By the time Sergeant Hurley left my farm, a full-scale cop alert had gone out. Hurley had taken the kids’ dishes for fingerprinting and some bedding for hair samples. Maybe even DNA if it came to that. “The kids lied and ran away,” Hurley said. “Even without the bullet hole, that’s suspicious. We need to find out who they are.”
I didn’t dare tell him about the shotgun.
I knew the cops would question all my neighbors. And check cars up and down the highway. My heart was in my throat. There was no telling what Robin would do if he was cornered. I was the only person he trusted at all, and that wasn’t saying much. But if I could find him first, there was a small chance I could stop a disaster.
When I was sure there were no cops around, I went into the woods to the hideouts. I hoped Chevy was with them, as she would bark if I got close. No luck. The cave and the shack down by the stream were both empty. It looked like the kids had disappeared.
It was early afternoon when I got back home. Still no Chevy. That’s when I noticed that the goat had been milked and the eggs collected. Some soup was missing from the fridge. Had Robin done all of this while I was at the police station that morning, or had he sneaked back just now, while I was out looking for him?
Even though I was worried, I felt some comfort. The kids might not be far away, and at least they had some food with them.
I got in my truck and headed to my neighbor’s farm about a mile and half away. No, he hadn’t seen anyone, he told me. He hadn’t noticed anything stolen either. A cop had just been by, asking him the same questions.
The next neighbor had almost the same story. Buddy Bourke is too old to do any farming anymore. So he spends his days sitting on his front porch, watching the cars go by. Not much gets by him, but he hadn’t seen the kids.
“My hatchet went missing a couple of weeks ago,” he said. “But more than likely I just left it somewhere out in the bush.”
His wife appeared in the doorway behind him. She is as bent and wrinkled as an old cornstalk. “Left your head out there too,” she said. “But while you’re here, Rick, that old snowmobile by the barn is yours for the taking if you can get it into your truck.”
I could still hear her laughing as I drove off toward the next farm. Everyone knows I have half a dozen snowmobiles in my sheds already. And fourteen lawn mowers, plus washing machines, old fridges and more junk than I can count. I should probably say no more often.
The sun was almost down by the time I finally drove back through the village. I’d had no luck finding the kids. Aunt Penny was closing up. Tractors were returning to their barns. The parking lot of the Lion’s Head was filling up. I’m not really big on beer and company, and I’d already had more conversation that day than I usually have in a week. But if anyone had heard any rumors, it would be the regulars at the Lion’s Head.
The tables were full, and a hockey game was on over the bar. I ordered a half-pint and studied the guys at the nearest table. By themselves, they aren’t too bad. I’ve even done work for some of them. Fixing their snowmobiles, repairing their decks and stuff. But beer and hockey make them stupid. It didn’t take long for the stupidest one, Desroches, to yell at me.
“Hey, Tool! I hear you had a couple of half-wit visitors. Kids from up north?”
I pasted on a smile and joined them. It was going to be tough going against these guys. They already had a table full of empty beer bottles. But I did it for Robin. “They’ve run off,” I said. “The cops are looking for them. The girl’s twenty-two, the boy ten. Any of you see them?”
“Why? They didn’t pay their bill?”
“The girl needs medical attention. She’s been shot.”
Desroches grinned. He was on a roll. “It’s called a gun, Tool. You don’t go pointing it at people.”
“She says a hunter did it.”
That sobered them up a bit. Most of them are hunters, not always legally. “They’re not from around here,” I said. “They talk with accents.”
Jack Ripley leaned forward. Jack is smarter than the others, and he was not as drunk. I had his interest. “French?”
I shook my head. An idea popped into my head as I looked at the TV. “More like a Russian hockey player.”
“But with teeth, I hope,” Jack said.
Laughter all around. Desroches winked. “Pretty girl?”
I shrugged. I never was any good at girl bragging, and all the guys know it.
“You’d notice her,” I said. “She’s got nice blue eyes.”
“Eyes. Oooh.”
The talk got even worse after that, so I drained my half-pint and got up. I was halfway out to my truck when the bar door opened and Jack Ripley came out. Jack has a big dairy farm on the other side of the county, and he’s too busy for serious drinking. He usually just comes for the company and the hockey game.
“Blue eyes?” he said.
I nodded. “Amazing blue eyes. Her brother has them too.”
He squinted into the darkness. “I think I might know her.”
My heart did a cartwheel. “Who is she?”
“You know our deer-hunt camp up in Ossington County? The one me and my brothers go to every fall?”
I know Ossington County. It’s in the area Sergeant Hurley talked about—a rugged backcountry of forests and lakes about thirty miles north. Full of fish and game, but the people are dirt poor. Jack usually brings me a venison roast after the hunt. I’m not a fan of killing wild animals, but I can never say no to the venison roast either.
“I could be wrong,” Jack said, “but she sounds like the camp cook we had the last couple of years. Her name was Donnie. She was skittish as a young colt, hardly spoke a word, hardly even looked you in the eye. But she did have an accent and really blue eyes. And we heard she was the daughter of a local hermit up there.”
“Who?”
Ripley shrugged. “Never knew his name. We made the arrangement through the local store. Everyone just called him the Rooskie.”
Rooskie! Russian. My hopes soared. “Do you know anything else? Where he lives?”
“Sort of. I drove her partway home once. She wouldn’t let me take her all the way. But if you’ve got a map, I can show you the road.”