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I pray hard that I’m not going to witness another living being die today.
And I pray just as hard that my Raffi is out there somewhere.
Safe.
33
CLAYTON
“Faster, Wyatt, for God’s sake!”
“This is why your brother insisted,” my pilot contends. “We’re not in Cuba’s airspace, Mr. Hartley.”
“Fuck, Wyatt. Have you forgotten why we’re flying? We could be above 1965 Vietnam for all I care!”
“I’m doing you a favor, sir. We’re almost there.”
Meanwhile, Blake is sitting quietly. It’s as if he hasn’t changed his posture since we took off.
We land in Anchorage in less than five hours. It felt like forever, but that was actually a pretty good time.
A rental car is waiting for us, and we head straight to the Anchorage PD.
“Crawley,” Blake calls a man who’s just come out of a door, clearly expecting us. He’s in plain clothes, and they soon hug each other. Blake told me he and the detective had been friends since they were teenagers. While Blake moved on, Crawley stayed on with the Anchorage PD.
Blake introduces us to the detective, “This is Clayton Hartley and our pilot Wyatt Grimes.”
“Gents.” Crawley ushers us. “Come. Raffi is in a conference room with my colleague. She’s great with kids. Rest assured, the boy has been well taken care of.”
“Did you find out where his house is?”
“No. What I told Blake on the phone, that was all he said. The kid is scared. We’ve asked around the neighborhood, but no one recognized him.”
As soon as I enter the room, Raffi runs to me.
“Clayton!” He clings to my waist. He’s wearing his basketball gear, but someone has put a police jacket over him.
“Hey, pal. I’m here.” I kneel so he can rest his head on my shoulder.
“Clayton…” His grip is even fiercer now. I don’t think he’s ever going to let me go. The boy has proven himself tough, just like his mother. But he’s a ten-year-old, after all. It won’t be his fault if he breaks down now.
“Are you okay?”
He nods, trying to hide his cry.
Crawley gestures to the policewoman who’s been accompanying Raffi to step away, and in turn, Blake tells his friend to leave us be.
“What happened, Raffi?” I ask when it’s just the two of us in the room.
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” This time he cries in my arms.
“It’s okay, pal. Take your time.” I wrap my arms around him, rubbing his back, telling him I’ve got him. “We’ll find your mom.”
I offer him water, but he refuses, looking down like he’s about to fall.
“Hey, come on.” I lift him up while keeping him close. I’m not going to pretend that I’m his father, but what’s driving me is, I’m sure, nothing short of a fatherly instinct.
Raffi seems to be receptive to my gesture. Isabelle once said the boy wouldn’t have let her carry him but hinted at the possibility that her son might letme. And she was right, and I’m humbled.
