Forty-five minutes outside of Rockville, Tony’s car radio picked up Izzy’s voice.
That voice. The lilting tones were more musical than music itself.
“The national weather service has issued a severe thunderstorm warning. That means it’s here, folks. It also means stay put. If you’re out driving, well, you shouldn’t be. Go home. If you’re not near home, find other shelter. The temperature is dropping. This rain may turn into sleet by evening. It looks like you’re stuck with me for the duration because I’m not driving in this. It’s 3:00. There’s a glorious display of God’s power right outside my window. Lightning is dancing across the sky. Unfortunately, all that power knocked out the phone lines. That means you can’t call in and complain—or keep me company. Enough chitchat. Let’s listen to some more music.”
That answered the question of why he couldn’t get through with his cell to the station or her house. At least he knew where she was.
The car hydroplaned. He eased his foot on the accelerator, both hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. This trip was going to take a lot longer than the 45 minutes to Rockville. Valley Oaks was another 30 minutes, the station ten minutes beyond that on a good day. If this storm kept up, he was looking at over two hours.
“The first song we’re going to hear is from Margaret Becker. I’d like to dedicate it to a special friend who recently decided to ‘Just Come In.’ Welcome home, Tony.”
A sensation flowed through him, an overwhelming, indefinable sensation that took his breath away. Did one ever get used to these surprises? Things like this had been happening right and left for over three weeks now. Things like selling the article in spite of its change of focus… The timing of picking up her broadcast… The words she spoke… That song… His world collided with the cosmic on a daily basis.
Thank You, God.
On top of everything, Izzy understood his article. But was it enough to keep her from moving to Mexico?
He didn’t know. That’s why he kept driving through this horrendous thunderstorm, hoping sleet wouldn’t force him off the road. No, not hoping. Praying.
Cal parked at the barn behind the Suttons’ old farmhouse on the edge of town. Neither of their cars were in the drive, but he spared two minutes to bang on their back door. It was locked and nobody answered. Typical Sutton family Saturday. They wouldn’t be home.
He jogged around the barn and hit the grassy waterway that ran through the field. The rain still pelted him. The wind howled across the barren plain. Bits and pieces of cornstalks left behind by the combine swirled in the air. Thick clouds hung low in the sky, darkening the area as if it were evening.
His lungs burned. His legs ached. His side throbbed. He was seriously out of shape.
What hurt worse, though, was this love for a woman and her child. It was indescribably all-consuming. He never would have thought such feeling possible. He had searched for lost children before, but that was a mental process. This tore at his insides. If Chloe were hurt… If Lia was dealt that blow… If Lia left…
He couldn’t think this way. Now he understood why you didn’t get personally involved with a case. Your brain shut down.
But he knew where he was going because he knew how Chloe reasoned. He had been watching her up close now for three weeks.
Her favorite place was also one of his favorites as a kid. This pathway veered down a hill, giving way to a meadow that was never planted. In the middle of the meadow stood a magnificent lone oak. At some point through the years, boys had nailed boards to its trunk, making a crude ladder up to the lowest limb. Cal remembered falling out of it one spring and breaking his arm. Fortunately, it hadn’t interfered with his sixth-grade football season.
The reason the meadow was never planted was because it flooded. When the creek overflowed during heavy downpours, it gushed over its banks, and the meadow became a rushing stream, at times almost a river.
He catapulted himself down the hillside now, the wind whipping away his shouts of “Chloe!”
Squinting as he ran, he took in the scene at a glance. Like some giant cardinal, a red jacket caught his attention through the oak’s brown leaves. Bless Chloe and her favorite color. All runaways should wear red jackets. She wasn’t on the lowest limb. What was she doing? Dark water raced at the base of the tree, surrounding it 20 feet out. At least she was up in the tree.
At least the lightning portion of the storm had moved from the area.
Thank You, God.
He calculated as he raced to the stream’s edge. How low had the creek been? Average. It had been a wet autumn. The meadow was probably saturated when the rain started. When had it started? A few hours ago. Last he heard two inches had fallen. The worst wouldn’t catch up to this area for a while. How had the ground shifted in the years since he’d been here? Ruts? Gullies? He didn’t know.
But he knew he would wade into it.
The ice cold water took his breath away as it rushed up over his boots.
“Chloe!”
“Cal!”
“Stay put! Wait for me!”
His right foot sank into a hole. The water whooshed at his thighs. He pressed on, and then he was out of it.
He reached the tree, grasped a board, and climbed. Reaching the lowest limb, he heaved himself onto it and sat in the crook, his legs dangling. He looked up, panting.
Chloe stood above him, two branches up, hugging the tree. The red hood of her parka was tied tight under her chin. “Cal, Soot won’t come down. Can you get her? She’s up there. See her? You can reach her. You’re tall enough.”
Cal waited to catch his breath before replying. The words “hug” and “strangle” came to mind. Here she was, risking her life and tearing out his heart and Lia’s, worried only about a stupid cat! “Chloe! Soot can take care of herself. We’ve got to get out of here right now, before the water gets any deeper!”
“But she’s scared! Look at her!”
Cal craned his neck. He could easily reach the kitten…if he climbed to where Chloe stood.
Lord, is this what being a dad is all about?