by Ann Tatlock
Both speech and scratching stop in the wake of Meg’s unspoken words. We all know what she had meant to say but couldn’t. Before Digger disappeared.
The sheriff clears his throat. “I see,” he says. “So he hasn’t ever visited at the homes of any of the kids from school?”
I shake my head. An ache is forming at the base of my skull; it tightens when I take a deep breath. “No,” I say. “Not that we know of, anyway.”
“All right. And you don’t believe he’s come into contact with any kid or group of kids who might have talked him into doing something he shouldn’t be doing?”
I shake my head again, harder this time. “No. No, we’re certain of that.”
We are sitting in the living room, Meg and I on the couch, Steve in the wing chair. Sheriff John Fields and his deputy arrived a few minutes ago. They wear their authority like a second badge pinned to their uniforms. Their imposing presence here both comforts me and fills me with dread.
Just as I finish answering the sheriff’s question, Linda returns from upstairs with last year’s school picture of Digger. She hands it to the sheriff, who studies it a moment before handing it to the deputy. Instead of sitting, Linda moves to the archway between the living room and kitchen and simply stands there, as though she wants to be on the periphery of things.
“Tell me about today, then,” the sheriff goes on. “Anything out of the ordinary happen to him today?”
“Out of the ordinary?” Meg echoes.
“He have a fight with anyone, get in trouble for anything? Were you punishing him for anything?”
My eyes wander over to Linda, who is listening with a fist to her mouth.
I hear Meg say, “No, he wasn’t being punished. Nothing happened at all. Donna and Marjorie came over and the kids were playing in the yard, they were getting along all right, having a good time.”
“Linda,” I say quietly, “do you know anything?”
Her eyes widen. She shakes her head. “No, I don’t know anything.”
“Did you fight with Digger today?”
“Fight with him? I wasn’t even around very much. Gail and I went shopping over in Asheville, and then we went to her house to do homework, and then I was eating supper with them when Mom called to say Digger disappeared.”
“All right,” Sheriff Fields says. “What about school then? He had any trouble with the teachers?”
“None at all.” Meg says. “He says he likes his teachers, and he’s happy at school. We certainly haven’t gotten any reports from the school that he’s been in trouble.”
The sheriff gazes at both of us for a long moment. The house becomes so quiet I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. Finally, Sheriff Fields asks, “Has your son ever run away before?”
Meg gasps. Color creeps up her neck and fans out over her cheeks. I feel my own jaw tighten. By now the ache has climbed to my brow and has fastened itself there like a vise.
“Digger’s never run away,” she tells the sheriff. “He’s a good boy.”
The sheriff’s eyes shift from Meg to me. He’s waiting for me to respond as well. The deputy’s pencil is poised to write.
“There’s no question about him running away,” I say firmly. “He didn’t. He had no reason to.”
“So the boy was happy here at home?”
“Of course!” Meg’s hands clench into fists in her lap. I long to put my hand over hers to comfort her, but I don’t dare.
The sheriff looks at me, and I nod my agreement. Digger was perhaps the one happy person in this house.
“Listen, John,” Steve interjects. He leans forward in the chair where he’s been sitting quietly till now. “I know my nephew. We’re not dealing with a runaway here.”
The sheriff takes a deep breath. “I know how you all feel. I have a boy myself, right about your son’s age. I know this isn’t easy, but there are certain things I have to ask.” He pauses long enough to cough and clear his throat again. “What was your son wearing when he disappeared?”
Meg puts a hand to her forehead. “Um, a striped shirt—”
“What color?”
“White and green. A white and green shirt and brown shorts. Blue sneakers.”
“Socks?”
“Yes, white socks. And a clover chain necklace.”
“A clover chain necklace?” Two deep lines form between the sheriff’s brows.
“His cousin Marjorie made it for him.”
“I see.”
I know what the sheriff is thinking. Why would Meg mention such a necklace? It won’t last long.
As though she hears the unspoken question, Meg says, “Maybe you’ll find the necklace somewhere. That way you’ll know he was there.”
The sheriff nods. “Any identifying marks? Scars? Birthmarks?”
I think a minute. I almost mention Digger’s loose tooth, but that won’t last long either. It was almost ready to fall out. My heart clenches with the fear that it will never go under his pillow to be exchanged for a nickel.
Meg is slowly shaking her head. “No, no scars to speak of. And no birthmarks.”
We sit quietly a moment, waiting for the deputy’s pencil to catch up. A lift of the young man’s brows tells us he’s almost there.
But I’m unwilling to wait any longer. “I searched the mountain behind our house,” I tell the sheriff, “and Steve walked the road to the bottom of the mountain. We turned up nothing. How soon can you send your men out?”
Sheriff Fields looks apologetic, but his voice is firm. “We can’t do anything for twenty-four to seventy-two hours,” he says.
I am stunned. “B-but why not?” I stutter.
“I’m afraid that’s the way the law works, Mr. Crane. Problem is, at this point, we have nothing to go on. We don’t even know yet whether we have a crime or a missing person.”
“What do you mean, Sheriff?”
“Well, he could be missing because he’s gotten himself lost out in the woods somewhere. Now I don’t like to think of these things, but he may have gotten himself caught in a bear trap. He may have been captured by a bear or some other wild animal. If it’s a scenario like that, we’re not talking crime. On the other hand, Digger may have been abducted. Someone may have taken him.”
“But,” Meg cries, “that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Wherever he is, surely he needs our help now!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sheriff Fields agrees politely. “And that’s why I’d encourage you to call around. Call anyone in town who might know anything at all of his whereabouts. But like I said, the soonest I can put out an APB is twenty-four hours. Without a scrap of evidence, there’s nothing I can do before that. Right now we can’t rule out the possibility the boy will come home on his own.”
The thought of waiting is like a kick in the gut, knocking the breath out of me. Finally I manage to ask, “What kind of evidence are you looking for?”
“Signs of a struggle. Any clue that a stranger might have taken him. Anything at all.”
Megs says, “He was in the backyard, and then he was gone. There weren’t any signs of a struggle. I didn’t even hear Digger scream. How could anyone have taken Digger without me hearing them?”
The sheriff sighs heavily, as though he’s wearied by our questions. “That’s why I’m thinking the boy wandered off somewhere. And the most likely scenario is that he’ll wander back home. Still, we can’t rule out abduction. It’s unlikely but still possible that someone kidnapped your son.”
“But why? Why would anyone kidnap our son?”
“Could be a couple of reasons.” The sheriff looks down at his hands. I have a feeling I don’t want to hear what he’s about to say. “It may be someone looking for money, wanting you to pay a ransom to get the boy back.”
“A ransom?” I ask. “Why would they choose us?” I wave a hand at the room as though to say, We obviously don’t have any money. “Don’t kidnappers usually take the children of wealthy parents?”
“Sometimes. Not always. Th
ere may be a misperception as to how much money you have.”
“All right,” I say slowly. “If that’s the case, how soon can we expect a ransom note?”
“Well now, I can’t say exactly, but it’d be soon. A day, maybe two. But if we’re looking at kidnappers here, money isn’t the only reason children are taken. There are some unsavory characters out there who might steal a child for their own satisfaction.”
Steve sits up straight. “Are you talking about child molesters, John?”
“Unfortunately, yes, I am, Steve.”
“Don’t tell me we have any of their kind here in Black Mountain.”
“I’m not saying we do, but I’m not saying we don’t either. Very often the molesters are the people in your own midst, your own neighbors, people you might work with.”
“That may be, John, but I’ve known the folks around here for twenty years, and I’m telling you not one of them is any kind of pervert.”
“I hear you, Steve, but listen, there’s new folks moving in and out of Black Mountain all the time these days. You can never be sure who’s coming in.”
“So you’re saying our son—” I begin, but the sheriff interrupts me.
“I’m not saying anything yet, Mr. Crane. I’m just laying out the possibilities, starting with the most likely scenario and moving on to worst case.”
Steve asks, “When was the last time we had a kidnapping around here?”
Sheriff Fields nods. “Been a long time, I’ll grant you that. It never has happened on my watch. Not a single kidnapping in the past five years, and none I remember hearing of in the decade before that. In fact, I believe—if I’m remembering right—the last kidnapping was more than twenty years ago when a kid was taken by his own father in the midst of a custody battle. He was found living in the lap of luxury on a Floridian estate and didn’t want to come back to Black Mountain after that.” The sheriff looks at his deputy for confirmation. The deputy complies with a quick thrust of his chin.
“That’s right,” the deputy says. “He never did come back up here. Can’t blame him, neither.”
“So chances are slim,” Steve says, “that Digger has been kidnapped.”
“Chances are slim, yes, but it’s a possibility we’ve got to consider. We’ve got to view this thing from every angle, and right now, we can’t dismiss any scenario out of hand, even that of running away. We’ve had plenty of those, kids running off thinking they’ll find a better life somewhere else. Well, we usually find them first, hanging out at a bus station in one of the surrounding towns, trying to drum up enough change for a ticket. They don’t get far.”
“But most of those are probably older kids,” Steve says. “They’re not eight years old, are they?”
“You’re right there, Steve,” the sheriff agrees. “They’re mostly a little older, mostly teens. They’ve had time to decide they don’t want to spend their lives in a little mountain town.”
“So what about getting lost in the mountains?” I ask. “That happen often?”
“It does happen on occasion,” the sheriff admits, “but generally those kids make their own way out or else we eventually find them. Not very many missing children stay missing for long around here.”
I suppose I should take comfort in that, but I don’t. “Okay,” I say, “but our son is out there somewhere, lost, maybe hurt, and you say you can’t go looking for him?”
“Not for twenty-four to seventy-two hours,” he repeats.
My head is pounding now. Meg is crying quietly into a handkerchief that I didn’t know she had. Steve must have handed it to her. Linda is still standing in the archway, hand still over her mouth.
“Sheriff Fields?” I say.
“Yes, Mr. Crane?”
I lift a hand to my head in a useless bid to stop the pounding. “Where do you think our son is?”
The sheriff sniffs, rubs his hands together, and says, “We might do better for me to ask that of you, sir. Where do you think your son is?”
I look at him, mouth agape, my mind knocked senseless by the absurdity of his question. Finally, I manage to mutter, “If we had any idea at all, Sheriff Fields, we wouldn’t be here. We’d be there with our son bringing him home.”
The deputy’s pencil stops scratching. The room falls silent.
I think my skull and heart both will burst wide open for the pain.
41
Meg
Sunday, September 8, 1968
NO SLEEP LAST night, and now at 5:30 in the morning—while it is yet dark—the yard is full of men from the town, some of whom we know, many of whom we don’t. They have half a dozen dogs with them, all bloodhounds. The men have volunteered to form teams and search for Digger. If the law won’t do it, they told us, then they will. Steve spearheaded the whole effort. He told one man who told someone else who told someone else until a couple dozen men showed up in a caravan of cars and pickup trucks.
Their wives came with armloads of food. We are feeding the men before they head out. We will be here when they come back. We have everything from sandwiches to potato salad to donuts to huge thermoses filled with hot coffee. I am in the kitchen, helping distribute the food. Donna is here too. And Linda. We avoid eye contact as much as possible. If our eyes meet, we will break down. We must go through the motions as though our hearts are stone.
The men are mingling in small groups while eating from paper plates. They look solemn as they talk together, nodding, strategizing. The dogs are leashed in the beds of the pick-up trucks, anxious to go. Donna is spreading mayonnaise on slices of white bread while I pour endless cups of coffee. Linda is scooping out potato salad. A number of women are chopping vegetables for the stew we’ll serve the men later in the day, when they return from the search. Digger’s third-grade teacher, Miss Purcell, is here making a chocolate cake. When she asked what Digger’s favorite dessert is, I handed her a box mix and she got to work, saying, “I’ll have it ready for when he comes home.”
The mayor of Black Mountain, a man everybody simply calls Big Joe, seems to be the one in charge. Even now, he’s waving an arm, calling the men together. They gather round him in a circle, still chewing, still sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. They listen intently, nod, exchange glances. Their voices carry in from the yard, muffled voices that speak of places unknown to me, places where they will search for my son. A small seed of gratitude takes root in my heart. While the police must wait for the proper number of hours to pass, these men give up their day to search for a missing child most of them have never met.
Through the window, I see Sheldon break away from the group. He steps into the kitchen and gently lays a hand on my shoulder. “We need some of Digger’s clothes,” he says.
“His clothes?”
“Yes, not clean clothes. We need pants, socks, underwear, anything with Digger’s scent on it. For the dogs. You haven’t done the wash since yesterday, have you?”
I shake my head and say, “I’ll bring you something.”
He nods his thanks and returns to the men. I go upstairs to Digger’s room where I find what I’m looking for on the floor of his closet. I am on my knees, gathering shirts and underwear, when I surprise even myself by clutching the dirty clothes to my chest.
Oh, Digger. How can this be happening?
I wonder whether he’ll ever wear these clothes again. The tears come as my arms ache to hold not his clothes but him.
But I can’t stay here. The men are waiting. It’s time for them to go.
I carry the clothes out to the backyard. Someone has brought one of the hounds around. It’s explained that this dog will go with a group up into our own mountain behind the house. Other groups will spread out, covering areas around the perimeter of the town.
I give the clothes to Sheldon, who passes them around. One man holds a shirt to the nose of the bloodhound. The hound sniffs and becomes ecstatic, tugging on his leash. Three men follow him across our yard and into the woods.
Big Joe looks at me
and says, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Crane. We’re going to find your son and bring him home.”
I can’t respond. I have no breath. The mayor nods his understanding and leads the rest of the men around the house to the waiting vehicles.
“We’ll be back soon,” Sheldon says as he hurries off with them.
I stand motionless, watching them leave. I hear the dogs barking, the engines starting up, the rumbling voices of men as they toss words of advice and instruction to each other.
In another moment, Linda is by my side. “Miss Purcell just put the cake in the oven,” she says quietly. “I hope she has it iced by the time Digger gets home.”
The trucks crunch over the gravel drive and caravan down the side of the mountain. The sound of engines and barking dogs recedes and then the yard is quiet.
Linda takes my arm and leads me back inside. The kitchen is a hive of activity without words. Silent women cook, clean, dry dishes. We must stay busy because our busyness will somehow help bring Digger home. And perhaps the movement of my hands will keep me from losing my mind.
42
Linda
Monday, September 9, 1968
ALL THOSE MEN spent all those hours searching for Digger, and in the end they all came back empty-handed. They spent the whole day yesterday looking and even into the night. One group went back out this morning. None of the bloodhounds even picked up a scent. They didn’t find a single thing of Digger’s, not the cloverleaf necklace, not a shoe … not a body. Nothing. He’s disappeared without a trace.
There hasn’t been a ransom note either. Not in the mail. Not tacked to the front door. No phone calls from strange men, voices distorted by handkerchiefs held over the mouthpiece of the phone. No demands for money in exchange for Digger’s life. Nothing.
Since they say enough time has passed, the police will start their search now. What—better late than never? Bunch of useless jerks. They’re the ones who are supposed to help, but their job or the law or something kept them from doing what the men of the town did. They should have gone out and looked for Digger right away. So now that forty-eight hours have passed they can put out their APBs, but big deal. Too little, too late. It won’t do any good. What can they find that the men and their hounds didn’t find?