And now her son was lost.
What a homecoming.
Judy didn’t debate long—procrastination simply wasn’t in her nature. She had always been the take-charge type, and at sixty-three she hadn’t slowed down at all. Years earlier, after her husband had died, Judy had taken a job at the library and had raised Taylor by herself, vowing to make it on her own. Not only did she meet the financial obligations of her family, but she did what it usually took two parents to do. She volunteered at his school and acted as room mother every year, but she’d also taken Taylor to ball games and had gone camping with the Scouts. She’d taught him how to cook and clean, she’d taught him how to shoot baskets and hit baseballs. Though those days were behind her, she was busier than ever. For the past dozen years her attention had shifted from raising Taylor to helping the town of Edenton itself, and she participated in every aspect of the community’s life. She wrote her congressman and state legislators regularly and would walk from door to door collecting signatures for various petitions when she didn’t think her voice was being heard. She was a member of the Edenton Historical Society, which raised funds to preserve the old homes in town; she went to every meeting of the town council with an opinion on what should be done. She taught Sunday school at the Episcopal church, cooked for every bake sale, and still worked at the library thirty hours a week. Her schedule didn’t allow her to waste a lot of time, and once she made a decision, she followed it without turning back. Especially if she felt certain she was right.
Though she didn’t know Denise, she was a mother herself and understood fear when children were concerned. Taylor had been in precarious situations his entire life—indeed, he seemed to attract them, even at a young age. Judy knew the little boy must be absolutely terrified—and the mother . . . well, she was probably a basket case. Lord knows I was. She pulled on her raincoat, knowing with absolute certainty that the mother needed all the support she could get.
The prospect of driving in the storm didn’t frighten her; the thought didn’t even enter her mind. A mother and son were in trouble.
Even if Denise Holton didn’t want to see her—or couldn’t because of the injuries—Judy knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep if she didn’t let her know that people in the town cared about what was going on.
Chapter 6
At midnight the flare once again ignited in the evening sky, like the chiming of a clock.
Kyle had been gone for nearly three hours.
Taylor, meanwhile, was nearing the highway and was struck by how bright it seemed compared with the murky recesses he’d just emerged from. He also heard voices for the first time since he’d split up with the others . . . lots of voices, people calling to one another.
Quickening his step, Taylor cleared the last of the trees and saw that more than a dozen extra vehicles had arrived—their headlights blazing with the originals. And there were more people as well. Not only had the other searchers returned, but they were now surrounded by those who’d heard about the search through the town grapevine and had come out to help. Even at a distance Taylor recognized most of them. Craig Sanborn, Rhett Little, Skip Hudson, Mike Cook, Bart Arthur, Mark Shelton . . . six or seven others as well. People who’d defied the storm, people who had to work the following day. People whom Denise had probably never met.
Good people, he couldn’t help but think.
The mood, however, was gloomy. Those who’d been searching were soaking wet, covered with mud and scrapes, exhausted, and dejected. Like Taylor, they’d seen how dark and impenetrable it was out there. As Taylor approached them, they quieted. So did the new arrivals.
Sergeant Huddle turned, his face illuminated by the flashlights. His cheek had a deep, fresh scratch, partially hidden by splattered mud. “So what’s the news? Did you find something?”
Taylor shook his head. “No, but I think I have an idea of which way he headed.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know for sure. It’s just a guess, but I think he was moving to the southeast.”
Like everyone else, Sergeant Huddle knew of Taylor’s reputation for tracking—they’d known each other since they were kids.
“Why?”
“Well, that’s where we found the blanket, for one thing, and if he kept heading that way, the wind would be at his back. I don’t think a little boy would try to fight the wind—I just think he’d go with it. The rain would hurt too much. And I think he’d want to keep the lightning at his back, too. His mother said he was afraid of lightning.”
Sergeant Huddle looked at him skeptically. “That’s not much.”
“No,” Taylor admitted, “it isn’t. But I think it’s our best hope.”
“You don’t think we should continue searching like before? Covering every direction?”
Taylor shook his head. “We’d still be spread too thin—it wouldn’t do any good. You’ve seen what it’s like out there.” He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, collecting his thoughts. He wished Mitch were with him to help make his case—Mitch was good at things like this.
“Look,” he finally went on, “I know it’s just a guess, but I’m willing to bet I’m right. We’ve got, what? More than twenty people now? We could fan out wide and cover everything in that direction.”
Huddle squinted at him doubtfully. “But what if he didn’t go that way? What if you’re wrong? It’s dark out there . . . he could be moving in circles for all we know. He might have holed up somewhere to take shelter. Just because he’s afraid of lightning doesn’t mean he’d know enough to move away from it. He’s only four years old. Besides, we’ve got enough people now to head in different directions.”
Taylor didn’t respond as he considered it. Huddle made sense, perfect sense. But Taylor had learned to trust his instincts. His expression was resolute.
Sergeant Huddle frowned, his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his rain-soaked jacket.
Finally Taylor spoke: “Trust me, Carl.”
“It’s not that easy. A little boy’s life is at stake.”
“I know.”
With that, Sergeant Huddle sighed and turned away. Ultimately it was his call. He was the one officially coordinating the search. It was his report, it was his duty . . . and in the end he would be the one who had to answer for it.
“All right,” he finally said. “We’ll do it your way. I just hope to God you’re right.”
Twelve-thirty now.
Arriving at the hospital, Judy McAden immediately approached the front desk. No stranger to hospital protocol, she asked to see Denise Holton, her niece. The clerk at the front desk didn’t question her—the waiting room was still filled with people—and hurriedly checked the records. Denise Holton, she explained, had been moved to a room upstairs, but visiting hours were over. If she could come back tomorrow morning—
“Can you at least tell me how she’s doing?” Judy interrupted.
The lady shrugged wearily. “It says she was taken in for an X-ray, but that’s all I know. I’m sure more information will be available once things begin to settle down.”
“What time do visiting hours start?”
“Eight o’clock.” The lady was already reaching for another file.
“I see,” Judy said, sounding defeated. Over the clerk’s shoulder, Judy noticed that things seemed even more chaotic than they were in the waiting room. Nurses were moving from room to room, looking harried and overwhelmed.
“Do I have to stop here before I go up to see her? Tomorrow, I mean?”
“No. You can go in the main entrance, around the corner. Just head up to room 217 tomorrow morning and inform the nurses at the station when you get there. They’ll direct you to her room.”
“Thank you.”
Judy stepped away from the desk, and the next person in line moved forward. He was a middle-aged man who smelled strongly of alcohol. His arm was in a makeshift sling.
“What’s taking so long? My arm is killing me.”
The clerk sighed impatiently. “I’m sorry, but as you can see, we’re really busy tonight. The doctor will see you as soon . . .”
Judy made sure that the lady’s attention was still focused on the man at the desk. Then she exited the waiting area through a set of double swinging doors that led directly to the main area of the hospital. From previous visits to the hospital she knew that the elevators were at the end of the corridor.
In a matter of minutes she was sailing past a vacated nurses’ station, heading for room 217.
At the same time Judy was making her way to Denise’s room, the men resumed their search. Twenty-four men in total, with only enough distance between them to allow them to see the neighboring flashlights, they stretched nearly a quarter of a mile wide. Slowly they began moving to the southeast, shining lights everywhere, oblivious of the storm. Within a few minutes the lights from the cars on the highway were swallowed up once more. For the people who’d just arrived, the sudden darkness was a shock, and they wondered how long a young boy could survive out here.
Some of the others, however, were beginning to wonder if they’d even be able to find the body.
Denise was still awake because sleep was simply an impossibility. There was a clock on the wall alongside her bed, and she was staring at it, watching the minutes pass with frightening regularity.
Kyle had been missing for nearly four hours now.
Four hours!
She wanted to do something—anything but lie there so helplessly, useless to Kyle and the searchers. She wanted to be out looking for him, and the fact that she wasn’t was more painful than her injuries. She had to know what was going on. She wanted to take charge. But here, she couldn’t do anything.
Her body had betrayed her. In the past hour the dizziness had abated only slightly. She still couldn’t keep her balance long enough to walk down the hall, let alone participate in the search. Bright lights hurt her eyes, and when the doctor had asked her a few simple questions, she’d seen three images of his face. Now, alone in the room, she hated herself for her weakness. What kind of mother was she?
She couldn’t even look for her own child!
She’d broken down completely at midnight—Kyle had been gone for three hours—when she realized she wouldn’t be able to leave the hospital. She’d begun to scream Kyle’s name over and over, as soon as the X-ray had been completed. It was a strange relief to just let go, to scream his name at the top of her lungs. In her mind, Kyle could hear her, and she was willing him to listen to her voice. Come back, Kyle. Come back to where Mommy was. You can hear me, can’t you? It didn’t matter that two nurses were telling her to be quiet, to calm down, while she struggled violently against their grip. Just relax, they said, everything’s going to be okay.
But she couldn’t stop. She just kept screaming his name and fighting them until they’d finally brought her here. By then she’d screamed herself out and the screaming had turned into sobs. A nurse had stayed with her for a few minutes to make sure she’d be okay, then had to respond to an emergency call in another room. Since then Denise had been alone.
She stared at the second hand of the bedside clock.
Tick.
No one knew what was going on. Before she’d been called away, Denise had asked the nurse to call the police to find out what was happening. She’d begged her, but the nurse had gently refused. Instead she’d said that as soon as they heard anything, they would let her know. Until then the best thing she could do was to calm down, to relax.
Relax.
Were they crazy?
He was still out there, and Denise knew he was still alive. He had to be. If Kyle was dead, she would know it. She would feel it deep down, and the feeling would be tangible, like getting hit in the stomach. Maybe they had a special connection, maybe all mothers shared it with their children. Maybe it was because Kyle couldn’t talk and she had to rely on instinct when dealing with him. She wasn’t exactly sure. But in her heart she believed she would know, and so far her heart had been silent.
Kyle was still alive.
He had to be. . . .
Oh please, God, let him be.
Tick.
Judy McAden didn’t knock. Instead she opened the door slightly, noticing the overhead light was off. A small lamp glowed dimly in the corner of the room as Judy quietly made her way inside. She couldn’t tell whether Denise was asleep or not but didn’t want to wake her if she was. As Judy was closing the door, Denise turned her head groggily and peered at her.
Even in the semidarkness, when Judy turned and saw Denise lying in the bed, she froze. It was one of the few times in her life that she didn’t know what to say.
She knew Denise Holton.
Immediately—despite the bandage around her head, despite the bruises on her cheek, despite everything—Judy recognized Denise as the young woman who used the computers at the library. The one with the cute little boy who liked the books about airplanes. . . .
Oh, no . . . the cute little boy . . .
Denise, however, didn’t make the connection as she squinted at the lady standing before her. Her thoughts were still hazy. Nurse? No—not dressed right. The police? No, too old. But her face seemed familiar somehow. . . .
“Do I know you?” she finally croaked out.
Judy, finally gathering her senses, started toward the bed. She spoke softly.
“Sort of. I’ve seen you in the library before. I work there.”
Denise’s eyes were half-open. The library? The room began to spin again.
“What are you doing here?” Her words came out slurred, the sounds running together.
What, indeed? Judy couldn’t help but think.
She adjusted her purse strap nervously. “I heard about your son getting lost. My son is one of the ones out there looking for him right now.”