Page 81 of Last Seen

She puts it in reverse and slowly, slowly, eases backward until she is at the spot where she saw ... something.

There is a flash of white retreating into the woods. It is low to the ground, and then it is gone, swallowed by the green trees that line the road.

Was it a deer? Did she have Noah’s story of his childhood in her head and her mind turned a young fawn into a young boy?

She puts down the passenger-side window and listens. Can’t hear anything over the engine. Turns it off.

Her heart, thundering in her chest. The shriek of a hawk. The wind whispering through the branches. A thin cry. A human cry.

“Damn.” She gets out of the car. Puts the gun in her waistband. Marches into the tall grass on the side of the road, listening carefully. The sobs are real and coming from the screen of trees fifty feet ahead.

“Little boy? Sweetie, you can come out. I won’t hurt you.”

The crying stops. She edges closer to the tree line. She can see the corner of the white blanket now. Do people camp around here? Is he homeless? Has he managed to get himself here from Brockville? It would be quite a hike, but if he was scared and desperate, she supposes that it’s not out of the question.

A twig snaps, and she halts. There he is. He’s even younger than she thought.

“Hi,” she says. “Are you lost?”

He shakes his head. He is dirty, as if he’s been out in the wilderness for weeks. His cobalt eyes are wide and frightened, the blanket aroundhis thin shoulders grubby and worn. He looks at her briefly, then bursts away, bounding into the forest, and without thinking, she goes after him.

The trees grow closer together; the path is soon obscured. She has to stop after only a few minutes. What works for a small child is not going to work for her. “Stay here. I’ll get help,” she calls, then hurries back toward the Jeep. Just before she breaks from the trees, she hears a car’s engine, there and gone again. Darn it, just missed them.

She has to tell the sheriff about this child.

Halley makes her way to the road carefully but quickly. She will drive back to the town. Tell the sheriff about the kid, then be on her way again.

But as she approaches the Jeep, she sees that her right rear tire is flat.

She says several very bad words and examines the tire. There’s a cut in the wall. This is not a nail in the tread; it’s a three-inch slice. And worse, her spare is desecrated, too.

This is purposeful. This is sabotage.

Someone doesn’t want her leaving Brockville.

She looks around, but no one is visible. A chill hammers through her, and she reaches for the door handle and leaps inside, locking the doors. She will be damned if she’s going to stay here and wait for some crazed serial killer to snatch her. She will limp the Jeep back to the interstate even if it means she’ll have to buy a new wheel instead of just replacing the tire.

But the Jeep won’t turn over. She tries again and again, frantic now, but it just clicks and glugs and revs. It won’t roar to life and get her the hell out of here.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

There is no one around. She scans the road, the trees. Puts the pistol in her lap, soothed by the fact that if someone comes at her, she will be able to stop them. Then she grabs her phone and dials 9-1-1.

A familiar greeting, one she seems to be hearing too much lately.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

The words come out in a panicked rush. “My name is Halley James and my car has been disabled, and there was a little boy on the side of the road and he’s disappeared into the woods. I’m about two miles out of Brockville, Tennessee, heading west. I don’t know the area so I can’t tell you exactly where I am.”

“Okay. Slow down. You’re going to be fine. I’ll send Sheriff Brockton your way right now. You’re west, going toward the highway? Are you in a safe place?”

Sheriff Brockton. Brockville. Even the 9-1-1 dispatch is run out of the town. They really are self-sufficient.

She strokes the gun. “That’s correct. I’m locked in the car. It’s a Jeep Wrangler, white with black trim. Something’s wrong with the engine, and someone slashed my tires.” Damn it, there’s a quake in her voice. Fear is a powerful thing, and she doesn’t remember ever feeling quite so scared before.

Don’t lie. You know this feeling. You know it so well.

Red. Everything is so red.