Free Taken by Chris Jordan Page A

games, but it was the man in the mask, waiting for me. He had a pistol and, like I said, this ski-mask kind of thing.”
    A door slams with the force of a gunshot. I just about jump out of my skin, as does Deputy Katz. Crebbin storms back into the room, glaring at me. I can tell he’s resisting the impulse to lay his hands upon me. But why? What does he think I’ve done to deserve his withering contempt.
    “Come with me, Mrs. Bickford.”
    There’s no fight in me, and no point in resisting. I accompany him into the hallway. A uniformed cop rushes by, grabbing for his walkie-talkie. Then Crebbin takes my arm and leads me through an open door, to the landing for the basement stairs. My knees get even weaker. Below are lights, more cops, the low hum of excited voices trying to keep it down. Crebbin expects me to refuse, but my mother’s body takes over, desperate to know what happened to my son, and I find myself descending the stairs, passing into the shadows of the partially illuminated basement.
    At the bottom of the stairs, cops wait on either side, leaving an opening just large enough for me to pass through. Passively forcing me to the north wall of the basement, and to the large chest freezer that holds goods for my catering business. Cookie and bread dough, mostly.
    My heart is racing and my jaw is quivering, but there’s just enough of me paying attention to get the impression that these men have already looked inside the freezer but are pretending not to have done so for some reason. Maybe because whatever waits in the freezer cannot be said to be in “plain sight,” and is therefore not subject to a warrantless search.
    I want to scream at them to act human, stop acting like cops, like a warrant matters at a time like this, but I haven’t got enough spit to open my mouth. Why are they looking at me like I’m the monster? Do they really think I’d kill my own child?
    “Go on, Mrs. Bickford. Open the lid, please.”
    I stagger to the freezer on wobbly ankles, sick with dread, partially blinded by my own tears. Not really there inside my head at all, but floating outside my own body, watching poor wobbly Kate Bickford reach for the handle. Watching her lift up the spring-balanced lid, letting it fly open. Watching as she covers her mouth and screams and screams and screams.
    Screams not of grief, exactly. Shock and relief, perhaps, but not grief. Because the body in the freezer is not her precious son, Tomas “Tommy” Bickford. The body in the freezer is an adult male with frost on his lips and a small purple hole in his forehead. The body in the freezer is the late Fred Corso, Fairfax County sheriff, Little League coach, and friend.

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THE METHODS

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face down on the infield grass
    T he boy dreams that he’s lying facedown on the infield grass. Around him a game is being played. He can hear the crack of the bat, the chatter of the players, but he can’t see anything except the blur of grass in his eyes. The pungent green smell of it filling his nose. The boy can’t move—can’t make his arms and legs wake up—but he’s keenly aware of an urgent pressure in his bladder and knows that if he doesn’t get up soon he’ll pee his pants.
    Bad idea to take a nap in the infield. What was he thinking? Now he’s half-asleep and can’t wake up and a batted ball might hit him, but what he’s really afraid of is embarrassing himself in front of the crowd. All the kids, the coaches, his mom. Eleven-year-olds don’t wet their pants. Not in public, anyhow. Not when they’re wearing uniforms. Plus, he’s supposed to be playing shortstop. What if a ball gets hit in his direction? Can’t make the play if you’re lying down, can you?
    Below the murmuring chatter of the players he can hear his mother’s voice echoing from the dugout, exhorting him to get up. Really embarrassing, Mom telling him to wake up in front of all his friends. How did he let this happen? What was he thinking when he decided to take a nap