As is usually the case, the return journey seemed shorter because I knew where I was going this time and didn’t need to scout for tracks.
I held Lucas’s hand going across the stream again. He pouted and told me he could do it on his own, but I distrusted the footing and grabbed his wrist to steady his balance on the snow-slick rocks. As soon as we were across, he shook me loose and started fiercely up the hill.
Corbett’s cruiser was gone. I checked my pager and cell phone but there were no messages. His unexpected absence unnerved me.
We entered the house through the basement. I wanted to return the rifle to its place above the tool bench, but Lucas hung back, shivering. It wasn’t until I spotted the framed White Owl advertisement that I remembered his strange phobia about the feathered woman. He went leaping up the stairs as soon as I gave him leave to do so.
I followed him up to the bathroom so I could have a look at the scrape on his forehead under the 100-watt lightbulb. I soaked a wad of toilet tissue in hydrogen peroxide and blotted the wound. Lucas squirmed and moaned as if being tortured while the disinfectant bubbled down his brow.
I sat him down on the edge of the bathtub and untied his wet sneakers. His feet were as pale as thin-skinned subterranean animals that lived in total darkness. None of his toes or fingers were blue, which was a healthy sign, but he complained of sharp pain when I tried to massage blood back into the epidermis.
“Ouch! Ouch!”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I don’t like people touching me.”
“This is not the highlight of my evening, either.”
I found dry clothes for him in his bureau and let him change in private. While he was getting dressed, I put a phone call into the Washington County jail and asked to speak to the matron on duty. I waited a long time for one to be fetched, wondering whether Lucas might have something problematic hidden inside his bedroom, a bazooka or crossbow or God only knew what.
“Yeah?” said a woman with a deep voice.
“This is Warden Bowditch,” I said. “I was in there earlier tonight. The sheriff wanted me to speak with Jamie Sewall. Can you give her a message for me?”
“I’m not supposed to do stuff like that.”
“Just tell her I found her son and that he’s safe.”
“I’m not supposed to do stuff like that.”
“Her son ran away. She’s been worrying that he might have fallen through the ice. Imagine if it was your child.”
“I don’t have kids.” She fell silent, and I worried we’d lost the connection, but then she added, “OK. I’ll let her know.”
My next call was to the social worker, Magda Mueller.
“This is Warden Bowditch,” I said. “I wanted to let you know that I found Lucas Sewall.”
“How is he?”
“Cold but otherwise fine, I think. He got a cut on his forehead from running into a tree branch, and his feet showed signs of frostnip, but they seem better now that he’s warmed up a bit.”
“You should take him to the ER as a precautionary measure. How about I meet you at the Calais Regional Hospital?”
The city of Calais, on the Canadian border, was nearly an hour’s drive away. “Why not Machias?”
“The foster family lives in Calais.”
I heard the bedroom door open. When I spoke again into the phone, I dropped my voice. “What’s going to happen to him now?”
“I’ve been trying to reach the father all evening, but there’s been no answer. I have questions about placing the boy with him even temporarily, based on his criminal record, but I’m required to exercise due diligence. Unless I can track down a family member who isn’t incarcerated, Lucas will stay with a foster family until a judge can schedule a hearing. We have seventy-two hours.”
“What if his mother is still in jail at the time of the hearing?” Given the drug charges against her, it didn’t seem likely she’d get out in time.
“I’d rather not speculate on the outcome.”
Lucas emerged from his bedroom, shoulders sagging. He had made a clumsy attempt at combing his own hair. He looked tired and sad and resigned to his unhappy fate.
“Should I pack a bag for him?” I asked Mueller.
“That would be a good idea.”
After we hung up, I saw that I’d received two missed calls from Doc Larrabee. He’d tried to reach me while I’d been on the line with the jail matron and then again while I was speaking with the DHHS caseworker. Neither time had he left a voice mail. Maybe he’d had a change of heart and could testify to having seen Mitch Munro’s sled on the Heath. I thought about how curt and unhelpful he’d been the last time we’d spoken-letting me freeze on the doorstep-and decided to ignore him for the moment.
“Where’s Tammi?” Lucas asked.
“That woman who was here before took her to stay at a guesthouse until your mom gets home.” It felt like a lie to say the words aloud.
“So she got ‘confiscated,’ too.”
“It’s just temporary,” I said. “Do you have a gym bag or backpack?”
“What for?”
“We need to take along some socks and clean underwear for the trip.”
“Where are we going?”
“First, I’m going to take you to a hospital so a doctor can make sure your fingers and toes are OK, and then I’ll take you someplace where you can spend the night.”
His eyes widened behind the plastic glasses. “Am I going to jail?”
“Of course not,” I said.
“Why can’t we just stay here? I thought you were Ma’s new boyfriend.”
I was no longer sure what I was, but I was fairly certain it wasn’t Jamie Sewall’s boyfriend. Before I could formulate an answer suitable for a twelve-year-old, my phone vibrated in its belt holster. It was Doc Larrabee calling for a third time. I let it go to voice mail. Once again, he chose not to leave a message.
36
I waited until we were on the road to give Lucas his notebook. He snatched it out of my hand without so much as a thank-you.
“Did you read it?”
I decided to tell a fib. “Why would I?”
“You better not have.”
The plow hadn’t passed along this stretch of winding country road in hours. As I crested hills and rounded curves, heading toward Route 277, I felt the tires slide on the new coating of snow. I had a vision of my pickup bouncing like a pinball from one snowbank to another if I didn’t watch my speed.
Lucas began rummaging around the console between the front seats. “Do you got a pen?”
The inside of my truck cab was as dimly lit as a dive bar. “We can’t drive with the overhead light on.”
“Why not?”
“It makes it harder for me to see the road, and besides, it’s against the law.”
“That’s a stupid law,” he said. “Do you got a pen anyway?”
I removed the ballpoint I kept in my uniform pocket. “What are you going to do, write in the dark?”
He produced a child-sized headlamp from his overstuffed backpack. He yanked it down over his stocking cap
