Deputy Jon Patterson slowed his cruiser on Interstate 40, his headlights illuminating the “Welcome to Tennessee” sign through the swirling snow. He followed a pair of snowplows U-turning via a short, paved access road connecting the westbound lanes to the east. The plows, fighting a losing battle against the falling flakes, dropped their blades to the pavement and roared back into North Carolina.
He brought his car to a stop beside a black-and-cream Tennessee highway patrol car facing the other direction in the median. With a tap of the button on his armrest, the driver’s window opened. The trooper balanced a steaming cup of coffee in the glow of his dashboard lights and nodded a hello. “Haven’t seen a Miller County deputy out this far in a long time.”
Patterson couldn’t dispute that. The sheriff’s department had only six deputies patrolling the sprawling mountainous county at any given time. They had little time or reason to venture into its remote northwestern corner when so little of it was under their jurisdiction.
Over two million acres of undeveloped federal lands—the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and the Pisgah and Cherokee National Forests—straddled the state line and fell under the control of the federal park and forest rangers. The two states’ highway patrols handled their respective portion of the interstate winding through the Pigeon River Gorge, which bisected the parks.
Only a few hardy souls lived in the remote wilderness outside of the federal or state lands and were subject to the sheriff department’s jurisdiction—independent-minded people who prided themselves on self-sufficiency. They resented any government interference, particularly from someone wearing a badge and intent on telling them how to live. Little crime happened outside of brewing homemade whiskey, fishing for dinner without a license, or hunting out of season. Violence was unheard of or at least unreported. Disputes were settled without calling the law.
They responded to any reported crime in the remote district, of course, not that any reports were ever made. They also quickly backed up any ranger or trooper requesting assistance, but that was rare. Patterson had never been out there in his year of being a deputy—not even with his training officer. The deputies’ routine patrol time was better spent in the eastern portion of the county, among the smaller tourist towns closer to Asheville.
Off-duty, he joined others coming to the area seeking a great place to hike and camp. Even then, he didn’t encounter the reclusive people who lived there. They wanted to be left alone.
“The roads are a mess down around Asheville. The troopers on our side of the line are swamped with fender benders.” Patterson watched the snow dance in front of his car. “If there is a kid out here…”
The trooper nodded and sipped coffee as he studied the dark road. Few cars traveled that stretch of interstate at two a.m. on a normal night, but the snow had reduced the number to almost none. Without any approaching cars to monitor, the dash-mounted speed detector remained blank. After a long pause, he asked, “Think he’s really out here?”
The soft hiss of falling snow filled the silence of their halting conversation. “Doesn’t make sense. I haven’t seen any sign of him, that’s for sure. I can’t imagine anyone walking down the highway in this weather. If it was someone with a stalled car or who’d been in a wreck, they wouldn’t hide from people offering help.”
The trooper snorted. “Which means if they exist, they are up to no good and don’t want to get caught.”
“How much trouble could a boy”—Patterson glanced at his glowing laptop screen mounted on the dash—“between ten and thirteen years old cause out here?”
A chuckle floated from the highway patrol car. “Bad news. One of our callers said girl.”
“Great. We don’t even know what we are looking for.” The deputy ran his finger down the lists of descriptions received from the various reporting parties. “RPs say between four-and-a-half and five-and-a-half feet tall, with shaggy black, brown, or blond hair. Most say wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, but they can’t even agree if he’s wearing a hat and a coat. And all sorts of conflicting reports of where they saw him”—he paused and looked over at the trooper—“or her…” Getting a smile in return, Patterson continued reading aloud. “…Along a thirty-mile stretch of highway running through the gorge. They can’t even decide if he’s on your side or our side of the state line. Damn needle in a haystack.”
The trooper settled his coffee cup back in its holder. He peered into the darkness surrounding them, stretching his back and shifting his bulletproof vest. “Still, if it’s true, he isn’t going to last long out here. I’ve stopped and checked a dozen drifts, just in case.”
The deputy nodded quietly in agreement. He knew he got the call because he was the least experienced deputy on the shift—no longer classified as a rookie, but barely. Still, he would rather have wasted his time driving up and down the snow-covered interstate than fail to find some poor kid before he froze to death. As hardened as officers became dealing with the tragedies they saw every day, they all shared a soft spot for innocent kids caught up in bad situations. Besides, if he hadn’t been sent out, he would have been handling some drunken domestic disturbance in town.
Thinking out loud more than talking, he mumbled, “Who the hell leaves a little kid alone on a highway? Especially in this weather.”
“Scum.”
The two men sat in their respective cars, warm and comfortable but thinking of how cold and lonely it would be walking these mountainous roads.