son is Martin Luther Kennedy. He’s only fourteen years old, and he needs help. That’s why we moved to Southport. But that’s another story. Anyway, we advertised in the local paper to see if someone needed handyman kind of help this summer. There weren’t many responses. Most people wanted someone older, more experienced. But Mr. Slocomb was interested. He came to our house and talked to us. And to Martin. As it turned out, he agreed to take our son on, even was willing to pick him up in the morning and bring him back in the evening. The pay wasn’t very good, but after all Martin had no experience. So we agreed, and we thought everything was going well until yesterday when Slocomb called to tell us that Martin had disappeared. I called this morning, and Slocomb said he never came back or left a note explaining what he was doing. Of course he couldn’t have written a note. Now he’s gone, heaven knows where, and he won’t be able to find his way home.”
Mrs. Kennedy’s report had said little about the son’s disappearance, but it had said a great deal about the son.
For one thing, the boy is not only young. He needs help. What does that mean? That he’s sick? But it sounded worse than that. No note to Mr. Slocomb because he couldn’t have written one? For a fleeting moment Carol imagined that the boy had injured his hands, or had had a serious accident and lost their use. But no, a handicap like that would make him an impossible choice as Slocomb’s handyman. Perhaps he’s mentally retarded? And the business about being unable to find his way home. Certainly a fourteen year old would have no difficulty doing that, not in an area where Crooked Lake offered so many benchmarks.
“Forgive me, but I’m confused,” Carol said. “You say that Martin needs help. I don’t wish to pry, but if I’m going to help you find your son I suspect I’m going to have to know more about him and why he needs help.”
Mrs. Kennedy looked down at her lap and Carol had the distinct impression that she was holding back tears.
“Martin is not what you’d call normal,” she said. It was now clear that she was crying.
“Take your time, Mrs. Kennedy. This is obviously a difficult subject, hard to talk about. I have lots of time.”
“Thank you. Martin has never been a typical kid, not since I brought him home from the hospital. But Henry and I didn’t begin to know how difficult it would be to raise him. His situation became progressively worse. The doctors - there were lots of them - tried to help, and in a way they did, I suppose. At least they diagnosed his problem, although neither Henry nor I really understand all of it. It’s a genetic problem, which means, I’m afraid, that he could have inherited it from us. Martin had down’s syndrome at birth. I’m sure you know what that’s like. Kids look different. You know they will never be able to function quite like other kids. But Martin also turned out to have something the doctors called ASD. Correct me if I’m wrong, Henry, but I think that stands for autism spectrum disorder. The two problems together can be severe and, unfortunately, Martin is a serious case. The truth is that we really haven’t known how to raise him, but he’s our boy and God in his wisdom has made him our responsibility.”
Henry Kennedy, still dry eyed, took over the conversation.
“There’s nothing you can do about Martin’s mental or physical condition, sheriff, but maybe you can help us find him. You probably think it’s a bit strange that we live in Southport. We don’t know how many African-American families live around here, but we know there aren’t many. I’m sure they came to this part of the country for different reasons, and we hope they’re glad they did. In our case, we settled here, a long way from our old home in Charlotte, to protect Martin. He was treated cruelly down there, taunted all the time because he was different. School was an awful ordeal for him. He didn’t know how to handle it. I’m not sure he really understood why he was treated like he was. Finally, Ruth and I figured we had to do something. I’m not sure why we picked a small town like the one up here.”
“Yes, we do know, Henry,” Ruth said. “We thought it would get us away from the kids that made his life hell. Sorry, I shouldn’t be using words like that. Anyway, we had the good fortune of meeting the Hacketts on that visit last fall.”
“The Hacketts?” Carol asked. “I believe I know a Rachel Hackett.”
“That’s the one. We met her at the school. She said they’d found the town of Southport - and the school - friendly. Well, maybe not exactly friendly, but live and let live. We’ve had no problems with neighbors and the school has worked hard to help Martin. The school counselor who really made our move possible is Francine Chartrell. She’d be glad to talk with you, I’m sure. But she can’t find Martin. That’s what we hope you can do.”
“If I’m to help, perhaps you can tell me a bit more abut him. Of course I’ll be talking to Mr. Slocomb, but you know your son better. How does he cope with his problems? I guess I’m asking whether he’s inclined to go wandering off, or does he normally stay around the house, close to you. I’m including Mr. Slocomb and his place. Did he talk much with you about what he does when he goes to work?”
“Frankly, he doesn’t talk much at all, and he’s hardly said anything about Mr. Slocomb and what his days up on the hill are like.”
“How long has he been with Mr. Slocomb?”
“Not long. Less than two weeks.”
“Has Mr. Slocomb talked with you about how things are working out?”
“We wish we had asked more questions,” Henry said. “We were always glad when he dropped Martin off, but we didn’t want to sound too much like - what is the expression they’re using today, helicopter parents? I suppose we worried that Mr. Slocomb might change his mind if we seemed to be second guessing him.”
Second guessing him? Asking questions about how a severely handicapped son was doing in a new relationship with a man he didn’t know? With a man that they couldn’t have known well either? Carol couldn’t imagine why the Kennedys were so reluctant to discuss their son with Slocomb. In the circumstances, to do so would have been both natural and wise. The more she heard about the arrangement they had struck with the man who needed a handyman, the more she found herself puzzling about that arrangement.
“Did you ever visit Mr. Slocomb’s home, the place where Martin was working?”
“I’m afraid not,” Ruth said, sounding guilty. “We should have, shouldn’t we? You’ll think we’re bad parents, just glad to have days when we could lead a normal life, without constant reminders of our sad problem.”
Yes, Carol thought, you should have. If it had been Kevin and me, we would certainly have been more involved in Martin’s daily life. But we have never walked in the Kennedys’ shoes. Now she was the one who was feeling guilty.
She chose to gather more information which could be useful by changing the subject.
“I hope you won’t mind a few more questions. Personal questions. What is it that you do here in Southport, beside taking care of Martin, which must be pretty much a full time job?”
Her question sought answers from both of them, but it was Henry who spoke up first.
“It’s a temporary appointment while I shop for something more challenging, but I work at Jefferson’s Hardware in Yates Center. I’ve been thinking -”
“Henry was the assistant manager of a computer service outlet in Charlotte,”
