Cheryl nodded. “My grandson loves her just as much as his mother did.”
“She told the best stories,” Faith murmured. “But what’d she call in for tonight?”
“Same thing she calls in for every week,” Bobby grumbled. He tossed the soaked towel in the small metal wastebasket beside Cheryl’s desk and her array of computers, phones and radios, and missed. “Attention.”
Cheryl leaned over and deposited the trash where it belonged. “Suspected trespasser.” She shrugged a little. “Same complaint she always makes.”
“Did someone check it out?” Faith looked at Bobby.
“We did a drive-by, before the storm settled in after the Coach decided to announce his kid was missing,” he defended. “That old house of hers was quiet as a tomb. There isn’t gonna be any trespassers going anywhere tonight. Not with that white soup coming down out there.”
“And don’t you go thinking you’re going back out in this storm yet, either, Faith.” Cheryl’s voice was firm. She might smooth things over with the chief on Faith’s behalf, but she was drawing a line. “I’ll let you know if anything useful comes in.”
It would have to do. Faith nodded. “Thanks.”
“Been compiling the results of the search areas,” Bobby told her grudgingly. “Copy of the report for you is in the folder on my desk.”
Faith nodded. It was strictly courtesy that had him giving her the report, and she was glad that she hadn’t had to wrangle it out of him. She picked up the folder on her way back to her own work area.
Instead of pacing, Cameron was now sitting by her desk, staring at the faint specks of color in the serviceable tile beneath his squarely planted boots.
She slid into her desk chair and flipped open the folder, scanning the results of the police search. The tension emanating from Cam was palpable.
On the television screen across the room the blurb about the missing boy was being repeated. Erik’s engaging grin gleamed out from the small screen. Then a snowy shot of volunteers searching, including many members of Cameron Stevenson’s own basketball team. The jolting, bouncing video showed them going door-to-door, canvassing the town, before the weather had been deemed too dangerous for anyone’s efforts.
She looked back to see Cameron, his thumb and forefinger digging into his closed eyes.
“Why don’t you try and get some sleep,” she suggested softly.
His lips twisted. “Right.”
Since she wouldn’t be able to sleep in his position either, she dropped it.
The last thing she wanted to do was finish up paperwork, but she forced herself through the motions. The minutes ticked by. Excruciatingly slow.
Please, God, let that boy be somewhere safe and warm.
The knot in her stomach wouldn’t let her find comfort in the silent plea.
Cameron rose again. Paced. Cursed. He moved from the fire department side to the police department side, and in his absence Faith propped her elbows on her desk and raked back her hair, struggling against the worst of the thoughts they’d all been willing Cameron Stevenson not to even think. And when he returned, she had herself once more under control while he paced some more. Made phone calls. Stared hard out the window.
“Is it still snowing?”
“Can’t tell.” He pressed his palm against the wind-rattled windowpane for a moment.
No matter what she did or didn’t think about him, the action broke her heart.
“The sun will be up soon.”
“If it breaks through the clouds.”
“Don’t lose hope, Mr. Stevenson. The sun always comes out eventually.”
His face was tight when he turned and looked at her. “If that’s a metaphor that my son will be found, save it.”
“It’s a simple fact,” she said evenly. “With daylight, we’ll resume the search.”
“How many missing kids have you found?”
“Enough.” And then, because she didn’t want him asking if all of them had been found unharmed, she turned back to her desk and started shuffling papers together. When her telephone rang, she started.
Cam’s dark gaze crawled from the ringing telephone to Faith’s face. She swallowed and lifted the receiver. “Taylor.”
It was Cheryl. But as soon as the dispatcher mentioned that she was calling about Emelda Ross, Faith’s shoulders relaxed. Lowered.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Cameron’s hands curl into fists, then slowly, deliberately relax.
She’d dealt with a lot of families and friends who were concerned when someone they cared about went missing…on a hike, while camping, while rock hunting. Something about Cam’s worry hit her in a spot she tried hard to keep under wraps. What good was a search-and-rescue worker too emotionally wrought to do her job?
She smoothed back her hair. Murmured some excuse and crossed the hall again. Ignored Romano and stuck her head in Cheryl’s office once more.
“What exactly did Miss Emelda say?”
“Listen for yourself.” Cheryl had the recording already queued up. “Think the poor woman is as nervous as a cat with the storm. Weather service said the front is moving out more quickly than they’d expected though. That’s good news.”
Miss Emelda’s voice didn’t sound particularly frail or frightened to Faith. What she sounded was mighty irritated at the lack of attention her first call had received.
When the recording finished, Cheryl just looked at her with a shrug. “Romano wasn’t exaggerating. She calls in every week like clockwork.”
“Where does she live?”
Cheryl leaned over and tapped the large map of Thunder Canyon that was affixed to her wall. “Same place as always. Don’t know why she doesn’t move to one of the newer homes in town considering how many nervous calls she puts in to us. But she’s still in that sprawling old place out past Elk.”
Faith eyed the map. Emelda Ross’s home was located on the western outskirts of town. The only thing further out than her place was the ice rink and Douglas property. Her gaze traced along the road, backtracking toward town. Cheryl hadn’t been given a chance to ask the elderly woman about Erik during the second phone call, because Miss Emelda hadn’t let her get in a word edgewise.
“What did Romano say? About Miss Emelda calling again?”
“I haven’t told him.” Cheryl’s lips pursed. “You know what he’d say. Fact is, though, the whole squad is benched ’cause of the blizzard and this was a non-emergency call. If she were really scared, she’d have better luck complaining of shortness of breath, because we’d dispatch a fire unit out to her, and she knows that.”
Faith fiddled with the sturdy watch she wore, still studying the map. Emelda Ross’s house was barely in the town limits. But as the crow flew, it was definitely within walking distance of The Hall. Question was, whether or not it was walking distance for young Erik. “But I could go out there.”
“If Erik Stevenson somehow found his way from The Hall to Miss Emelda’s place, she would have said so in her call.”
Cheryl was only saying what Faith was already thinking. “Yes. I know.”
“The snowplows haven’t been out yet. The roads are impassible.”
“I’ll take the snowmobile. You can break the news to Romano if you’d like.”
Cheryl’s lips quirked. “My pleasure.” There was little that Cheryl enjoyed more than needling the officer. He barely tolerated Faith’s presence. Cooperated with her only because the Chief would come down on him if he didn’t. But he never liked the notion that Faith and her team accomplished anything that the police didn’t.
Glancing at the big wall map one more time, Faith crossed the hall again and quickly nixed the half-formed notion of asking Cameron if he wanted to go with her.
He was sitting beside her desk again, still as a sigh, his arms folded tightly over his chest.
He was asleep.
She was glad Derek and the other members of Company C were all snoozing, some in the sleeping quarters of the b
uilding, some sprawled on the massive recliners crowded into the station’s recreation room. Because without the fire crew present, she didn’t have to worry about anyone noticing the way her feet dragged to a halt, or her hand pressed hard to her chest for a moment.
There was something wrong with her in that she was somewhat undone by the sight of that tense father finally dozing.
Moving quietly, she keyed in a report of her plans to her team and collected a fresh radio and the keys to one of the snowmobiles that were garaged in a smaller building on the other side of the parking lot. She went back to the locker room and added a pair of thermal underwear beneath her clothes, then bundled up in her coat and gloves again.
Outside, the wind was still blowing, but not quite as severely. And the snow had stopped. Visibility was considerably improved. Still, there was no way she’d be able to maneuver her SUV through the drifts of snow filling the streets. She unlocked the garage housing the small fleet of snowmobiles and other off-road equipment. Minutes later, the whine of the engine filled the odd quiet, and she slowly steered the massive machine out of the lot.
There was no point worrying about the roads, so she went south, then west, cutting across snowy fields and empty lots in a sloppy, loose arc. When she got to Thunder Canyon Road, she dropped down into the ditch that ran alongside it. The headlight gleamed ahead of her in a wide sweep and she opened the throttle.
The powerful cat sped over the thick powder and in minutes she’d made it to Miss Emelda’s ancient home. Tucking her radio in her lapel pocket, she approached the house. Before she’d even reached the steps, the front porch light snapped on and the door creaked open. “Who’s there?”
Faith’s boots crunched to a stop in the snow. “Miss Emelda? It’s Faith Taylor. Cheryl Lansky told me you called in again and I just wanted to come by and make sure you were all right.”
“All right?” The woman pushed the door wider and Faith saw the business end of a shotgun slowly lower, to be enfolded by yards of flower-sprigged flannel and a dark, calf-length coat. “Of course I’m all right. Not that those idiots down at the police station—who can’t find their way out of a paper bag, mind you—care whether or not I am. Well, come on up, girl. You’re probably half-frozen.”
She wasn’t, but she went up the steps anyway, then stomped the snow off her boots before entering. Miss Emelda was locking the shotgun in a glass-fronted gun display. “Should know better than to call the police,” she said when she turned. “Bunch of young pups, thinking I’m just a lonely old woman jumping at shadows.” She waved her hand toward the chintz couch. “Sit down. Sit down.”
Faith reluctantly sat. “Miss Emelda, perhaps you could—”
“Do you still read the classics?” The elderly woman settled herself on a chair with crocheted antimacassars covering the arms. Judging by the ball of thread and long needle on the coffee table, Miss Emelda had crocheted the delicate arm coverings herself.
“I…excuse me?”
“The classics, girl. You were reading Dumas before any other child in your class.”
“The Man in the Iron Mask,” Faith murmured. “I’m surprised you remember that.”
“Of course I remember.” Miss Emelda smiled. “I remember all my children. And now you’re back in Thunder Canyon despite the adventures you set off to find.”
Adventures wasn’t exactly the term Faith would have used to describe her time away from Thunder Canyon. “Well, I remember you talking about a lot of adventures during story hour at the library when I was little. Miss Emelda, what made you think you might have a trespasser out here last night?”
“Dog was going crazy.” She raised her voice. “Dog!” A small Jack Russell terrier trotted into the room. “He doesn’t bark unless someone’s out in the yard.”
Faith held out her hand for the curious dog. He gave her wrist an experimental sniff, then slopped his tongue over her fingers.
“He started barking before I heard your snowmobile,” she said surely.
“Would you mind if I took a look around?”
Miss Emelda looked surprised. “Why would you want to do that? This was a job for the police. Like I told them. Someone wanted to break into my garage out back. My father’s Model T is parked out there, you know. Only reason I called again is because Dog kept whining. I was afraid whoever it was might’ve gotten stuck in my garage from the storm.”
Faith honestly wasn’t certain what sort of market there was for stolen Model Ts, particularly in Thunder Canyon. And Miss Emelda undoubtedly did know better than anyone else whether or not her garage was being broken into. “Do you think it might be possible that it was Erik Stevenson, rather than a trespasser?”
“Erik? Good gracious, why would I think that?”
“He went missing from Katie’s reception last night.”
Miss Emelda pressed her hand to her chest, her delicately wrinkled visage fading. “Well…when? I saw him at The Hall with his daddy. He was as much a live wire as ever. The darling can hardly manage to sit still during story hour on Friday afternoons. Reminds me of your brother, Christopher, actually, when he was that age. Always asking questions. Wanting to know how things work. Such a shame what happened with his mother.”
Now was not the time to indulge Faith’s own insatiable curiosity. “I’d like to look around your property if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Her hands fluttered. “Of course, dear, you do anything you want. Oh, my, that poor boy. I left the reception when the music first started playing. I’m afraid these ears are too old to acquire a taste for anything other than big band. How did I not know?”
“If you haven’t had on your television or radio you wouldn’t have,” Faith murmured. Undoubtedly, Miss Emelda wasn’t the only one. And she could still hold out hope that Erik was snug as a bug in one of those households that hadn’t been reached by the broadcasts, or the door-to-doors.
It was possible.
But unlikely, a worried voice whispered.
Faith headed to the door. Miss Emelda followed after her, her nightgown and coat flapping around her. “He’s so curious,” she fretted.
Faith was gaining a pretty detailed impression of young Erik. “That’s what I hear.” She smiled reassuringly at Miss Emelda as she pulled open the door. “Look. The sky is starting to lighten up already.” It wasn’t entirely an exaggeration. The sky had gone from pitch to a dark, charcoal gray.
“Well, you watch your step anyway,” Miss Emelda called after her. “Particularly if you go out past the windmill at the edge of my property.” She gestured at some distant point beyond her house. “The snow’s likely to cover over any holes in the ground and there are still tunnels out there from the Queen of Hearts mine.”
Faith froze for a moment, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the frigid temperature. “The mine?” How could she have forgotten the Douglas’s defunct gold mine?
“Played out almost before it began.” Illuminated by the lights behind her, Emelda’s white curls looked like a halo. “Folks tend to think the only thing left of it are memories and geegaws over at the museum. But the tunnels are still there. Ground’s eroded in a few places. Some holes are covered over. Some aren’t. So you watch your step.”
Faith nodded. “I’ll be careful. It’s cold. Stay inside.”
Miss Emelda nodded and closed the door, her movements reluctant. Faith returned to the snowmobile and radioed in to Cheryl. Any minute, she knew the first rays of sunlight would start sending experimental fingers over the horizon. But for now, it was still dark. The wind still howled. And the air still smelled of snow.
The snowmobile cut a clean swath through the sea of snow as Faith steered it past Miss Emelda’s house. She directed her powerful searchlight in a slow sweep. Whether Erik had been there or not, the snowstorm had obliterated whatever footprints might have been left behind.
She carefully circled the gabled garage. Tried to pull open the double door. There was a lot of play, but ultimately, the wid
e wooden doors stayed put. Still, she crouched down, peering through the separation. “Erik?”
She heard a soft shuffling and her nerves went into overdrive. She pulled out her penlight and directed the narrow beam of light through the opening, trying to make heads or tails of what she could see. “Erik, are you in there?”
She heard the crunch of snow, then felt a hand fall on her shoulder. She jerked around, tumbling onto her rear. Her penlight rolled out of her fingers and landed end-up in the snow, the narrow light shining up a long, denim-clad leg.
Her heart dropped out of her throat and returned to its usual spot in her chest as recognition settled. “Mr. Stevenson. What are you doing here?” She couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard his truck, which she could see behind him. It looked as if it were half-stuck in the deep snow near the house. She thought about commenting on how dangerous the driving conditions were, but thought better of it.
He crouched down, plucking the penlight from the snow, and handed it to her. “I’m doing the same thing you are. Looking for my son. Cheryl Lansky told me you came out here.” He pulled at the ancient wooden doors, the same way she had. “Erik? Come on, bud, if you’re in there, it’s time to come out.”
But Faith realized that the only sounds she’d thought she’d heard hadn’t come from the inside of the locked garage. They’d come from Cameron Stevenson. “He’s not in there.”
“Erik!”
Cameron pulled harder on the door and it groaned so violently, Faith feared the frozen hinges would pop right out of the wood. She pushed to her feet and closed her gloved hands around his arm. “Mr. Stevenson. Erik is not in the garage!”
Even through the layers of gloves, coats and sweaters, she could feel his muscles bunch. Could feel the resistance in him, the need to believe his son was so close. “We need to keep looking,” she said quietly.
She could feel, more than see, his glare. By slow degrees, his grip on the doors eased. He let go, and the wood all but sighed in relief as the door settled.
“I can’t lose him, too.” His voice was barely audible, yet its rawness tore at her.
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