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Authors: Steven F. Havill
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youngster’s family?” Estelle asked.
“That’s what I wanted to talk with you about, off the air,” Holman said, and I nodded with satisfaction. During his first years as sheriff, he was so enamored with the damn radio that he forgot that half of the county was listening at any given time. Now he’d swung the other way, so tongue-tied that he preferred to relay messages in person whenever he got the chance.
“Both the mother and her boyfriend are up at the site. The mother—”
“That’s Tiffany Cole?” I asked.
Holman nodded. “And her boyfriend is a guy named Andy Browers. I don’t know him, but Torrez says he works for the electric company. And I gotta tell you, Ms. Cole is a basketcase. I don’t think she’s gotten any sleep in the last forty-eight hours. One of the nurses who works with Search and Rescue is trying to keep her quiet, so maybe she’ll drift off for a while.”
“And the boyfriend?”
“He’s about to drop himself, but he wants to be out there, looking under every rock. I put Deputy Pasquale with him. That should keep him busy.”
“What about the boy’s real father? Have we heard from him?”
Holman shook his head. “We know the father’s name is Paul Cole. He and the mother have been divorced for almost three years—since shortly after the child was born.”
“And where is he?”
“He’s a coach up in the northern part of the state somewhere. Bernalillo, I think. Or maybe southern Colorado. I’m not sure.” He ducked his head and looked across the truck at Estelle. “You checked him out, didn’t you?”
Estelle nodded. “He coaches in Bernalillo.”
“Have you talked with him?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t,” Holman said. “You think we should?”
I shrugged. “Depends on what happens in the next day or so, I guess. Someone should have called him in any case.”
“I guess I assumed Tiffany Cole would take care of that,” Holman said.
“She might,” I said. “When she can think straight.”
“Well, anyway, Sergeant Torrez said you were headed up this way, and that he thought you had Francisco with you.” He nodded toward the sober-faced Francis. Holman’s accent made the little boy’s name sound like someone from Cleveland running the California city’s name through his nose. “I wanted to intercept you before you wheeled in. If mama catches sight of him, she’s going to go ballistic.”
“Then do us a favor,” Estelle said. “Take Mrs. Cole down to the SAR headquarters and get her involved looking at maps or something. Or sleeping. We’ll be at the campsite for about fifteen minutes.”
“Doing what?” Holman frowned.
“I’m not quite sure yet,” Estelle replied.
“Not a return of Tom Sawyer , I hope,” the sheriff said, and when he saw the puzzled look on my face, he added, “Remember the missing marble? Wasn’t that what it was? A marble? A cat’s-eye?”
I looked askance at Holman, who pushed himself away from the Blazer’s door and straightened up. “See, now you should read some of the classics, Bill. Tom Sawyer and his buddies lose a marble, and Tom’s heard this old wives’ tale about how they should throw another one after it, saying, ‘Brother, go find your brother.’ The idea is that the second one will land next to the first, and you’ll find ’em both.”
“Did it work in the book?” I asked.
“I don’t remember,” Holman said.
“It took three tries,” Camille said quietly from the back.
“We’re not sending Francis out to look for another three-year-old, Sheriff,” I said, and he nodded. He still glanced at Estelle again, ever hopeful that she’d tell him what was on her mind.
Chapter 9
Yellow marker tape was grotesquely attractive mingled with the deep browns and greens of evergreen trees, with the plastic snarled in the mistletoe-stunted limb wood and looping from trunk to trunk.
The camper had long since been moved, but one of the deputies had strung the plastic tape so that the
“That’s what I wanted to talk with you about, off the air,” Holman said, and I nodded with satisfaction. During his first years as sheriff, he was so enamored with the damn radio that he forgot that half of the county was listening at any given time. Now he’d swung the other way, so tongue-tied that he preferred to relay messages in person whenever he got the chance.
“Both the mother and her boyfriend are up at the site. The mother—”
“That’s Tiffany Cole?” I asked.
Holman nodded. “And her boyfriend is a guy named Andy Browers. I don’t know him, but Torrez says he works for the electric company. And I gotta tell you, Ms. Cole is a basketcase. I don’t think she’s gotten any sleep in the last forty-eight hours. One of the nurses who works with Search and Rescue is trying to keep her quiet, so maybe she’ll drift off for a while.”
“And the boyfriend?”
“He’s about to drop himself, but he wants to be out there, looking under every rock. I put Deputy Pasquale with him. That should keep him busy.”
“What about the boy’s real father? Have we heard from him?”
Holman shook his head. “We know the father’s name is Paul Cole. He and the mother have been divorced for almost three years—since shortly after the child was born.”
“And where is he?”
“He’s a coach up in the northern part of the state somewhere. Bernalillo, I think. Or maybe southern Colorado. I’m not sure.” He ducked his head and looked across the truck at Estelle. “You checked him out, didn’t you?”
Estelle nodded. “He coaches in Bernalillo.”
“Have you talked with him?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t,” Holman said. “You think we should?”
I shrugged. “Depends on what happens in the next day or so, I guess. Someone should have called him in any case.”
“I guess I assumed Tiffany Cole would take care of that,” Holman said.
“She might,” I said. “When she can think straight.”
“Well, anyway, Sergeant Torrez said you were headed up this way, and that he thought you had Francisco with you.” He nodded toward the sober-faced Francis. Holman’s accent made the little boy’s name sound like someone from Cleveland running the California city’s name through his nose. “I wanted to intercept you before you wheeled in. If mama catches sight of him, she’s going to go ballistic.”
“Then do us a favor,” Estelle said. “Take Mrs. Cole down to the SAR headquarters and get her involved looking at maps or something. Or sleeping. We’ll be at the campsite for about fifteen minutes.”
“Doing what?” Holman frowned.
“I’m not quite sure yet,” Estelle replied.
“Not a return of Tom Sawyer , I hope,” the sheriff said, and when he saw the puzzled look on my face, he added, “Remember the missing marble? Wasn’t that what it was? A marble? A cat’s-eye?”
I looked askance at Holman, who pushed himself away from the Blazer’s door and straightened up. “See, now you should read some of the classics, Bill. Tom Sawyer and his buddies lose a marble, and Tom’s heard this old wives’ tale about how they should throw another one after it, saying, ‘Brother, go find your brother.’ The idea is that the second one will land next to the first, and you’ll find ’em both.”
“Did it work in the book?” I asked.
“I don’t remember,” Holman said.
“It took three tries,” Camille said quietly from the back.
“We’re not sending Francis out to look for another three-year-old, Sheriff,” I said, and he nodded. He still glanced at Estelle again, ever hopeful that she’d tell him what was on her mind.
Chapter 9
Yellow marker tape was grotesquely attractive mingled with the deep browns and greens of evergreen trees, with the plastic snarled in the mistletoe-stunted limb wood and looping from trunk to trunk.
The camper had long since been moved, but one of the deputies had strung the plastic tape so that the
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