Scott Free by John Gilstrap Page A

know what you’d like to see out there, but until the weather breaks, there are limits to what we can do.”
    â€œAnd for right now, the best you can do is sit around with your thumb up your ass?”
    Whitestone’s eyes went hot. “We’re doing what we can,” he said at length. “Out here, Mother Nature calls more shots than we do. If that looks to you like we’re sitting on our thumbs, I’m sorry. The weather’s supposed to clear this afternoon.”
    Brandon wanted to break something. Time was their most lethal enemy, next to the weather, and Chief Whitestone was telling him that his team of rescuers—if, indeed there even was such a team—didn’t have the balls to face down either one. “You’re giving up, then?”
    Whitestone shook his head. “God, no. First chance we get, we’ll be all over that mountain looking for them. Search and rescue is a dangerous business in the best of circumstances, and we’re all willing to stretch the odds to make a save. But we can’t do an air search until the weather dies down, and it just doesn’t make sense to send ground teams in to wander aimlessly. Surely you understand that.”
    â€œWhat I don’t understand is, why this Jamieson kid has more balls than your entire police department. He was a reckless idiot, but at least he had the courage to try something.”
    Whitestone’s eyes burned hotter. “Mr. O’Toole, I want you to do us both a favor, okay? Never mistake bravado for bravery. Foolishness for guts. With all respect, your son and Cody Jamieson did a stupid, stupid thing. And nobody on my staff wants to duplicate their stupidity. I’m sure that hurts, but it’s just the way it is.”
    Brandon heard the air rush out of his lungs as the news sank in, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d be able to take a breath at all.
    â€œAre you all right?” Whitestone rose from his chair and reached across the desk to place his hand atop Brandon’s. “I’m sorry if that was too much detail. I thought…You impressed me as someone who appreciated bluntness.”
    Brandon inhaled deeply and held it for a second. “I just get so angry—” He cut himself off. Whitestone was a cop, not a psychologist. Brandon would deal with his anger on his own time. “I appreciate your candor—your bluntness, as you say. I want to know every little detail.”
    Whitestone watched the other man carefully for a long moment before lowering himself back into his seat. “This needn’t be all down time,” he said, reaching into his desk drawer for a pad of yellow legal paper. “Tell me about your son. Do you have any recent pictures?”
    Brandon pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and opened it, grateful to be doing something useful. He found Scott’s school picture and handed it over. “This is about two years old—eighth grade, I think. He’s sixteen now and he’s grown about six inches since then, but hasn’t gained an ounce.” Long and thin, the boy in the photo stared at the camera with his head cocked, a crooked grin exposing perfect teeth. The blue eyes showed a serious side, too, giving the impression that maybe he knew a few more secrets than he should.
    â€œHandsome boy,” Whitestone said. “Would I recognize him from this photo?”
    Brandon nodded. “I think so, yes. Except for the goatee that only he can see. Oh, and his hair is blue now.”
    That brought the chief’s eyes up. “Excuse me?”
    Brandon smiled. “Closer to purple, actually. The kids on his soccer team call him Smurf.”
    Whitestone laughed. “Artist or musician?”
    â€œSounds like the voice of experience.”
    â€œI’ve got a thirteen-year-old drummer at home. I lost the earring battle two years ago, but haven’t faced the hair war yet.”
    Brandon made a