friendly thump on the shoulders. The dog leaned heavy against Sammy's leg, angling for a butt scratch.
"Been a long day," Lew said.
Sammy let out a slow breath. His mouth tasted rotten. The searchers had begun the day with a clock ticking away its last hopeful minutes. He'd seen the resignation in their eyes as he ordered them back to the woods for one final, inch-by-inch sweep. They'd been through the woods several times already. A gum wrapper wouldn't have escaped their attention, let alone an eight-year-old boy.
Willy Proost had wandered off from his second-grade field trip three days before. He was wearing a light sweater, protection enough while the sun was out but woefully inadequate after dark. This would be Willy's third night alone in the woods, lost, hungry, dehydrated, and hypothermic.
They'd searched the woods, the town's streets and alleyways, the school grounds, the truck stop, abandoned wells, the ditches along the highway. They'd looked everywhere a boy might be and they hadn't come up with a thing, not one blasted thing.
"I might as well call it off," Sammy said. "We ain't findin' him tonight."
Sammy blew three blasts into his police whistle. He waved his flashlight in a long, slow arc that spoke of resignation. The lights in the mist flashed their acknowledgment. Names were hollered . Distant voices announced, "We're packing it in!"
Sammy jerked the spaniel's collar . He led him back to the lake where the cars were parked. The chief deputy walked alongside, lips pressed tight, jaw clenched while a feeling like death settled into his chest.
"Hard when it's a kid," he said.
Sammy grunted his agreement.
At the cars, the boy's mother, Estherjane—EJ to her friends—moved among the cars like a ghost. She watched the men returning, some shaking their heads, most of them avoiding her gaze altogether. She peered into the darkness, ears keen for the call that refused to come: "He's over here! EJ—here he is!"
Sammy's walk slowed involuntarily. The deputy matched his own gait to Sammy's.
"What're you going to tell his mother?"
"That there's always hope," Sammy said.
"Even when there ain't?"
Sammy didn't answer. He could see, as headlights came on, the silhouettes of men and women loading coolers into cars. He heard the thump of trunk lids closing, the grind of engines, the scratch of tires finding traction in the dirt.
EJ Proost hurried his way. Her face was pinched and anxious, a tragic contortion of fear and sadness and desperate, groundless hope.
Sammy shivered under his leather jacket. He steeled himself as the woman drew near. Of course she was going to ask him about her boy.
* * *
Thunderclouds that had been massing on the horizon since sundown settled over Meddersville during the Evening News. The barometer dropped and the earth released its scents. People commented, "It smells like rain," even before the weatherman came on with his radar screen of green, yellow, and orange Rorschach patches.
Flo stood on the front porch of her house and stared at the setting sun. Lightning flashed . She counted the seconds until the deep rumble of thunder reached her ears. Three, four, five, boom. The farmers to the west would feel it first, then the storm would march into Meddersville proper.
Flo remembered a time , when she was girl living in "the old house" (her childhood home was long gone) when all she would have seen from this spot was wheat fields and windbreaks. The grain elevators came next, then the homey stores along the new Main Street, and more houses. Fields were cleared out and carved into streets. Power lines were woven into crisscross patterns in the air over her head, and suddenly she was awash in the comfort and distraction of a dozen neighbors. She had owned this house once, and still did, technically. But spiritually and emotionally it belonged to her daughter Catherine, whom everyone but her mother called "Cat," and Catherine's two children.
The house was devoid of men. Flo's
"Been a long day," Lew said.
Sammy let out a slow breath. His mouth tasted rotten. The searchers had begun the day with a clock ticking away its last hopeful minutes. He'd seen the resignation in their eyes as he ordered them back to the woods for one final, inch-by-inch sweep. They'd been through the woods several times already. A gum wrapper wouldn't have escaped their attention, let alone an eight-year-old boy.
Willy Proost had wandered off from his second-grade field trip three days before. He was wearing a light sweater, protection enough while the sun was out but woefully inadequate after dark. This would be Willy's third night alone in the woods, lost, hungry, dehydrated, and hypothermic.
They'd searched the woods, the town's streets and alleyways, the school grounds, the truck stop, abandoned wells, the ditches along the highway. They'd looked everywhere a boy might be and they hadn't come up with a thing, not one blasted thing.
"I might as well call it off," Sammy said. "We ain't findin' him tonight."
Sammy blew three blasts into his police whistle. He waved his flashlight in a long, slow arc that spoke of resignation. The lights in the mist flashed their acknowledgment. Names were hollered . Distant voices announced, "We're packing it in!"
Sammy jerked the spaniel's collar . He led him back to the lake where the cars were parked. The chief deputy walked alongside, lips pressed tight, jaw clenched while a feeling like death settled into his chest.
"Hard when it's a kid," he said.
Sammy grunted his agreement.
At the cars, the boy's mother, Estherjane—EJ to her friends—moved among the cars like a ghost. She watched the men returning, some shaking their heads, most of them avoiding her gaze altogether. She peered into the darkness, ears keen for the call that refused to come: "He's over here! EJ—here he is!"
Sammy's walk slowed involuntarily. The deputy matched his own gait to Sammy's.
"What're you going to tell his mother?"
"That there's always hope," Sammy said.
"Even when there ain't?"
Sammy didn't answer. He could see, as headlights came on, the silhouettes of men and women loading coolers into cars. He heard the thump of trunk lids closing, the grind of engines, the scratch of tires finding traction in the dirt.
EJ Proost hurried his way. Her face was pinched and anxious, a tragic contortion of fear and sadness and desperate, groundless hope.
Sammy shivered under his leather jacket. He steeled himself as the woman drew near. Of course she was going to ask him about her boy.
* * *
Thunderclouds that had been massing on the horizon since sundown settled over Meddersville during the Evening News. The barometer dropped and the earth released its scents. People commented, "It smells like rain," even before the weatherman came on with his radar screen of green, yellow, and orange Rorschach patches.
Flo stood on the front porch of her house and stared at the setting sun. Lightning flashed . She counted the seconds until the deep rumble of thunder reached her ears. Three, four, five, boom. The farmers to the west would feel it first, then the storm would march into Meddersville proper.
Flo remembered a time , when she was girl living in "the old house" (her childhood home was long gone) when all she would have seen from this spot was wheat fields and windbreaks. The grain elevators came next, then the homey stores along the new Main Street, and more houses. Fields were cleared out and carved into streets. Power lines were woven into crisscross patterns in the air over her head, and suddenly she was awash in the comfort and distraction of a dozen neighbors. She had owned this house once, and still did, technically. But spiritually and emotionally it belonged to her daughter Catherine, whom everyone but her mother called "Cat," and Catherine's two children.
The house was devoid of men. Flo's
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