A Child Is Missing

by David Stout

  “Raines?”

  “The ballistics tests on Raines’s weapon aren’t final yet, but we’re pretty sure it was him. We interviewed the others who had him in range, and none of them fired the fatal shot. Or so they said.”

  “It would make sense, Raines shooting him.”

  “It’s perfect. Raines kills him, and it’s all legal and kosher. The hermit never gets to tell his story.” Graham paused; Will had never seen him look sadder.

  “Wait, Jerry. If Raines shot the guy legally—I mean, if he thought it was all legal—why didn’t he come forward and say he’d shot him?”

  “Oh, I set a little trap after the hermit was shot, Will. I spread the word it was a deputy who had nailed him—I told you that, remember—and waited to see if Raines would correct me. The kind of man he was, if he’d had nothing to hide, he would have wanted credit for shooting him.”

  They talked for a while longer, agreeing that they’d get together sometime, somewhere just to visit. After Graham said good-bye, Will called the hotel and said he’d be over in a while to settle his bill.

  After hanging up, he remembered that he had left his car behind the burned-out garage. When the panic subsided, he called the Long Creek police and was told that his car had been towed to the department’s lot, where he could pick it up whenever he wanted.

  “Did you find any equipment violations?” Will said.

  “Huh?” The officer seemed nonplussed. “Tell you what, you want us to look for any, we’ll be glad to write up a ticket.”

  “No thanks. Say, if the chief is in, I’d like to come by and see him a little later.”

  “I’ll pass the message.”

  So he did have one last chance, after all. What would he make of it?

  He spotted Heather Casey coming out of the intensive-care unit. “Don’t you ever take a day off?”

  “Oh! Hello. I’m here on overtime, as a matter of fact. How are you feeling?”

  “A little tired and sore, but okay.”

  “So, then, you’ve been given permission to leave.”

  “I told them I was leaving, yes.”

  She smiled at the nuance. “Men. You’re all alike.” She said it as a joke, but the words reminded both of them of what they had talked about, and what he knew about her. He saw it in her face, and he was sure she saw it in his.

  Will remembered how it had been a long, long time ago when he broke up with a girl: Nothing either of them said sounded quite right. “Anyhow,” Will said, “I’m glad I got a chance to say good-bye in person.”

  “I’m just going on a break. Would you like some coffee?”

  Say yes, he told himself. “No thanks. I have a couple of stops to make before heading home. I just wanted to tell you…”

  She waited.

  “…to tell you…”

  Still she waited.

  And he took one of her hands in his, kissed it, and held on. “To tell you what a lovely person you are. What a lovely woman.”

  There was no mistaking the sadness behind her smile, or that it was a farewell. “Have a good life, Will.”

  He gave her hand one last squeeze before letting go. Then he walked to the elevator without looking back.

  The chief’s office had a big window overlooking the parking lot.

  “Hey! Good to see you up and about,” Howe said, standing to shake hands. His smile was friendly.

  “Thanks. I would have gotten here sooner, but I got the slowest cab in town.”

  “Probably the last one,” Howe said, offering a cushioned chair next to the desk.

  “Thanks for retrieving my car.”

  “We won’t even charge for the tow.”

  “That’s nice of you. Especially since I’ve been wrong about so many things.”

  Howe smiled and waved his hand as if to dismiss Will’s concerns. “You a baseball fan, Shafer?”

  “I follow it a little.”

  “Then you know that a great hitter is one who succeeds one out of three times. One in three! If I’m right more than half the time, I think I’m doing good.”

  “I try to remember that myself. Sometimes I think that if I could only put out yesterday’s paper again, I could make it perfect.”

  Howe chuckled. Then Will felt almost faint. He had forgotten all about his newspaper. My God, were the editors in Bessemer expecting him to file a story today for tomorrow’s paper? And what had they done for this day’s paper, with him out of commission?

  “Chief, can I use your phone?”

  Tom Ryan answered. “Will! Great to hear your voice. How are you?”

  “Good, Ry. I know I’ve been out of touch, and I was wondering how you folks made out for today’s paper? And do you want me to do anything for tomorrow?”

  “That’s what I call dedication, Will.” Ryan affected a good-natured tone, but it didn’t fly. Then he told him the Gazette had run a wire-service story on the shooting of Raines for the first edition, followed by a staff-written article for later editions.

  Will waited; he knew from Ryan’s voice that there was more to come.

  “Will, we sort of, you know, downplayed your being there and all. We thought, or the publisher did, that we should be careful about becoming part of the news ourselves, if you get my drift.”

  “I get your drift.”

  “Same thing for tomorrow’s paper, Will. We figured we’d … we’d do a staff piece from here, using the wires and whatever we can get by phone.”

  “Sounds good, Ry. You don’t need anything from me, then?”

  “I guess we’re all set, Will. Maybe you can start thinking about writing a piece for this Sunday. Sort of a wrap-up, putting it all in perspective.”

  “Sure, Ry.” He hung up before Ryan could change his mind.

  “Everything under control?” Howe said.

  “If it isn’t, I don’t care.”

  “That’s the spirit. Say, I have a present for you.”

  Howe opened a desk drawer and took out a metal shaving mounted on a block; it was just like the one Will had seen on the station desk.

  “You don’t have to use it as a paperweight,” Howe said. “It can be an effective weapon.”

  “I know just what to do with it.” What he would do would be to leave it in his office. He didn’t think Karen would like it.

  “My brother, he made a bunch of these,” Howe said. “Just before he shipped out.”

  “Shipped out?”

  “To Vietnam.”

  “So he joined the force right after he got back?”

  The chief looked surprised for a moment. “Oh, no. Different brother. The one who went to Nam was Billie. Bubba, we called him, ’cause he was the baby of the family. Yep.”

  The chief paused, cleared his throat, and went on. “Hell, I remember when we saw him off. He says to us, ‘Want me to bring you a set of Charlie’s ears?’ Charlie meaning Vietcong. And I says to Bubba, ‘Just come back.’ But he didn’t.”

  Will felt ashamed. He had assumed too many things, big and small, and for the wrong reasons—or no reason.

  Howe picked up the shaving, ran a finger lovingly along the curl. “He used to watch for these big shavings to roll off the lathe, Bubba did. Then he’d wait for ’em to cool and fish ’em out of the scrap bin right under the machine. I have a bunch at home. So does my brother. My other brother.”

  For an instant, Howe’s face showed his sadness. The instant passed, and he was all business again. “There’s a couple of things you might be interested in, Shafer.”

  Howe said he’d heard that a woman from Wisconsin had called the hospital to ask whether anyone had claimed Steven Sewell’s body. Told that no one had, she hemmed and hawed, finally saying that she might want to make funeral arrangements.

  “Thing is, Shafer, this guy Sewell didn’t have much of a family even before he became a wood nymph. Then everyone disowned him because of the drug scene and all that.”

  “So who is this woman from Wisconsin?” After Howe told
him, Will said, “I’ll be damned. That’s sort of nice, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I think money’s a problem, though.”

  Will had an idea but said nothing.

  “You know, Shafer, I was only a rookie cop way back then. At the time of that raid, I mean. Sure, I wanted to kick ass, and I didn’t much care for all that long hair and flag-burning stuff, especially with Bubba and all, but I personally never set fire to anyone’s cabin. I mean, I would never go that far, no matter how I felt.”

  “I believe that, Chief.”

  “I just wanted you to know. I was on that raid, but I never struck a match. I couldn’t live with myself if I’d done something like that. Most cops, Shafer, you’d be surprised, they’ve got feelings like anyone else. Most of my people are decent cops. A little rough around the edges, some of them, I admit…”

  “I know you have some good people working for you, Chief.”

  “Damn right. Now this guy Raines, he helped tip himself off. All that crap about how he was gonna join the state police, how he didn’t think the FBI was so hot…” Howe snorted derisively. “It was all bullshit, Shafer. That arrogant bastard. I knew there was something wrong with him as soon as I met him. I just sensed that he was a bullshit artist.”

  Which is more than I can say, Will thought. “Chief, I have to get going. Thanks for everything.”

  “Come see us sometime.”

  “I will.”

  “Shafer, I almost forgot. There’s something else you’ll be interested in.”

  Will was shown into a huge living room, where the fire-place glowed a fierce orange. He stood before it, warming the legs his temperamental car heater had left chilly, and allowed himself to daydream. The living room had enough furniture to fill Will’s entire house.

  “Hello.” Brokaw tossed his windbreaker over a sofa and offered his hand. It was cold, and his face was flushed from the outdoors.

  “I called your office,” Will said. “They told me you were home this afternoon.”

  “It seems like the best possible time to give a lot of attention to Jamie. His mother is coming over later. Just for a low-key kind of visit. What brings you by here?”

  “Oh, I just wanted to wish you luck before—” Will stopped himself before he got too deeply into the lie. “There’s a woman in Wisconsin who wants to claim Steven Sewell’s body and give him a decent burial. She doesn’t have a lot of money.”

  “Who is she?”

  “The younger sister of the woman Sewell lived with years ago. The one who was killed in the fire.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Seems her family was all torn apart back then, first because the older sister was living with this guy and they weren’t married, and they were doing drugs, all of that. Then she got killed. Anyhow, looking back after all this time, realizing that the older sister seemed happy, the family wants to bring Sewell’s body to Wisconsin. To bury him next to his girl-friend.”

  “Can we cut to the chase, Mr. Shafer?”

  “I was hoping you might want to help.”

  Brokaw’s eyes sparkled, then softened. “Provide a good burial for the man who probably saved my son’s life … Done! I’ll see to it right away.”

  “That’s terrific.”

  “I’m paying a debt. I have a lot of debts to pay. Now, I think I’d better bring Jamie inside. The doctors told me to not let him overdo it for a while.”

  “He’s okay, then?”

  “If he was any more okay, I couldn’t handle it.” Brokaw laughed, then seemed to size Will up. “Come see for yourself.”

  Brokaw put his windbreaker back on. Will grabbed his coat and followed him through the huge kitchen, out through an attached garage, through a door to the outside.

  “A beautiful place,” Will said as soon as he saw the rolling snow-covered hills.

  “Thank you. It’s lovely in the summer. I own about a hundred acres. Over to that hill. That pond is mine, too. You can’t see it so well now.”

  Brokaw led him along the side of the house. Even before they got to the back, Will could hear the boy’s laughter. Then they were at the rear of the house, standing on a windswept patio, looking down a long slope toward a small barn a hundred yards away and next to it a fenced area about half the size of a football field.

  Standing just outside the fence and obviously keeping an eye on the boy inside was a parka-clad man whom Will recognized as one of those who had picked him up at the hotel. The man waved at Brokaw, then waved again, to Will, and Will waved back.

  “Just a little while longer,” Brokaw shouted. “Then bring him in. Okay? He’s supposed to take a nap.”

  The man smiled and nodded.

  “I want him to be rested when his mom gets here,” Brokaw said.

  Through the slats of the fence, Will saw the boy. Jamie Brokaw was running (no, waddling like a duck) in a blue parka and leggings, kicking up powdery snow. The pony ran around him in wide circles, tossing its head in delight, its nostrils sending steam into the air. Then Will saw the dog, which barked as it dashed headlong between the pony and the boy.

  “This may sound crazy in view of everything else, but I was so damn happy when the police chief told me about the dog,” Will said.

  “It doesn’t sound crazy,” Brokaw said quietly. “The vet says the dog has a great constitution and should be with us for a while. I love the damn animal, but he’s really Jamie’s dog all the way. Hell, I’d gladly spend ten times what I did. to make the dog better. I owe him something, for God’s sake.”

  As they watched, Jamie Brokaw somersaulted in the snow, then lay still. The big German shepherd, slowed only a little by the bandage around its midsection, pawed at the child, as though trying to turn him over.

  “Jamie!” Brokaw shouted. “Don’t get the puppy too tired now. Remember what the vet said.” Then to Will: “Did I say puppy? The damn thing eats more than the pony does. Jamie calls him a puppy.”

  “Every kid should have a puppy,” Will said.

  “Funny you say that. I’m thinking of getting a puppy. It’d be good for Jamie. Good company for the big dog.”

  “Nice.”

  “Say, I’d appreciate it if your paper wouldn’t write about this. At least until things quiet down.”

  “I understand. Not to worry.”

  It’s the kind of story that writes itself, Will thought. Wounded dog that helped rescue kidnapped boy is adopted by child’s father after being found by farmer and taken to animal shelter.

  “Tell you what,” Will said. “Maybe we can talk to you a month or so from now.”

  “Fine. Or do you just want me to call Lyle Glanford when I’m willing to have a reporter and photographer here?”

  “Frankly,” Will said, “you’re better off dealing with me. The publisher has his good points, but he sometimes confuses things.”

  Brokaw chuckled. Then he said, “You don’t, Shafer. You’re good at sizing up people, at cutting to the chase.”

  Will knew what was coming next.

  “Not everybody has that knack, Shafer—Will. We might have a place for you in our organization. Unless you’re an incurable newspaperman.”

  “I appreciate the flattery, but I’m afraid that’s just what I am. This, all of this, reminded me of that. And right now, I’m going to get going while the weather holds out. I’m happy for you, Mr. Brokaw. Happy for your son, too.”

  Will resolved to phone Jerry Graham as soon as he could and tell him about the hermit’s dog.

  Jamie stood up and brushed the snow off. It was time for Jake the pony to go back to the barn.

  Wolf’s eyes were wild and happy. The dog shook, and snow flew off his fur into Jamie’s face. Jamie laughed, and Wolf made a funny noise like he was laughing, too.

  Jamie knew it was time for his nap. He was getting tired, and he knew his mother was coming to visit later. She would be there when he woke up. He liked going to sleep in his room with the dog next to the bed.

  All rights rese
rved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1993 by David Stout

  Cover design by Michael Slavin

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-6332-9

  This 2014 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.mysteriouspress.com

  www.openroadmedia.com

  EBOOKS BY

  DAVID STOUT

  FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA

  Available wherever ebooks are sold

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.

  Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.

  MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.

  FIND OUT MORE AT

  WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  FOLLOW US:

  @emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom

  MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.