“No problem.” Cassie smiled. She knew and I knew that this was part of the me-editor-you-assistant game we played. Cassie could easily do the whole edition without me.
“How was the council meeting?” she asked. “Let me guess, ‘Nothin’ says Christmas like colored lights,’ and ‘We'll deal with it the usual way, ya-dee-ya-dee-ya-da.’”
I grinned. “That was about it. Except Marvin Bum-baugh's daughter is saving Christmas by lending her baby doll for the manger scene.”
“I'll write it up with a straight face,” Cassie promised.
“Cassie, do you think it's possible that there could be a connection between Kevin's disappearance and the dead child?”
She appeared taken aback. “A connection? Why do you ask?”
I shook my head. “I really don't know. Praxythea suggested it. I don't suppose there was any mystery around Eddie's disappearance, was there?”
Cassie looked through her folder. “Not that I can tell from the clippings in here. Apparently, he went out to play alone and didn't come back.”
Like Kevin Poffenberger, I thought. No, not exactly, for Kevin hadn't been playing alone. His cousins had been with him. I needed to talk to them again.
“Okay, then,” I said, standing. “If you'll take care of writing the council report and the quarry discovery, I'll go up to the mountain and see how the search is going.”
CHAPTER 6
AS I DROVE TOWARD THE MOUNTAINS, I thought of how I'd seriously underestimated the work required to put out a weekly newspaper. I'd thought it would be a snap, leaving me with plenty of free time to finish up my second novel. Instead, I seemed to be working twenty-two-hour days and was never caught up with anything. I hadn't even looked at my half-finished manuscript in two months.
P. J. Mullins never worked that hard-I'd been told that often enough-and I was well aware of that fact. She'd earned new respect from me, and I couldn't wait until she was well enough to come back and take over again.
There were times, when I was snowed under at the
The Iron Ore Road was still clogged with vehicles, but the parking situation at the crossroads was now better organized. A man in his youthful eighties, wearing a Day-Glo orange vest with black letters that said FIRE POLICE on the front, directed me to an empty place in the field. There were few media vehicles visible. I assumed they'd moved on to the latest tragedy du jour.
Walking was treacherous; the depth of the plowed furrows was hidden by the light dusting of snow. Wary of twisting an ankle, I slowly made my way to the area where the headquarters tent had been set up. I didn't recognize any of the women at the coffee and doughnut table, although one of them waved at me, which made me feel good.
Since Luscious was back in the borough, I wasn't sure whom I'd find inside the tent. The freckle-faced youngster in a Lickin Creek police uniform, studying a map, had to be the force's latest part-timer. One of a nonstop parade of recent graduates of the nearby junior college's criminal justice program. Once they had a little experience under their police belts, they moved on to “real” jobs elsewhere.
He recognized me immediately. “Hi, Tori. I've been looking forward to meeting you. My name's Afton Finkey.” He extended his hand, which I shook.
I thought I'd grown accustomed to the odd names Lickin Creekers gave to their defenseless children, but Afton was a new one. I couldn't resist commenting, “I don't think I've ever met an Afton before.”
“Thank you,” he said, with a smile that revealed braces. “My mother heard the song ‘Flow Gently, Sweet Afton’ while she was carrying me and thought it would make a nice name. I really am glad you're here to help us, Tori. Luscious says he wouldn't know what to do without you.”
All I could think was: Now I've got two Lickin Creek policemen to play nursemaid to. However, after talking to Afton for a few minutes, I realized Luscious had left a competent person in charge.
Unfortunately, there was still no sign of the missing child. More volunteers had arrived from all over the tri- state area, and Afton told me he was expanding the search area.
“Trouble is,” Afton said as he showed me the enlarged area on the map, “a little kid like that could be easy to miss. If he fell into a cave, and there's lots of them out there, or got knocked out, he wouldn't hear us calling for him.”
“What do you think his chances of survival are?” I asked.
“Pretty good, if he's conscious. The temperature's stayed above freezing. And he's a mountain boy; he should know how to take care of himself-for awhile anyway.”
A cellular phone rang, and Afton picked it up. His boyish face turned grim as he listened. After a few moments, he disconnected, snatched up his coat, and jammed his arms into the sleeves.
“Gotta get up to the Poffenbergers',” he said.
“What's wrong?” I asked, trailing him outside.
“The kids-seems they've changed their story.” His long legs had already carried him halfway across the field.
“Wait for me,” I said, trying to keep up with him.
I drove behind the cruiser, as fast as I dared, to the Iron Ore Mansions Trailer Park. At the entrance to the park, I groaned, “Oh, no.” Just inside the gate, media vans lined both sides of the narrow street. I saw television crews from as far away as Baltimore and the District of Columbia, as well as many from the tristate area of Pennsylvania, Maryland, and West Virginia. What had happened? I parked and leaped from the truck, fearing the worst.
Mr. Poffenberger, dressed in an ill-fitting blue suit, was standing in front of his trailer, talking to a female reporter who looked vaguely familiar to me.
Several people stared at me as I approached, as if trying to decide whether or not I was worthy of being interviewed. Most decided, correctly, I was not worth bothering with, but one young reporter, who must have been desperate, thrust a microphone in my face. “Would you care to make a statement?”
I brushed him aside with practiced scorn-I hadn't been in the news business for ten years for nothing-and he backed away.
Through the open door, I saw Afton standing in the living room with his back to me, so I squeezed past Kevin's father and went inside. Mrs. Poffenberger sat on the sofa, nursing her yellow-bundled baby. Her hair hadn't been combed today, and her puffy nose was nearly as red as the drooping Christmas poinsettia on the coffee table.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
Her eyes opened wide, as though she were surprised someone would care how she felt. “Uh-huh. They told me in the emergency room it weren't Kevin in the quarry.” She wiped her nose with the milk-stained diaper that was draped over her shoulder.
“You should have stayed in the hospital,” I said.
“Yeah, sure. You going to pay the bill? 'Scuse me. The baby needs changed.” She left the room with the baby.
“What did the kids say?” I asked Afton.
“Now they're saying a man in a black sports utility vehicle took him.”
