Patterson’s radio crackled, the warm, soothing voice of the dispatcher muffled by static in the remote location. “A snowplow operator says he saw the boy on the side of the east-bound lanes a quarter mile beyond mile marker three. White male, approximately twelve years old, five-foot-two, one hundred pounds, shaggy dark hair, flannel shirt, blue jeans.”
The trooper and deputy exchanged glances as Patterson picked up his microphone. “Do they have him?”
“Negative. He scrambled under the guardrail, toward the river. They looked for him. Couldn’t locate but marked the exact spot with an orange cone.”
“Bunch of orange cones in the gorge, dispatch.” Construction repairs were a constant hazard, thanks to the numerous mudslides.
“Yes, but they said they put it on the guardrail support itself. Said it would be obvious.”
“HP Notified?”
“Highway Patrol ETA is thirty minutes. Closest is down near Asheville.”
“Ten-four. Responding.”
As Patterson shifted his vehicle into gear, the trooper called out, “Snowplow operators. Good sighting.”
“Best we’ve had since that trucker.”
“Good luck. Call if you need me.”
With a nod to the Tennessee trooper, Patterson rolled his window up and maneuvered his cruiser through the accumulating snow back onto the deserted highway and reentered North Carolina. He accelerated and pushed the car as hard as he dared around the sharp curves as the chains on his tires clacked against the pavement. He struggled to keep his car between the lane markers disappearing from view in the drifting snow, but he didn’t want to miss the golden opportunity provided by the best lead of the night.
Snowplow operators memorized every curve and pothole from their regular sweeps for snow removal. They knew where ice and snow accumulate, where a dip in the road could catch the blade and twist the steering wheel from the impact. If they said just east of mile marker three, that’s where the boy was. Patterson thought the long, cold night might end on a good note yet.
The deputy’s spirits rose as the mile marker glowed in his headlights, its “3” barely visible under the crusting ice. A few hundred yards later, a reflective orange cone perched atop the guardrail. He scanned the shadows for any movement as his wipers clunked back and forth, shoveling the accumulating powder off the windshield. The boy had to be close.
He slowed the car to a crawl, rubbed his tired eyes, and cursed the lack of visibility. The defroster ran full blast, pumping warm air but struggling to stay ahead of the encroaching haze building on the inside of the glass. The wipers fought against the accumulating snow outside. He peered along the beam of his headlights and scanned the sides of the road, but the snowflakes swirled in a blinding fury and obscured his view.
He swiveled his bright searchlight and strained to see anything in the dark gloom. The brilliant beam illuminated the edge of the road, but his spirits sank as he continued to see nothing. The blowing snow erased any signs of footprints. The plows had piled snow several feet deep along the edge of the highway, deep enough to hide the giant boulders. They certainly could have hidden the body of a child.