“It has to be,” he said to no one in particular.
Like many of the volunteer firemen’s wives who called into the station that evening, concerned about their husbands on this dangerous night, Judy McAden couldn’t resist calling. Though Taylor was called to the station two or three times a month, as Taylor’s mother she nonetheless found herself worrying about him every time he went out. She hadn’t wanted him to be a fireman and told him so, though she finally stopped pleading with him about it once she realized he’d never change his mind. He was, as his father had been, stubborn.
Still, all evening long she’d felt instinctively that something bad had happened. It wasn’t anything dramatic, and at first she’d tried to dismiss it, but the nagging suspicion persisted, growing stronger as the hours passed. Finally, reluctantly, she’d made the call, almost expecting the worst; instead she’d learned about the little boy-“J. B. Anderson’s great-grandkid”-who was lost in the swamp. Taylor, she was told, was involved in the search. The mother, though, was on the way to the hospital in Elizabeth City.
After hanging up the phone, Judy sat back in her chair, relieved that Taylor was okay but suddenly worried about the child. Like everyone else in Edenton, she’d known the Andersons. But more than that, Judy had also known Denise’s mother when they were both young girls, before Denise’s mother had moved away and married Charles Holton. That had been a long time ago-forty years, at least-and she hadn’t thought about her in years. But now the memories of their youth came rushing back in a collage of images: walking to school together; lazy days by the river, where they talked about boys; cutting the latest fashion pictures out of magazines . . . She also remembered how sad she’d been when she’d learned of her death. She had no idea that her friend’s daughter had moved back to Edenton.
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
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
