Part 8 (1/2)

”Someone who knows Tom Boyd says he can have a violent temper,” the sheriff said. ”He's a bodybuilder, right? Maybe some steroid use? Would you say he has a violent temper, Miz Taylor?”

SHERIFF CAREY asked questions for another half hour. She answered them honestly, and could see how the sheriff was building a case against Tom. No, she didn't know he'd been arrested twice for a.s.sault. No, she didn't know Tom's ex-wife had accused him of beating one of his children. How could she not know that, she asked herself. She felt stupid, duped. Again.

”I don't think it was Tom,” she said, finally, after the sheriff stood up and slipped his notebook in his pocket. ”If it was him, wouldn't he have taken his fly rod back? Isn't that the reason you've come up with why he would even try to find my children?”

”I thought of that, too,” Carey said, clamping on his hat. ”But it could be your kids lost it before he got there. Or he just couldn't find it in the dark. We'll have to ask him about that,” he said ominously.

”I just can't believe it,” she said.

Carey stood there, silent, as if he had more to say before he left. She looked up.

”Tom didn't show up for work this morning,” Carey said. ”His supervisor said he didn't call in, either. Tom's not at his house, and no one saw him come home last night. His truck is still missing. He was supposed to turn it in last night, but he didn't.”

”His UPS truck?” she said incredulously.

For the first time, the sheriff almost smiled. ”You'd think we'd find a vehicle that distinctive easy enough, wouldn't you?”

”I just can't ...” She didn't finish, knowing she had said it before.

”I think we'll get this thing wrapped up pretty quickly,” the sheriff said. ”I hope and pray it will be for the best, but we just don't know. We hope like h.e.l.l we can find him and bring your kids back, unharmed.”

She watched him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

”I wish I had more men to work this, Miz Taylor. I've only got four deputies for the whole county. Three of 'em are up there on Sand Creek right now, searching it with a state crime-scene team that arrived this morning. I'm starting to get calls from all over. Newspaper reporters, even some producer from Fox News in Spokane. Missing kids are big news, you know. If we can tie Tom Boyd to your kids, we can issue an Amber Alert, but it doesn't meet that standard yet. I looked it up. The first criterion is that law enforcement must confirm that an abduction has taken place. We don't know it to be true. We can't just go panicking everyone this early.”

”This early?” she said, astonished.

”Miz Taylor, it hasn't even been twenty-four hours. We don't even consider a person missing until then. Not that the newspeople care. I'm stalling them for now, but they're keeping me busy. Luckily, though, I have an ace in the hole.”

”What do you mean?” she asked.

Now, he grinned outright. ”Four experienced, seasoned investigators have volunteered to help us. They showed up this morning and asked what they could do. After I talked with 'em, I gave them the authority to run with it, and already things are happening. We're lucky as h.e.l.l.”

She was confused. ”Who are they?”

”LAPD's finest,” he said. ”Retired cops who've worked dozens of situations like this. They told me they want to serve their new community and keep it safe. Within a couple of hours they helped me establish a command center, and they're the ones who figured out Tom Boyd. We're d.a.m.ned glad to have them here, Miz Taylor.”

She nodded. For the first time, she felt a lift of encouragement.

”I know you want to stay by the phone,” he said, looking around the kitchen. ”I think you should, too. But you need some help around here. Some support. Is there anyone we can call to stay with you?”

She had no relatives nearby, and few friends. Sandy was on a cruise with her husband and family. She thought of Jim Hearne, the banker who had always been kind to her, but knew how improper that would seem.

”That woman, Fiona Pritzle, keeps offering to come stay with me,” Monica said. ”But I don't think I want her help.”

Carey agreed. ”I'll ask one of the volunteer investigators to come over, if you don't mind. We want to cover all the bases. If someone contacts you with a report on your kids, we want to know right away. We want to screen the call. And, if someone has your kids ...”

”I don't mind.”

”His name is Swann. Ex-Sergeant Swann.”

”I know him,” Monica said dully.

”Yes, he told me that. He wanted me to ask you if you minded if it was he.”

She thought of Swann's kind face and manner, his sonorous voice. He had been obscure, though, and so set in his ways. She felt he was always watching her as a cop watched a subject, not the way a man watched a woman.

”It's okay,” she said. ”He's a clean freak. Very organized. He'll probably help me out with all of this.”

The sheriff snorted and reached out his hand.

”We'll do our best to find your kids, Miz Taylor. I'll ask Mr. Swann to bring you something to eat. I'll call the doctor to come by again as well.”

Sat.u.r.day, 10:14 A.M.

SORRY TO KEEP you waiting,” Jim Hearne said to Eduardo Villatoro as he slipped back behind his desk. ”That was a local rancher. A friend of mine. A good man.”

Villatoro settled into the chair the rancher had just used, his briefcase on his knees. He watched as Hearne gathered up a thick file with the name RAWLINS on the tab and put it on the credenza behind him. Digging in his breast pocket for a card, he leaned forward and handed it to Hearne.

Hearne read it, a glimpse of recognition in his clear blue eyes. ”Detective Villatoro of the Arcadia, California, Police Department, now I remember. You called and asked for a meeting a few weeks ago. All the way from Southern California.”

”Thank you for meeting with me. I've retired from the department since then.”

”Congratulations,” Hearne said, his face showing what he was thinking, that the meeting wasn't official after all but of a personal nature. And maybe a waste of Hearne's time.

Hearne said, ”Have you ever been to North Idaho before? We say North Idaho, not northern Idaho, by the way.”

”I see.”

”So, have you ever been here?”

”No.”

”How do you like it so far?”

”It's very green,” Villatoro said, thinking: It's very white.

”Yeah, it's our little piece of heaven,” Hearne said.

Villatoro smiled. ”It's a very pretty place. Very peaceful, it seems.”

Hearne said, ”It usually is. We've got a problem going on this morning, though. You probably saw the poster out there. A couple of local kids are missing.”

Villatoro had observed it all: the women who arrived with the poster, the loud one with the little-girl voice who told everyone in the bank what had happened, the conversation between the loud woman and the rancher who had left Hearne's office.

”I hope the children are okay,” Villatoro said. ”I've been struck by how intimate it all is, how local. It's like the town thinks their children are missing. It warms my heart to witness such an att.i.tude.”

Hearne studied him. Probing for insincerity, Villatoro guessed.

”We do tend to take care of our own,” Hearne said. ”Maybe it's not like that in L.A.?”