The Dead Soul by M. William Phelps Page A

Hugo,” Dawn screamed. “We cannot win—how many times do I have to say this—if we do not pass … the … ball.” She stopped play. Walked out onto the middle of the field. Her white Nike cleats kicked up wet grass behind her. She called everyone around in a circle. “You need to set your sights on the perimeter of the field and look for open teammates. Those who can drive the ball to your opponents’ side and set up the best shot at goal.”
    “What’s a perimeter, Mrs. Cooper?” Bertina Jackson really didn’t know. She twirled a lock of her hair. Snapped a piece of bubble gum.
    “The white lines, Tina. The outside white lines.” Dawn pointed.
    “Oh, sorry … excuse me.” Bertina twisted her neck and head. “And I’m supposed to know that, right?”
    The kids were loud and obnoxious. Soccer practice was a way to get off the street for the morning. Get a free breakfast out of Mrs. Cooper, some Gatorade, and not worry about being bullied for a few hours or waking up to hung-over parents.
    “Now, let’s try this again.” Dawn had the soccer ball in her hands, whistle in her mouth. “Everybody understand what I’m saying?”
    None of the kids responded.
    Dawn backed off the field.
    Thirty seconds passed. They were getting it, Dawn thought. That was all they needed, a little kick in the ass. Some direction. “Yes, Hugo, that’s it,” she encouraged. “You got it, kiddo. Keep up the good work.”
    Dawn realized she had not checked on Brendan. Whenever she got actively involved in hands-on coaching, Dawn told Valerie Murray, nursing a broken leg on the bench, to keep an eye on Brendan. Dawn looked over and spied Valerie staring down at her cellphone screen, tapping out a text.
    Bren ?
    Her stomach felt a kick as she turned.
    The child was gone.
    “No. Valerie, where is he?”
    The girl looked up.
    Dawn ran.
    At the sandbox, Dawn saw his toys just sitting there. Large footprints— a man’s— marked the sand next to where she was certain Brendan had been grabbed by some pedophile who now had him in his car, speeding down the road, salivating over all of the perverted things he was going do to the boy.
    “Brendan?” She surveyed the park in a circle.
    Those kids trading cards looked at her. Went back to what they were doing.
    “Brendan!” Play on the soccer field stopped. The kids realizing what was going on.
    “Brendan, damn it, where are you?” Tears now. Dawn ran to the opposite end of the playground, which was blocked by several large maple trees and a large plastic playscape donated to the park by a man whose son died of cancer. “Adam’s Land,” that section of the park was called. The father was a doctor. A doctor who couldn’t save his own son.
    “Brendan?”
    “Over here,” a voice shouted, “Dawn. Over here, honey.”
    She stopped. Dropped to bended knees. Let out a deep breath. Thank God.
    “He ran over to me,” Jake said. He was sitting on the top of a picnic table under a tree. Brendan kneeled on the bench seat between his father’s legs.
    Dawn grabbed Brendan and tucked his head into her chest. Her chin rested on his head. She rocked back and forth. Stared at Jake.
    How dare you.
    “We’ll talk about this later, Jake.”
    “What did I do? I was just driving by, thought I’d stop. He saw me. Came running.”
    “You could have said something earlier. You saw me panicking.”
    “I did not, Dawn.” Jake shrugged. “Well, that might teach you to keep Brendan, like I’ve said, by your side when you’re out and about.” Under Mo, when he first came up, Jake worked a few years in the child abduction unit. He’d seen things he thought happened only in Third World countries. After Dawn had Brendan, Jake went on a stranger-danger kick. He became obsessed with the notion that someone was going to grab the kid. It was this same sort of behavior that had caused Jake a few relationships. The love of his life, Jenna Connors. They dated for four years, two in high school, two