caused all of their pain.

  Looking at her cart now, Georgia knew the rest of the grocery shopping was an impossibility. She felt ill and very aware that other people were starting to look at her. The interaction with the concerned Marcus had brought her to everyone’s attention, and now they were all enthralled by the crazy 44-year-old woman in the loose-fitting gray sweatsuit who seemed lost in their local Walmart.

  Head dropped and heart pumping, Georgia made her way past the onlookers and through the seemingly endless aisles. Still, she had no idea if it was night or day, and any notion of pulling out her phone to check the time made all of the taste leave her mouth in an instant.

  What messages would be there? Had she done anything embarrassing during her blackout? Who had she called, texted, visited?

  The people she passed had the same look Marcus had worn on his pimply face—concerned, intrigued, and just a little amused. Georgia was confident she hadn’t done something truly embarrassing, as she knew that during her blackouts, she mostly just went about her day like herself. Maybe she did this while appearing to be dozy, but still, she was basically the same Georgia Mitchell she always was.

  That was the part everyone else—except for William—didn’t get. Most of them suggested that if she always carried on as almost normal during her episodes, then wh
at was there to worry about really? Weren’t some people who hadn’t even been in a terrible car crash just forgetful by nature, they would say? And they didn’t worry about it. They just got on with their life. So why, they would ask, was Georgia stressing so much about it?

  It wasn’t the point, though, was it? Georgia knew the people in her life were just trying to reassure her, and she was grateful for that. Still, until they experienced the terror of snapping out of a waking coma, they really didn’t have a right to an opinion. None of that mattered these days, as most of her friends who had stood so strong for her seven years ago had faded away over time, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had been invited to a social event. Georgia didn’t blame them, as she had become quite indifferent to their presence, and she knew through her work as a nurse that sympathy only lasted so long, anyhow.

  She had seen it happen with the patients’ visitors at St. Alban’s over the years, and only the truly dedicated parents and children were the ones who continued to show up for their sick or terminal family members. Friends of cancer patients or the recently disabled liked to show up in the first few days. Usually, this was so they could post about it on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter or whatever social media platform they used to tell the world what wonderfully caring people they were. After that, the visits usually got progressively less frequent.

  Stop it, Georgia, she inwardly snapped at herself. This negative thinking is only making you worse.

  When the sliding doors of the huge store came into view in the distance, Georgia wasn’t surprised to see night had fallen outside. Her last memory was of her half-heartedly cleaning the kitchen after a breakfast of buttered toast and strong coffee, which meant at least 10 hours had passed. Spring in New Hampshire brought later sunsets, and from what she could see through the glass of the sliding doors, the glaring brightness of morning had dissipated long ago.

  Unable to hold off anymore, Georgia slipped her phone from her pocket (extremely relieved to see only one missed call from William) and checked the time, the clock in the top right-hand corner telling her it was 21:46.

  Now that she knew there was only one call to deal with, Georgia felt a sliver of light in the darkness of her panic. After tossing around the idea of going back for her cart and finishing her shopping, she decided against it and instead made a quick detour to the liquor aisle. After grabbing a bottle of vodka from the shelf, she tapped her foot nervously as a young girl with cornrows and an attitude rang it up. After paying, Georgia stepped through the sliding doors into the warm New Hampshire evening and inhaled the spring air deeply, still trying to level her heart rate and her mind.

  Luckily, there weren’t many other shoppers out at this time of night, and it took her a surprisingly short time to find her car. After pressing and re-pressing the key fob and watching for the flashing lights, she saw the Ford Focus parked not far from the entrance. The shining blue paintwork shimmered under the light of the parking lot, and she could see the clear reflection of a crescent moon in the rear window as she came around the back.

  Slipping into the car and closing off the world outside felt good, and the touch of the glass bottle in her hand brought a kind of comfort that actually scared her a little. Since the death of her only child—well, she thought, the only child I ever got to hold—Georgia’s hours at St. Alban’s Hospital in Concord had become almost nonexistent. She was inclined to believe that if it weren’t for her husband’s highly respected position as a surgeon there, she probably would have been relieved of her duties a long time ago. It wasn’t that she was a bad worker—quite the opposite, in fact—it was just with her depression and her loss, both parties had agreed to a much less stressful position.

  Sometimes Georgia wondered how things would have turned out for her if a man named Bobby McIntire hadn’t decided to take his Mustang out for a spin after 15 beers in his local bar nearly three decades ago. Her acceptance into Grossman had been guaranteed after scoring so high on her MCATs, and the letters she had received that fall informed her that her results put her in the top two percent. Even at 17 and with the new life growing inside of her, Georgia had been certain a career as a surgeon was her destiny. But destiny had other plans, and in one disastrous coming-together of two cars on the 393, she had lost her hopes, dreams, and most devastating of all, her child. It would be 10 years before she had another one, and an even crueler fate would take him away too.

  Georgia shook her head so hard she saw red dots. After placing the vodka on the passenger seat, she started up the Ford and put it in reverse before snapping the key counterclockwise again and shutting the engine off. William would probably be worried she hadn’t answered her phone, but then again, he had only called once, so he hadn’t exactly been pulling his hair out. Still, she owed him the courtesy of checking his message.

  After pulling her phone out of her pocket again, Georgia swiped it open and hit the voice message icon. There was the familiar sound of the mouthpiece against Williams’ stubbled chin, then his sweet yet tired voice on the other end.

  “Hey, Georgie. I’m going to have to work late again tonight, I’m afraid. Hope you had nothing special planned for dinner. You’ll be asleep by the time I get in, so I’ll stay in the spare room so I don’t wake you. Well,” there was a pause, then a sigh, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Nothing special planned for dinner? When was the last time we had something special planned for anything?

  Georgia put the phone to sleep and tossed it on the seat beside the bottle. William had been working late a lot recently, which was the life of a surgeon in a top hospital, so she wasn’t surprised. What did startle her, though, was that her initial emotion upon hearing this had been one of relief. Usually, after an episode, her husband was the very person she wanted there to console her. But now, as she looked at the clear liquid in the bottle next to her, she realized that maybe something else had taken his place over time.

  Shrugging to nobody but the empty car, Georgia started it up once more and pulled out of the near-empty parking lot. In half an hour, she would be home, and her life as she knew it would continue as it always had. Of course, the house would be empty, but it usually was these days. William worked a lot, and there hadn’t been the sound of a child’s laughter—or any laughter, for that matter—in seven years.

  Soon she was on Davison Road, and the concrete surroundings of the city were replaced by rows of trees and fields. The small towns she passed were sleepy and dark, with only specks of light in the distance showing any signs of life. Oakwood Drive would be the same way, and she idly wondered if there would be any surprises when she got home. Georgia didn’t think so, as even during her worst blackouts, the most obscure thing she had done was to snap out of one wearing cut-off shorts in the height of winter, and that had only been once at the beginning.

  No, she would go home to a house that looked like any other, in a small, enclosed neighborhood identical to so many. Once there, she would have a drink and take her Xanax. She hoped by the time sleep came, no memories of that day in the park when someone took her boy and destroyed three lives in the process would haunt her dreams. And if she were really lucky, she wouldn’t dream at all.

  Chapter 2

  Gospel Radio

  Georgia Mitchell had always been attractive. As soon as she hit her teens, her big brown eyes and chestnut hair had brought her to the attention of many boys and caused the resentment of a lot of the girls too. She was strong of will, though, and had always prided herself on being able to deal with both of these situations with dignity and class. By the time her not-so-sweet 16th birthday rolled around (a small party at home with her parents and some of their congregation), Georgia’s budding chest had blossomed beyond most of her female classmates, and her time spent training for track and field had kept her small yet sturdy frame slim.

  Most weekends were spent at home, and when every other 11th grader she knew was drinking at parties and making out, she was in her bedroom studying for her MCATs or being forced to listen to AM radio with her folks. Even today, the thought of that distinctive crackle over raspy voices of the gospel stations was enough to make her mouth go dry and her chest tighten. The fire and brimstone preaching of some pastor who told the masses they were going to hell for their sins was all that was allowed to be played on the little transistor radio in the Clancy household. Her mother and father tried everything they could to enforce their beliefs on their falsely perceived wayward daughter.