connected to Tim Car- roll, the chief of police. Tim instructed them to meet him at the edge of the woods immediately. The next call was the tricky one. To his credit, Carl didn’t dicker around once he got Miller Walker on the line. Instead he blurted: “Your son wasn’t on the bus home from his field trip. We’re on our way back to Bedford to get him. I’m sure he’ll be fine—just wanted to let you know.”
Walker’s reply, which Lois was close enough to hear, was without hesitation. “I want that teacher’s resigna- tion by the end of the day,” he said. Probably he’d said that teacher because he didn’t know her name.
“Of course,” Carl replied while simultaneously shrug- ging his shoulders at Lois as if to say: Sorry, sweetheart, but my neck’s on the line, too.
They took Carl’s green Audi to the Bedford woods. When they got there James wasn’t waiting at the crumb- spotted picnic table, where the Granny Smith apple core she’d left behind was now brown. Her stomach
sank, but she didn’t allow herself to worry: There was a boy to be found.
All seven full-time members of the police department arrived soon after she and Carl. Together they searched the woods. She touched the fresh tracks the school bus had made, looking for clues. After about two hours, Miller Walker and his wife pulled up in a red diesel Mercedes. Felice stayed in the car while Miller took a moment to straighten his tie, sneer at Lois, and join the search.
Even then, it hadn’t truly hit her. She’d been thinking about Ronnie, Noreen, and the engagement announce- ment in the morning paper. She’d been thinking about how she needed to get a pregnancy test from CVS on her way home. She’d been thinking about her mother, probably drunk by now, and how this thing with James was just more proof that the world was against her.
By hour three, the temperature dropped below forty degrees. The worry in her stomach got bigger. It spread like an itch she couldn’t scratch. No little boy would hide for this long, not even a cretin like James. He had to be lost. But what if he wasn’t lost? What if a wild animal had attacked him, or some pedophile had locked him in the trunk of a car and was now speeding across the border to Canada?
She’d lost a kid. On her watch, a kid might have been hurt or kidnapped or worse. By six that evening more than twenty searchers were combing the woods. Volun- teer firemen, members of the PTA, and Miller Walker’s neighbors and friends trampled the grounds surround- ing the woods, so that stray pine needles and strands of grass were impressed like fossils in hardened boot treads.
As dusk fell, Tim organized a wider search. Like an elaborate game of Marco Polo with gaps no greater
than ten feet apart, they formed a line and called to one another as they marched through the woods. The arcs of their flashlights shone against dead trees. Lois searched feverishly. The itch in her stomach spread into her chest and legs, and even her throat. The woods were trampled, the boy was missing: a mess, her mess. She had to find James Walker. She had to clean it up. But as darkness settled, and six inched its way to seven, there was no James to be found.
She was tempted to get down on her hands and knees and pray, but she didn’t. If people hadn’t guessed how serious this was, seeing her prostrate in prayer would give them a pretty good hint. Who cared what the EPA said, these trees looked like empty corn husks. Nothing lived here anymore! No birds. No deer. Nothing. What if James got thirsty and drank the polluted river water, or ate the leaves full of God knew what? There were crazies in these woods. Genuine Bedford locals. The kind who let their cars turn to rust in their front yards and hung effigies of dead men on the sides of their RVs. The kind who stayed in toxic ghost towns, long after the sane had fled.
She started to lose it. A mess. Her life was a mess. Being a loser was one thing, screwing up a
Walker’s reply, which Lois was close enough to hear, was without hesitation. “I want that teacher’s resigna- tion by the end of the day,” he said. Probably he’d said that teacher because he didn’t know her name.
“Of course,” Carl replied while simultaneously shrug- ging his shoulders at Lois as if to say: Sorry, sweetheart, but my neck’s on the line, too.
They took Carl’s green Audi to the Bedford woods. When they got there James wasn’t waiting at the crumb- spotted picnic table, where the Granny Smith apple core she’d left behind was now brown. Her stomach
sank, but she didn’t allow herself to worry: There was a boy to be found.
All seven full-time members of the police department arrived soon after she and Carl. Together they searched the woods. She touched the fresh tracks the school bus had made, looking for clues. After about two hours, Miller Walker and his wife pulled up in a red diesel Mercedes. Felice stayed in the car while Miller took a moment to straighten his tie, sneer at Lois, and join the search.
Even then, it hadn’t truly hit her. She’d been thinking about Ronnie, Noreen, and the engagement announce- ment in the morning paper. She’d been thinking about how she needed to get a pregnancy test from CVS on her way home. She’d been thinking about her mother, probably drunk by now, and how this thing with James was just more proof that the world was against her.
By hour three, the temperature dropped below forty degrees. The worry in her stomach got bigger. It spread like an itch she couldn’t scratch. No little boy would hide for this long, not even a cretin like James. He had to be lost. But what if he wasn’t lost? What if a wild animal had attacked him, or some pedophile had locked him in the trunk of a car and was now speeding across the border to Canada?
She’d lost a kid. On her watch, a kid might have been hurt or kidnapped or worse. By six that evening more than twenty searchers were combing the woods. Volun- teer firemen, members of the PTA, and Miller Walker’s neighbors and friends trampled the grounds surround- ing the woods, so that stray pine needles and strands of grass were impressed like fossils in hardened boot treads.
As dusk fell, Tim organized a wider search. Like an elaborate game of Marco Polo with gaps no greater
than ten feet apart, they formed a line and called to one another as they marched through the woods. The arcs of their flashlights shone against dead trees. Lois searched feverishly. The itch in her stomach spread into her chest and legs, and even her throat. The woods were trampled, the boy was missing: a mess, her mess. She had to find James Walker. She had to clean it up. But as darkness settled, and six inched its way to seven, there was no James to be found.
She was tempted to get down on her hands and knees and pray, but she didn’t. If people hadn’t guessed how serious this was, seeing her prostrate in prayer would give them a pretty good hint. Who cared what the EPA said, these trees looked like empty corn husks. Nothing lived here anymore! No birds. No deer. Nothing. What if James got thirsty and drank the polluted river water, or ate the leaves full of God knew what? There were crazies in these woods. Genuine Bedford locals. The kind who let their cars turn to rust in their front yards and hung effigies of dead men on the sides of their RVs. The kind who stayed in toxic ghost towns, long after the sane had fled.
She started to lose it. A mess. Her life was a mess. Being a loser was one thing, screwing up a
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