The hum of the building had gone still after the fellowship lunch. The smell of coffee and baked ham lingered faintly in the halls of Spirit of Hope, the light through Linda Park’s office window dimming toward early evening. She sat behind her desk, hands folded, her eyes unfocused on the neat stack of papers she hadn’t touched for an hour.
Her mind was still on Jaxson Lee.
She was concerned about why he was at the police station. He
wasn’t being interrogated by Marla or Rory, so it couldn’t have been about the
missing people’s case. The buzz from her congregation was that it had something
to do with fire she heard about on the car radio on her way to the church from
the station. This concerned her because she was very protective of Jaxson, but
could he know more about the missing people?
Jaxson had known some of them — Patrick Sheehan, Brody
Miller, Melissa Stockman. Kids who’d drifted in and out of the streets, looking
for safety and finding anything but.
Linda rubbed the bridge of her nose, exhaling. She couldn’t
make herself believe Jaxson had anything to do with it. He might’ve been
complicated — aloof, secretive, always straddling that line between sinner and
saint — but he wasn’t cruel. She’d seen cruelty before. Jaxson didn’t have that
in him, but she did know he always had a plan.
Her eyes drifted to the small framed photo on her desk — her
and Ruth, both smiling wide at a street fair ten years ago.
The memory brought her back to another night, long before
Spirit of Hope existed.
A night on Highway 71, nearly nine years ago.
She’d been driving home from Omaha, the wipers fighting a
losing battle against the rain. The highway was slick; the air was heavy with the spring chill that clings to the Midwest.
She’d gone north to see Mr. and Mrs. Brown, to tell them
their son, Evan, had died from AIDS-related complications. The visit had left
her hollow. The Browns hadn’t cared. They hadn’t even let her sit down. “He
made his choice,” Mr. Brown said flatly. “And so did God.”
Linda had sat in her car afterward, parked under a
streetlight, trembling.
She had buried her partner Ruth two years before — also from
AIDS, from a contaminated blood transfusion. Ruth had been her anchor, her
reason. Losing her had gutted something that never quite grew back.
And before Ruth, there had been her mother — a stern woman
who, upon discovering her daughter’s truth, had said, “I didn’t raise a
dyke.”
That had been twenty years ago. The silence between them had grown old and
heavy.
That night, Linda had prayed out loud as she drove through
the rain. “Lord, give me something. Give me a sign that this work still
matters.”
She was deep in thought when she saw the flashing lights
ahead — a diesel truck pulled to the shoulder, surrounded by three state
trooper cars. The grill appeared to have struck something, and the troopers were speaking with a man
sitting on the guardrail. They waved traffic along, and Linda eased past
slowly. No collision — just another piece of highway trouble on a dark Missouri
road.
Fifteen miles later, she saw him.
A boy.
Thin. Barefoot.
Trudging down the side of the highway in the rain.
He was little more than a shadow until her headlights caught
him — drenched, clothes torn, a small backpack slung limply over one shoulder.
She slowed, rolled her window down, and called out, “Hey
there! You alright?”
The boy didn’t look at her.
“You need a ride?” she tried again.
He kept walking, slow and deliberate, his shoulders shaking
in the cold.
Then the rain began to fall harder, tapping against the roof
in a steady rhythm.
“Please,” she said. “You’ll get sick out here.”
He stopped. Looked at her. Then, with visible effort, he came
to the passenger door.
When he opened it, the dome light flicked on, revealing a
face bruised and pale. Cuts along his cheek, his lip split. His clothes clung
to his small frame, torn at the sleeves.
He climbed in, moving stiffly, and closed the door with
care.
“Seatbelt,” Linda said gently.
He clicked it into place without a word.
Linda smiled faintly. “Name’s Linda. What’s yours?”
Silence. Just the rain. She continued driving.
After brief moment, “Alright,” she said lightly. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll just have to guess. You look like an ...Adam. No? Maybe a Malachi. Or a Nebuchadnezzar?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, the faintest spark of
humor in the gloom. “My name’s Jaxson. Jaxson Lee.”
“Nice to meet you, Jaxson Lee,” she said, offering her hand
across the console. He hesitated, then shook it. His palm was cold and damp,
but his grip was steady.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
She nodded. “Sixteen’s a hard age.”
He didn’t respond, just turned his face toward the window.
His breath fogged the glass.
When a pair of state trooper cars passed in the opposite
lane, he flinched, shoulders tensing.
“They’re probably heading to that diesel back there,” she
said softly. “Looked like a long night for someone.”
He said nothing, his eyelids drooping as the rhythm of the
car and the rain took hold. Within minutes, he was asleep — the steady sound of
his breathing the only proof he was still there.
Linda looked over at him — a stranger, a boy alone on the
road, looking like he’d run from the end of the world.
She smiled faintly to herself. “Kansas City it is then,
Jaxson Lee.”
She drove the rest of the way home through the rain, unaware
that she’d just picked up a boy who would grow into the most mysterious man
she’d ever meet — and perhaps the one she’d never stop trying to understand.
The knock on the door pulled her from the memory.
“Come in,” Linda said, straightening her blouse.
The door opened, and a booming voice filled the room before
she could even see him.
“Well, I’ll be! Linda Park. In the flesh. You’re a sight for
sore eyes.”
Her stomach sank.
Clifton Freeman stepped into the office like a man stepping
onto a stage. Late fifties, tan from television lights, hair perfectly
arranged, suit too sharp for a casual visit. His smile was wide — practiced —
and his drawl thick with false charm.
“Clifton,” Linda said slowly. “You’re a long way from
Oklahoma City.”
He spread his arms. “Lord works in mysterious ways, don’t
He? I was guest-preachin’ at a church over in Lee’s Summit. Thought I’d drop
by, see how my old friend’s doin’.”
Linda folded her arms. “You don’t believe my congregation’s
anything but lost souls on a sinking ship. What brings you really?”
He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me. Truth is, it
pains me to come here, Linda, but the Lord put it on my heart. I’m lookin’ for
a young girl — name’s Susan Wilson. Thought she might be here with your…
flock.”
He reached into his jacket and produced a small photograph,
sliding it across her desk.
Linda looked at it — and froze.
The girl in the photo wasn’t Susan. It was Alicia Wilson.
Her breath caught. It must have shown in her eyes because
Clifton’s smile sharpened just slightly.
“Her family are members of my fellowship down in Wichita,”
he said. “Good, god-fearin’ people. Heartbroken that their little girl’s gone
astray.”
Then, as if remembering his audience, he puffed up with
self-satisfaction. “We’ve been growin’, you know. The Lord’s blessed me with
expansion — Oklahoma City, Wichita, and we’re settin’ our sights on Topeka
next. The Freeman Ministry’s reachin’ souls all over the Heartland.”
Linda forced a small, polite smile. “She showed up here
about three months ago. Stayed at a motel on Independence Avenue. But she’s
been missing for three days now.”
His brow furrowed — or at least pretended to. “That’s
tragic. You don’t suppose…”
“I’ve already spoken with the detectives handling it,” Linda
said, cutting him off. “Marla Simmons and Rory Wallace. If you want to help,
you can start there.”
Clifton nodded solemnly, though she could see the
calculation behind his eyes. “I appreciate that, Linda. Truly. You’ve always
had a good heart. I’ll pray for you.”
“I’m sure you will.”
He blessed her with an upturned palm and left, the echo of
his polished shoes fading down the hall.
Linda turned to the window, watching him climb into a chauffeur-driven
car waiting outside — black, gleaming, out of place in the worn church lot.
As it pulled away, she folded her arms, her reflection faint
against the glass.
She whispered to herself, “I wonder if you’re here for that
girl… or for something darker.”
© 2025 James William Jackson III. All rights reserved. “Jaxson Lee” and all related content are original fictional works created by James William Jackson III. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental.
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