The radio made a loud hiss that broke the silence of the vehicle before it cleared up into the dispatcher’s monotone. There was a fender incident on Route 60 close to the old truck stop. My fingers hovered over the receiver, and my gut told me to act, but another unit called it in first.
I pulled my hand back, held the steering wheel at ten and two, and kept going.
In Kentucky, October is a time of beautiful death. The world is on fire in tints of copper, red, and bruised purple. The leaves were still on the branches, like stubborn memories that wouldn’t let go, even if the wind was trying to shake them off. I liked this time of year. When the world was falling apart, it seemed honest. It didn’t try to cover up the degradation with green lies.
I’ve been patrolling Interstate 64 for twelve years. My name is Tobias Harwell. For the last three hours, it had been a procession of boring things: speeders, a broken taillight, and one motorist with an expired registration who cried when I gave him the citation. She had lost her job two weeks before. I still wrote the ticket since the law is a brutal tool, but I spoke more softly and told her to fight it in court. Sometimes judges are accommodating to those who just turn up.
There were two lanes of damaged asphalt on the roadway ahead, passing through a patchwork of farms and forest. I was twenty miles ahead of Ashford. Fifteen miles ahead was the next town, Grayson. There were only cows, cornfields that had been stripped for harvest, and the occasional petrol station that looked like it hadn’t been upgraded since 1987.
I looked at the clock on the dashboard and saw that it was 2:43 PM.
At six, my shift was over. I thought about dinner, which would probably be leftover chicken, or maybe a stop at the restaurant on Fifth Street where Monica, the waitress with the sweet eyes, often gave me extra fries without me asking. Little acts of kindness. They were the glue that kept the world together.
A silver vehicle drove by me going east in the other lane. Tennessee license plates.
I wrote it down without thinking, like a cop would. Color, make, and model. The driver could be seen through the windshield. He was a man in his thirties or forties sitting alone in the front seat. The car wasn’t going too fast. It wasn’t going off course. There was nothing about the car that set off an alarm.
But…
I grimaced and squinted as the vehicle got smaller in my rearview mirror.
There was something wrong. It wasn’t improper enough to warrant turning on the lights and pursuing a suspect. This feeling causes the fine hair on the back of your neck to rise. The itch was what it was. The gut feeling. The thing you either learn to believe or ignore at your own risk.
I slowed down the cruiser and pulled over on the gravel shoulder. I saw the silver dot vanish around a bend in the road. I could feel my heart beating faster and heard a steady pounding in my ears. What was it? What had I seen?
Then, the picture became clear in my head. The window in the back.
Someone had taped something to the inside of the back passenger window. A rectangular piece of white paper was fluttering against the glass. I couldn’t have read it at sixty miles per hour, but my brain had already stored it. My brain had stored the information in the wrong folder, and now it was demanding my attention.
The tires kicked up a dust and gravel cloud as I turned around. Then I sped up.
Two minutes later, I saw the vehicle. It was at a steady sixty miles per hour, blending in perfectly with the few other cars on the road. I fell behind and kept three car lengths between us. I fixed my gaze on the back window.
There it was. A piece of regular printer paper that was taped to the glass with strips of clear tape. The details came into focus as I got closer. Marks from crayons. Thick, uneven strokes that feel like wax.
My chest felt tight, like a frigid vise was squeezing my lungs.
There was a face in the drawing. A spherical head, two dots for eyes, and a mouth that curves down sharply. The drawing depicted tears with blue streaks flowing from the eyes to the bottom of the page. And underneath the face, in big, wobbly characters that took up half the page:
H E L P
The “H” was facing the wrong way. The “E” looked more like a 3. But the message was clear. A kid had made this. A child had taped it to the glass, like a message in a bottle thrown into the asphalt sea, hoping someone on the outside would see it.
I reached for the radio, and my voice dropped an octave. “Unit 12 to Dispatch.” I read off the license plate number: “I’m eastbound on I-64, mile marker 72, following a silver sedan with Tennessee plates.” “Check the plates.” Look for alerts. “Now.”
“Copy that, Unit 12.” “Stand by.”
I stayed away and watched the driver’s shadow. He stood up straight, with his shoulders tight. He was awake and aware. Perhaps his awareness was overly heightened.
The radio made a crackling sound. “Unit 12. There are no active warrants out for the registered owner. The car goes back to Raymond Parker. Raymond Parker is a thirty-eight-year-old white man. Address in Memphis. No pasts. Want me to look into it more?”
“Negative,” I responded, my eyes never leaving that sorrowful, crayon face. “I’m going to get in touch. “Just stay on the line.”
“Copy. “Be safe, Toby.”
I turned on the lights.
The red and blue LEDs that spun around made crazy shadows on the road as they hit the trees in the fall. The automobile didn’t move for a long, scary moment. It continued going, without caring who was in charge. I leaned forward, feeling a rush of exhilaration. Was he going to run?
Then, slowly, the brake lights became a deep crimson. The car wandered to the side of the road and stopped.
I pulled in behind it and turned my cruiser so it could hide. I took a deep breath that filled my diaphragm and calmed the shaking in my palms. I opened the door. The air in October was crisp and biting, and it smelled like rain and rotting ground from far away.
I walked up to the driver’s side, one hand near my service weapon and my eyes scanning the inside. It was clear that the motorist had both hands on the wheel. That was lovely. His chest was rising and falling, nevertheless. He was gasping like someone who had just run a marathon.
I paused at the window and tapped on the glass.
The driver made a turn. Raymond Parker appeared older than 38. His dirty, brown hair was not combed. His eyes were crimson around the edges and looked empty because he was tired or sobbing. Maybe both. He let the window down halfway.
I said “Afternoon” in a flat, professional voice. “Please show me your license and registration.”
He fumbled with the glove compartment, and his hands shook so much that he dropped the registration card twice. He finally gave it to her, along with a worn leather wallet, but he wouldn’t look her in the eye.
“Mr. I looked from the ID to his face and said, “Parker.” “Where are you going today?””
“Nashville,” Raymond said in a rough voice. His voice sounded like rocks crushing together. “Seeing family.”
“Family in Nashville?””
“My mom. She… she’s not doing well.
I nodded and didn’t say anything. I let the silence hang there, thick and difficult to breathe, as I nonchalantly looked at the rear seat.
That’s when I noticed her.
There was a little girl in a booster seat on the passenger side. Four years old, or maybe five. Dark curls over a pale, porcelain face. She had on a pink jacket with a cartoon character on it that I didn’t know. She held on to a plush bear with matted brown fur that had become gray from love.
She looked at me with big, unblinking eyes. She didn’t smile. She didn’t say hello. She sat still like a statue. The drawing was affixed to the window right next to her head.
I turned to look at Raymond again. “Is that your daughter?””
“Yes.” His jaw tightened, and a muscle in his cheek jumped. “Nora. I’m taking her to see her granny.
I said the name again, “Nora,” and tasted it. “And what about her mother? Where is she?”
Raymond’s knuckles became white as he held the steering wheel. “The house. Louisville. She… she knows we’re leaving.
Liar.
Everything about this was wrong. The picture. The child’s catatonic silence. Raymond’s forehead was sweating even though it was only fifty degrees.
“Mr. I said, “Parker,” and stepped back a little. “I’m going to need you to get out of the car.”
He turned his head quickly toward me. “Why? I wasn’t going too fast.
“Sir, get out of the car.”
“No.” This is harassment. I know what I can do!”
“Mr. “Parker,” I whispered, letting my palm fall to the grips of my gun. “I don’t want to know.” Get out of the car. “Now.”
For a second, I saw him do the math. I watched his eyes jump to the rearview mirror, where he was evaluating the distance and thinking about whether or not he could hit the gas and run. I got ready.
Then he lost the will to fight. He opened the door and stepped outside, but his legs were shaky.
“Put your hands on the hood,” I said.
Raymond did what he was told, but he moved slowly. I turned on my radio. “Dispatch, I need help at my location.” Code Adam may be possible.
Code Adam. The child in question is either missing or in danger. The words tasted like ash.
“Copy, Unit 12. Unit 9 is on its way.” ETA: seven minutes.”
Seven minutes is a long time. I focused on the man who was under my hands. “Mr. I’m going to ask you some questions, Parker. But first, I need to get in touch with Nora’s mom.
“Why?” Raymond’s voice broke. “She isn’t… this has nothing to do with her.”
“Name and number. Now.”
He leaned against the hood. “Clare. Clare Parker. The number is in my phone.”
I got his phone, dialed the contact, and waited. It rang twice.
“Raymond?” A woman’s voice answered, tight with panic. “Where is she? Where is Nora?”
My stomach dropped through the floor. “Ma’am, this is Officer Tobias Harwell. Who am I talking to?”
A quick breath in. “Clare Parker. Is my daughter with you? Is she all right?”
“She’s here, ma’am.” She’s okay. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“He took her!” “Clare cried.” “He picked her up from school. Did you receive the Amber Alert? There is a restraining order!”
I turned to Raymond. He had his eyes closed and his forehead against the chilly metal of the automobile hood.
I urged Clare, “You need to stay calm.” “Nora is safe.” I’m going to keep her that way.
I went back to the back window. I bent down so that my eyes were level with the glass. Nora was still. She was still holding on to that teddy like it was the only thing keeping her on the ground.
I said, “Hey, Nora,” through the glass. “I saw your picture.”
She looked at the drawing, then back at me.
I remarked, “It’s a very brave picture.” “You did well.”
A single tear ran down her face. She nodded once.
We put handcuffs on Raymond when Officer Grant got there. He didn’t put up a fight. He merely stood there, staring at the ground and mumbling something about love. Love. People always use that word to explain the mess they make.
I pulled Nora out of the car myself. She was light, like a bird. I took her to my cruiser, wrapped her in a blanket, and stayed with her while Grant worked on the sedan.
“Officer Tobias?” she asked in a soft voice.
“Yes, dear?””
“Why was Dad crying?“
I stared at her and for a second saw my sister Katie’s ghost. Katie contacted me crying eleven years ago and said she needed help. I told her to lock the door and that I will be there in the morning. She died before the sun came up. Her husband had driven them both off a bridge. The official report read “accident,” but I knew it was murder-suicide.
I had let Katie down. I didn’t see the signs.
I told Nora softly, “I think your daddy made some big mistakes.” “And sometimes, adults cry when they know they can’t fix what they’ve done.”
Grant came over with a bag of evidence. There was a notebook with spiral binding inside.
Grant remarked, “You need to see this, Toby,” and his face was serious. “Found it under the seat.”
I took the bag out. There was a lot of furious writing in the notepad. Maps. Lists. And on the last page, it was emphasized three times:
Clare shouldn’t have her either if I can’t.
The October breeze had nothing to do with the chill that ran down my spine.
It was freezing in the interrogation room. Raymond Parker was sitting across from me with his hands tied to the table. He seemed smaller now that he was without his car and the power it gave him.
“We found the map, Raymond,” I remarked as I threw the evidence bag on the table. “You weren’t going to Nashville. You were going to the border with Canada.
He didn’t look up. “I just wanted to be her dad.”
“You took her away.”
“The court took her away!” They said I was crazy! He banged his fists on the table, making the chain rattle loudly. “I love her!” That’s all I’ve ever done!”
“You loved the idea of having her,” I said, my voice harsh. “We read the notebook, Raymond.” “Clare shouldn’t have her either.” That’s not love. That’s a threat to kill.
Raymond lost his heir. He held his head in his hands and cried. It sounded sad.
Clare Parker had come to the lobby outside. It seemed like she had driven through a storm. She fell to the floor as she spotted Nora sitting on the couch with the family liaison officer. It was the sound of a mother’s soul coming back to her body: a deep, heaving sob of relief.
I could see through the glass wall. I saw them hug each other. I saw Nora put her face against her mother’s neck and let go of the teddy to hold on to something genuine.
Later, when Clare was putting Nora in her car to drive her home, she stopped.
She said, “Officer Harwell.” Her eyes were crimson, yet you could see through them. “That picture. The one that is in the window.
“Yes?””
“I’m happy you saw it.” Most people, in fact, would not have noticed it at all.
“I try to look,” I said. “Clare, take care of her.”
“I will.” She thought for a moment. “Did he say anything? “About what?“
I said, “He said he loved her.” “But you and I know better.”
She nodded sadly and drove off.
I went back into the station. It was late. The rush of adrenaline was receding, leaving me feeling empty and worn out. I came to my desk and opened the drawer at the bottom. There was a picture of my sister Katie inside, buried among old case papers.
She was smiling in the picture, not knowing that her time was running out. She didn’t know that her brother, the cop, would miss the signs until it was too late.
“I got one, Katie,” I said quietly to the picture. “I didn’t miss this one.”
My phone vibrated. It was a message from Jenna, Katie’s best friend. We had just gotten back in touch. We were two people grieving the same loss.
Jenna: I’m thinking of you. I hope the shift wasn’t too difficult.
I replied back, “It was heavy.” But good. Excellent.
I put on my jacket and went outside into the night. The stars were out, brilliant and piercing over the hills of Kentucky. The weight on my chest seemed a little bit lighter for the first time in eleven years.
In Kentucky, spring came back with a bang six months later. The dogwoods burst into bloom with white and pink flowers, and the air smelled like wet earth and new life.
I was back on Route 60, patrolling the same stretch of road. The world had changed. Raymond Parker had admitted to kidnapping and making threats of terrorism. He was in prison for twelve years. He would never see Nora again.
My radio made a crackling sound. “Unit 12, there’s a broken-down car near mile marker 22.” “Out of gas.”
“Copy, on the way.”
I parked behind a Honda that was in terrible shape. There was a young woman standing there who looked ashamed. I helped her fill up her tank with gas from my spare can. We talked about the weather and the basketball game in a casual way. It was a call that meant nothing. It felt like a routine conversation.
But when I drove away, I felt a sense of tranquility that I hadn’t imagined.
I got an email when I went back to the station. Subject: Thanks.
Clare sent it.
Officer Harwell,
I realize you’re busy, but I wanted to let you know what’s going on. We went back to Louisville. In January, Nora started kindergarten. She’s getting a lot better. The worst dreams are over.
She doodles all the time now. But she doesn’t draw sad faces anymore. She drew a house with flowers and a bright yellow sun yesterday. She said it’s our “safe house.”
I kept the picture in the car. I put it in a frame. I keep it in my closet. I glance at it sometimes to remember how brave she was. And how lucky we were that you were the one on that road.
Thanks for paying attention.
—Clare
I read the email two times. The email depicted a house filled with flowers. The house was adorned with a large golden sun.
I closed my eyes and sat back in my chair. I could see it. The crayon strokes were brilliant, chaotic, and full of life. It was the antithesis of “HELP” written backwards. It was a promise.
I remembered the notebook in Raymond’s car, which was full of darkness. I also thought about Nora’s latest drawings, which were full of light. We decide what to preserve. We pick what we frame.
I grabbed my phone and contacted Jenna.
“Hey,” she said on the first ring. “Are you okay?“
“Yeah,” I said, and this time I really meant it. “I’m OK. Want to eat dinner?”
“I’d love that.”
I hung up and went outside to my cruiser. The sun was going down, and the sky was full of angry orange and purple streaks. But it would rise again tomorrow. The road in front of me was long and winding, and there were many people on it who needed help and individuals who just wanted gas.
I drove the automobile. I looked in my mirrors. I kept my eyes open.
That was the job. That was life. You carry the spirits so that you might help the living. And if you’re really lucky, you might even save yourself along the way.
