Once Beyond a Time (22 page)

“Sometimes. Not always. There may be a misperception as to how much money you have.”

“All right,” I say slowly. “If that’s the case, how soon can we expect a ransom note?”

“Well now, I can’t say exactly, but it’d be soon. A day, maybe two. But if we’re looking at kidnappers here, money isn’t the only reason children are taken. There are some unsavory characters out there who might steal a child for their own satisfaction.”

Steve sits up straight. “Are you talking about child molesters, John?”

“Unfortunately, yes, I am, Steve.”

“Don’t tell me we have any of their kind here in Black Mountain.”

“I’m not saying we do, but I’m not saying we don’t either. Very often the molesters are the people in your own midst, your own neighbors, people you might work with.”

“That may be, John, but I’ve known the folks around here for twenty years, and I’m telling you not one of them is any kind of pervert.”

“I hear you, Steve, but listen, there’s new folks moving in and out of Black Mountain all the time these days. You can never be sure who’s coming in.”

“So you’re saying our son—” I begin, but the sheriff interrupts me.

“I’m not saying anything yet, Mr. Crane. I’m just laying out the possibilities, starting with the most likely scenario and moving on to worst case.”

Steve asks, “When was the last time we had a kidnapping around
here?”

Sheriff Fields nods. “Been a long time, I’ll grant you that. It never has happened on my watch. Not a single kidnapping in the past five years, and none I remember hearing of in the decade before that. In fact, I believe—if I’m remembering right—the last kidnapping was more than twenty years ago when a kid was taken by his own father in the midst of a custody battle. He was found living in the lap of luxury on a Floridian estate and didn’t want to come back to Black Mountain after that.” The sheriff looks at his deputy for confirmation. The deputy complies with a quick thrust of his chin.

“That’s right,” the deputy says. “He never did come back up here. Can’t blame him, neither.”

“So chances are slim,” Steve says, “that Digger has been kidnapped.”

“Chances are slim, yes, but it’s a possibility we’ve got to consider. We’ve got to view this thing from every angle, and right now, we can’t dismiss any scenario out of hand, even that of running away. We’ve had plenty of those, kids running off thinking they’ll find a better life somewhere else. Well, we usually find them first, hanging out at a bus station in one of the surrounding towns, trying to drum up enough change for a ticket. They don’t get far.”

“But most of those are probably older kids,” Steve says. “They’re not eight years old, are they?”

“You’re right there, Steve,” the sheriff agrees. “They’re mostly a little older, mostly teens. They’ve had time to decide they don’t want to spend their lives in a little mountain town.”

“So what about getting lost in the mountains?” I ask. “That happen often?”

“It does happen on occasion,” the sheriff admits, “but generally those kids make their own way out or else we eventually find them. Not very many missing children stay missing for long around here.”

I suppose I should take comfort in that, but I don’t. “Okay,” I say,
“but our son is out there somewhere, lost, maybe hurt, and you say you can’t go looking for him?”

“Not for twenty-four to seventy-two hours,” he repeats.

My head is pounding now. Meg is crying quietly into a handkerchief that I didn’t know she had. Steve must have handed it to her. Linda is still standing in the archway, hand still over her mouth.

“Sheriff Fields?” I say.

“Yes, Mr. Crane?”

I lift a hand to my head in a useless bid to stop the pounding. “Where do you think our son is?”

The sheriff sniffs, rubs his hands together, and says, “We might do better for me to ask that of you, sir. Where do
you
think your son is?”

I look at him, mouth agape, my mind knocked senseless by the absurdity of his question. Finally, I manage to mutter, “If we had any idea at all, Sheriff Fields, we wouldn’t be here. We’d be there with our son bringing him home.”

The deputy’s pencil stops scratching. The room falls silent.

I think my skull and heart both will burst wide open for the pain.

Sunday, September 8, 1968

N
O SLEEP LAST
night, and now at 5:30 in the morning—while it is yet dark—the yard is full of men from the town, some of whom we know, many of whom we don’t. They have half a dozen dogs with them, all bloodhounds. The men have volunteered to form teams and search for Digger. If the law won’t do it, they told us, then they will. Steve spearheaded the whole effort. He told one man who told someone else who told someone else until a couple dozen men showed up in a caravan of cars and pickup trucks.

Their wives came with armloads of food. We are feeding the men before they head out. We will be here when they come back. We have everything from sandwiches to potato salad to donuts to huge thermoses filled with hot coffee. I am in the kitchen, helping distribute the food. Donna is here too. And Linda. We avoid eye contact as much as possible. If our eyes meet, we will break down. We must go through the motions as though our hearts are stone.

The men are mingling in small groups while eating from paper plates. They look solemn as they talk together, nodding, strategizing. The dogs are leashed in the beds of the pick-up trucks, anxious to go. Donna is spreading mayonnaise on slices of white bread while I pour endless cups
of coffee. Linda is scooping out potato salad. A number of women are chopping vegetables for the stew we’ll serve the men later in the day, when they return from the search. Digger’s third-grade teacher, Miss Purcell, is here making a chocolate cake. When she asked what Digger’s favorite dessert is, I handed her a box mix and she got to work, saying, “I’ll have it ready for when he comes home.”

The mayor of Black Mountain, a man everybody simply calls Big Joe, seems to be the one in charge. Even now, he’s waving an arm, calling the men together. They gather round him in a circle, still chewing, still sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. They listen intently, nod, exchange glances. Their voices carry in from the yard, muffled voices that speak of places unknown to me, places where they will search for my son. A small seed of gratitude takes root in my heart. While the police must wait for the proper number of hours to pass, these men give up their day to search for a missing child most of them have never met.

Through the window, I see Sheldon break away from the group. He steps into the kitchen and gently lays a hand on my shoulder. “We need some of Digger’s clothes,” he says.

“His clothes?”

“Yes, not clean clothes. We need pants, socks, underwear, anything with Digger’s scent on it. For the dogs. You haven’t done the wash since yesterday, have you?”

I shake my head and say, “I’ll bring you something.”

He nods his thanks and returns to the men. I go upstairs to Digger’s room where I find what I’m looking for on the floor of his closet. I am on my knees, gathering shirts and underwear, when I surprise even myself by clutching the dirty clothes to my chest.

Oh, Digger. How can this be happening?

I wonder whether he’ll ever wear these clothes again. The tears come as my arms ache to hold not his clothes but
him.

But I can’t stay here. The men are waiting. It’s time for them to go.

I carry the clothes out to the backyard. Someone has brought one of the hounds around. It’s explained that this dog will go with a group up into our own mountain behind the house. Other groups will spread out, covering areas around the perimeter of the town.

I give the clothes to Sheldon, who passes them around. One man holds a shirt to the nose of the bloodhound. The hound sniffs and becomes ecstatic, tugging on his leash. Three men follow him across our yard and into the woods.

Big Joe looks at me and says, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Crane. We’re going to find your son and bring him home.”

I can’t respond. I have no breath. The mayor nods his understanding and leads the rest of the men around the house to the waiting vehicles.

“We’ll be back soon,” Sheldon says as he hurries off with them.

I stand motionless, watching them leave. I hear the dogs barking, the engines starting up, the rumbling voices of men as they toss words of advice and instruction to each other.

In another moment, Linda is by my side. “Miss Purcell just put the cake in the oven,” she says quietly. “I hope she has it iced by the time Digger gets home.”

The trucks crunch over the gravel drive and caravan down the side of the mountain. The sound of engines and barking dogs recedes and then the yard is quiet.

Linda takes my arm and leads me back inside. The kitchen is a hive of activity without words. Silent women cook, clean, dry dishes. We must stay busy because our busyness will somehow help bring Digger home. And perhaps the movement of my hands will keep me from losing my mind.

Monday, September 9, 1968

A
LL THOSE MEN
spent all those hours searching for Digger, and in the end they all came back empty-handed. They spent the whole day yesterday looking and even into the night. One group went back out this morning. None of the bloodhounds even picked up a scent. They didn’t find a single thing of Digger’s, not the cloverleaf necklace, not a shoe … not a body. Nothing. He’s disappeared without a trace.

There hasn’t been a ransom note either. Not in the mail. Not tacked to the front door. No phone calls from strange men, voices distorted by handkerchiefs held over the mouthpiece of the phone. No demands for money in exchange for Digger’s life. Nothing.

Since they say enough time has passed, the police will start their search now. What—better late than never? Bunch of useless jerks. They’re the ones who are supposed to help, but their job or the law or something kept them from doing what the men of the town did. They should have gone out and looked for Digger right away. So now that forty-eight hours have passed they can put out their APBs, but big deal. Too little, too late. It won’t do any good. What can they find that the men and their hounds didn’t find?

I can’t believe this is happening. Digger’s been gone for forty-eight hours. Mom’s been in bed for the last twenty-four. She’s sick with grief. No
matter where I go in the house, I can hear her crying. Dad is wandering around like he’s in shock. I feel so sick myself, I can’t eat.

Dad let me stay home from school today. I didn’t think I could go and face everyone, since the story hit the papers this morning and now everybody knows about it. “Black Mountain Boy Missing.” So now the phone’s been ringing all day, practically nonstop. That old preacher down at the church called and talked to Dad for a long time. Gail called and asked if I wanted company, and though I thanked her, I said no, I needed to be alone. Vernita Ponder called wanting to talk to Mom, but when Dad said she was unavailable, she asked to talk to me. Dad put his hand over the mouthpiece and asked if I wanted to take it. I almost said no, but then I did. The old lady spent about fifteen minutes talking about the write-up in the paper and telling me how sorry she was that Digger was missing, and then she finally said, “You’ve got to remember, though, that that house is a good place, and whatever’s happening there is a gift,” and I ended up slamming the phone down—though not before telling her that if we’d never come to this stupid house, Digger wouldn’t be gone.

I always acted like I hated Digger, but the fact is, I love my brother. And if he’s dead or something, and I never see him again, I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Dad wouldn’t let me help search for him. I begged him to let me, but he said no. He said he’s not going to lose me too, and he wants to know where I am at all times.

He was crying when he said it—not weeping or anything—but his eyes were glassy with tears, and he turned away pretty quick and pretended to be busy with something else. I almost wanted to hug him and tell him he wasn’t going to lose me, but I didn’t. I didn’t, maybe because I’m even more mad at him for bringing us down here and now something this awful has happened. If we were still in Abington, Digger wouldn’t be missing.

Uncle Steve and Aunt Donna are here tonight. Again. Just like last night. Aunt Donna’s upstairs trying to comfort Mom. Dad and Uncle
Steve are in the living room talking with the sheriff again. From where I’m standing in the kitchen, I can hear their voices, but they’re talking so low, I can’t make out what they’re saying. I’m not sure I want to know.

Uncle Steve has left his pack of cigarettes on the kitchen table. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I have to have something to calm my nerves. Man, I can’t believe how my fingers are shaking as I take one from the pack. I find a book of matches in a kitchen drawer and run out the back door.

I go just beyond the edge of the woods and sit behind a tree. My hands are shaking so bad I can hardly light up. I’ll tell you what, if Digger ran away on purpose, I’m going to kill him with my own two hands if we ever find him. But I can’t believe that. Digger wouldn’t run away. It just isn’t like him to do something like that.

I take a long deep pull on the cigarette. As the smoke enters my lungs, I shut my eyes and savor the feel of it. Man, I’ve needed a cig so bad for so long. I can get them at school, but not here at home. I haven’t had a smoke since Digger disappeared.