He was a boy back at summer camp, swinging on a rope out over the lake. He wasn’t ready to let go yet, but he felt his grip slipping, gravity pulling him toward the water in spite of his efforts to cling. Then he heard a loud ringing sound. His eyes flew open, ending the dream. His head jerked up from where it had come to rest on his chest, his neck protesting the sudden movement. He scrambled for the phone before it could ring again.
“Yes?” He hoped the person on the other end couldn’t hear the sleep still in his voice. It was midafternoon, not a time Pete Lancaster should be sleeping.
“Sheriff?” Jane Crutcher, the department’s receptionist, asked. He thought he heard a note of judgment in her voice, but maybe he was projecting his own guilt for falling asleep on the job. He was supposed to be on baby duty while his exhausted wife got some rest. He looked around but saw no sign of his wife, no stirring from his infant son, asleep in the Moses basket next to him in the family room. He’d nodded off, yes. But he was still at his post.
“Yeah.” He stifled a yawn and looked at the baby.
“A call came in that I don’t think I should hand off to a deputy,” Jane said. Pete sat up a little straighter, a little more awake.
“Ok,” he said without taking his eyes off his son.
“A guy called—some business developer out of Arkansas.”
“Uh-huh.” So far this was not a reason to interrupt him on his day off.
“He bought the old Oxendine property. You know, out on Sims Church Road?”
“Yeah.” He was growing annoyed with Jane. He wanted to say, “Just spill it already,” but refrained. Jane believed in setting the stage before starting the action.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “If he’s from Arkansas, you don’t think they’re planning to put a Walmart out there, do you?”
The sheriff couldn’t tell if she was excited or dismayed at the prospect, but he didn’t care. “Jane, why’d he call?” He tried his best to sound kind and gentle. Beside him, his son stirred, a single baby fist jabbing the air.
“Sorry. Got off track. He said he was out walking the property and came upon some old outbuilding. He went inside and, well, it sounds like he found something.” She paused.
“What?”
“A jacket,” she said on a breath. “He knew about the Malcor kid being from here—I mean, who doesn’t?—so he figured he should ask us to come out and have a look at it. You know, just in case it’s something.”
Pete sat and absorbed what she’d said. As he processed, she hurried to add, “It’s probably nothing. I mean, what are the odds that it has anything to do with Davy Malcor’s case?”
Pete didn’t have to think about the answer. “Likely nothing,” he said. “Likely nothing at all.” He took a deep breath and shook his head to dispel the cobwebs of sleep still hanging in his brain. He was exhausted all the time these days. He never should’ve let his young new wife talk him into a kid. His others were nearly grown and he was too old to be starting all this again. He looked down at his sleeping son and thought of Davy Malcor’s parents as he stood.
“Still,” he said, “I better head out there and take a look.”
“I thought that’s what you’d say.” Jane sounded pleased with herself.
“Jane,” he said, using his sternest sheriff voice, “let’s keep this between us till I have a look-see.”
“Ok, Pete. Mum’s the word.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he said and ended the call. He stood still for a moment, taking in what the call could mean, the implications of that jacket—though it was probably not the jacket—being found. If it hadn’t been found by now, it was probably gone, same as Davy. That was the only thing that made good, rational sense. Still, Pete had been in the job long enough to know that a lot of things that happened did not make good, rational sense.
Beside him, his son gave a little squeak, a warning that he would be waking soon, no doubt hungry and angry. Pete stooped down until his eyes were level with the baby and peered at him over the rim of the Moses basket. He pressed his index and middle fingertips to his own lips, then pressed them to his son’s forehead.
Perhaps it was just a goodbye kiss, or perhaps it was a blessing bestowed. Pete didn’t stop long enough to ponder what it was as he turned away to wake his sleeping wife, to tell her he had to go.
* * *
Pete pulled up his truck behind another truck—another Ford F-150, this one newer and shinier than his own. A man wearing dress pants, a dress shirt, and a tie leaned against the other truck but stood straight as Pete got out.
“Sheriff,” the man said, extending his hand. “Thanks for coming.”
“Yeah, sure thing.” Pete accepted the man’s hand and pumped it a few times. He didn’t bother asking his name; he’d find out later if he needed to.
“You found something?” Pete asked, intent on hurrying this along. He’d had strict instructions from his wife not to dillydally if it was nothing. The witching hour would arrive soon, the terrible time of day when the baby cried nonstop and nothing soothed him. If Pete wasn’t there for that without a good excuse, she’d never let him hear the end of it. He had to do his time walking the floor, patting and singing and swaying—anything to stop the crying, if only for a minute.
The man waved toward the expanse of land behind him. “It’s this way,” he said and set off without waiting for Pete. Pete followed, half listening as the man explained that after closing the sale that morning, he’d felt compelled to go out and walk the property, every inch of it.
“I’ve never done that before with a property,” he said. “And then I found that jacket and I thought of an episode of Dateline I watched with the wife a while back—she loves that show. Loves that Keith Morrison.” He looked back at Pete, who nodded even though he didn’t watch Dateline and didn’t care about Keith Morrison.
The man resumed walking and talking. “The episode was about Davy Malcor, about how the case had never been solved, but those parents of his—especially his mother—have never given up. I mean, I’m a parent, too, and I can’t imagine—I just don’t know . . .” He stopped talking as a rusted-out equipment building came into view. Neither of them spoke as they drew closer to the building.
“Once I found it, I tried not to touch anything else. And I called you guys right away.”
Pete studied the man as he spoke. The cop in him wondered about the guy, about his random discovery out in the middle of nowhere after all these years. His hand went to his service revolver, but he hadn’t brought it along. He’d left in such a hurry that he’d forgotten all about it.
“I’d like to go in there alone,” Pete said. He felt for his cell phone in his pocket. At least he had that. But he’d brought it along only because his wife had made him promise to answer if she called. Sometimes he thought his fearless bride was actually afraid of their ten-pound son.
“Oh yeah, of course,” the man said. “I’ll just wait out here.”
Pete eyed him. “You got a business card on you?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he said. The man felt around in his pockets, then held up his hands, looking sheepish. “I’ve got one in the truck. Tell you what, I’ll go get it while you’re looking around in there. I think you’ll see the jacket, no problem. I pulled it out about halfway but dropped it like a hot potato when I realized what it was.”
Pete nodded but said nothing. In his mind he was already inside the little falling-down building coming eye to eye with either a castoff from one of the Oxendine boys from long ago or telltale evidence in one of the biggest missing child cases in America. He feared and welcomed this moment. It was the kind of thing that could make or break a career. It had darn near broken two of his predecessors’, what with the outcry about a botched investigation for the first one, and the defamation lawsuit from the main suspect that cost the town money it hadn’t had for the other one. He didn’t want to think about what this discovery could mean for his own career. Was he prepared for this? No. Did he have a choice but to proceed? Also no. He took a step toward the building, but the man’s voice stopped him.
“I saw that Dateline back then,” he said. “And not long ago I saw a segment on one of those morning shows about that boy’s brother writing a memoir.”
Pete wanted to hurry the guy along, same as he’d had to hurry Jane along on the phone. But he held his tongue.
“I’ve seen that jacket is what I’m saying,” the man continued, “in the photos of that boy wearing it.” He pointed at the old building. “And that’s the jacket that’s in there. It’s dirty, and it’s been in the elements a long time. But I’d bet my life on it.”
Pete nodded as his heart began to thump hard against his ribs.
“I’ll be along directly,” was all he said.
“Ok,” the man replied. “I’ll just be waiting up there by the trucks.” Pete waited until the man was out of sight before he opened the door, the rusty hinges crying out in protest as he entered the building.