for a scrap of humor in this nightmare. “They can start cleaning out Fort Knox.”
He slipped the small portable phone from his coat pocket and handed it over. “Call the priest while you're at it. We're going to need all the help we can get.”
CHAPTER 7
----
D AY 1
10:02 P.M. 18°
F rom a distance, the parking lot of the Gordie Knutson Memorial Arena resembled a giant tailgate party—cars and trucks in makeshift rows, men milling around portable heaters, their voices carrying on the cold night air. But there was no party atmosphere. Tension and anger and fear hovered like a cloud, like a drift of noxious fog.
If there had been any hope of picking up a trace of evidence from the lot itself, it was gone now. That was the risk of working crime scenes with large groups. The attention to small detail was lost in the hunt for larger clues. The sense of urgency fed on itself and grew, making the mob difficult to control.
Control.
A prized word in Megan's vocabulary. She had been left in charge, but at the moment she had no control. The men turned to one another for guidance and instruction. They looked for their chief. They paid no attention whatsoever to Megan. She tried twice to raise her voice above the din. No one listened and she turned to Noga.
He gave her a rueful look and shrugged. “Maybe we should just wait for the chief.”
“Noga, a child has been abducted. We don't have time to piss around with this male pecking-order bullshit.”
Scowling, she went around to the trunk of the Lumina and rummaged through the dusty junk heap for a bullhorn, then went around to the front of the car and scrambled up on the hood, the heels of her boots denting it like hailstones.
“Listen up!” she bellowed.
The sound echoed off across the fairgrounds. As if a switch had been flipped off, the men fell silent and turned to stare at her.
“I'm Agent O'Malley with the BCA. Chief Holt has gone to speak with the parents of the missing boy. In his absence, I'm going to organize you into teams and get you started on the search. Deer Lake cops: I want three teams of two doing house-to-house on this block, asking if anyone saw anything going on between five-fifteen and seven-fifteen. We don't have a photo of the boy to give you at this point, but he was last seen wearing a bright blue ski jacket with green and yellow trim and a yellow stocking cap with a Vikings patch on it. If anyone saw Josh Kirkwood or saw anything odd or suspicious going on, we want to hear about it. The rest of you cops and county boys divide into—”
“I'll direct my own men, if you don't mind, Miss O'Malley.”
Megan's gaze dropped like an anvil onto the head of the Park County sheriff. He stood with his hands on his lean hips, a half-smile twisting his nonexistent lips. Somewhere in the vicinity of fifty, he was tall with a lean, bony face and an aquiline nose. The lights of the parking lot gleamed off dark hair that he wore slicked straight back à la basketball coach Pat Riley. His voice boomed, carrying farther than hers did with the bullhorn.
“I want my deputies on the fairgrounds. We'll do a complete sweep—every plowed road, every building. If you find something, call it in to me. Art Goble's coming with his dogs. As soon as Mitch gets back with something for them to scent off, they'll be in business. Let's go!”
Half a dozen deputies started toward the fairgrounds, flashlights bobbing in their hands. The Deer Lake cops shuffled around, uncertain who to send where or if they should do anything at all on the orders of a woman they had never seen before. Megan shot a look at Noga, and he hustled off to get them moving. She hopped down off the hood of the Lumina, landing squarely in front of the sheriff.
“It's
Agent
O'Malley,” she said, sticking a gloved hand out in front of her.
Russ Steiger gave her a patronizing once-over with his big dark eyes, blatantly ignoring her token gesture of courtesy. “What'd they do?
He slipped the small portable phone from his coat pocket and handed it over. “Call the priest while you're at it. We're going to need all the help we can get.”
CHAPTER 7
----
D AY 1
10:02 P.M. 18°
F rom a distance, the parking lot of the Gordie Knutson Memorial Arena resembled a giant tailgate party—cars and trucks in makeshift rows, men milling around portable heaters, their voices carrying on the cold night air. But there was no party atmosphere. Tension and anger and fear hovered like a cloud, like a drift of noxious fog.
If there had been any hope of picking up a trace of evidence from the lot itself, it was gone now. That was the risk of working crime scenes with large groups. The attention to small detail was lost in the hunt for larger clues. The sense of urgency fed on itself and grew, making the mob difficult to control.
Control.
A prized word in Megan's vocabulary. She had been left in charge, but at the moment she had no control. The men turned to one another for guidance and instruction. They looked for their chief. They paid no attention whatsoever to Megan. She tried twice to raise her voice above the din. No one listened and she turned to Noga.
He gave her a rueful look and shrugged. “Maybe we should just wait for the chief.”
“Noga, a child has been abducted. We don't have time to piss around with this male pecking-order bullshit.”
Scowling, she went around to the trunk of the Lumina and rummaged through the dusty junk heap for a bullhorn, then went around to the front of the car and scrambled up on the hood, the heels of her boots denting it like hailstones.
“Listen up!” she bellowed.
The sound echoed off across the fairgrounds. As if a switch had been flipped off, the men fell silent and turned to stare at her.
“I'm Agent O'Malley with the BCA. Chief Holt has gone to speak with the parents of the missing boy. In his absence, I'm going to organize you into teams and get you started on the search. Deer Lake cops: I want three teams of two doing house-to-house on this block, asking if anyone saw anything going on between five-fifteen and seven-fifteen. We don't have a photo of the boy to give you at this point, but he was last seen wearing a bright blue ski jacket with green and yellow trim and a yellow stocking cap with a Vikings patch on it. If anyone saw Josh Kirkwood or saw anything odd or suspicious going on, we want to hear about it. The rest of you cops and county boys divide into—”
“I'll direct my own men, if you don't mind, Miss O'Malley.”
Megan's gaze dropped like an anvil onto the head of the Park County sheriff. He stood with his hands on his lean hips, a half-smile twisting his nonexistent lips. Somewhere in the vicinity of fifty, he was tall with a lean, bony face and an aquiline nose. The lights of the parking lot gleamed off dark hair that he wore slicked straight back à la basketball coach Pat Riley. His voice boomed, carrying farther than hers did with the bullhorn.
“I want my deputies on the fairgrounds. We'll do a complete sweep—every plowed road, every building. If you find something, call it in to me. Art Goble's coming with his dogs. As soon as Mitch gets back with something for them to scent off, they'll be in business. Let's go!”
Half a dozen deputies started toward the fairgrounds, flashlights bobbing in their hands. The Deer Lake cops shuffled around, uncertain who to send where or if they should do anything at all on the orders of a woman they had never seen before. Megan shot a look at Noga, and he hustled off to get them moving. She hopped down off the hood of the Lumina, landing squarely in front of the sheriff.
“It's
Agent
O'Malley,” she said, sticking a gloved hand out in front of her.
Russ Steiger gave her a patronizing once-over with his big dark eyes, blatantly ignoring her token gesture of courtesy. “What'd they do?
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