perhaps not easily offended by children. She had taken to Laura—or was it the other way around?
Just then, Brother Millington bellowed—and the man could bellow like a water buffalo—“Andy!” He stood at the edge of the patio and stared out at the yard and field beyond.
Laura jumped up, the braids falling out of her hair. Her mother stood behind her. Charlene hurried up to them, her eyes full of fear. Rachel said, “Charlene, what’s going on?”
She gasped, “We can’t find Andy.”
Chapter 14
Every cloud has a silver lining
T he men coalesced in a phalanx around them. President Forbush asked, “Where did you last see him?”
“Maybe he wandered down to the creek bed,” the bishop suggested.
Brother Millington shook his head, but not in disagreement. “I’ll just bet that’s what he did. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times—”
Troy said, “He probably followed the trail the Cub Scouts use.”
Milada joined Rachel. Laura said under her breath, “The Pillsbury Dough Boy bounced away.” Her mother didn’t bother admonishing her. Laura had much experience babysitting the Millington children.
Rachel agreed with her husband about the creek bed of the arroyo. “It’s like a magnet for kids around here. A boy drowned there last summer in a flash flood.” She grimaced to herself as she spoke. Why in the world did I say that? Perhaps it was to state the worst-case scenario so anything else would be an improvement.
The men fanned out across the field and snaked down the crumbling, sandy slopes, Brent Millington’s voice blaring like a foghorn.
With a dispassionate expression on her face, Milada watched the men move off. Then she kicked off her shoes and stepped up on the picnic table bench, her gaze moving slowly like a predator scanning the Serengeti for fresh prey. She stepped down, put on her shoes, and walked to the edge of the property line.
Laura took off after her. Rachel said to Charlene, “It’ll be okay.”
Charlene sighed wearily, then snapped at her two older children, “Mary, Brent Junior, get over here and sit down. Don’t want you getting lost as well, for Pete’s sake.”
High along the ridgeline of the Wasatch Mountains, the setting sun gleamed off the granite walls of Twin and Lone Peaks. The contrast threw the shadowed valley floor below into an exaggerated darkness. Milada waded through the tall, dry grass with unhurried strides. Not toward the arroyo but toward a John Deere backhoe parked next to a gnarled apple tree at the edge of the new housing lots. Rachel jogged to catch up with her, and then fell back a step behind with Laura. The field hummed with the buzz of cicadas. Mormon crickets sprang out of their path. The grass, charred from the harsh September sun, shattered at the touch.
A nervous droning sound grew louder as they approached the backhoe. It wasn’t the droning of cicadas. It reminded Rachel of the sound the vacuum cleaner made when it grabbed a penny off the carpet and jammed it against the belt. Laura ran ahead, stopped, let out a shriek, and retreated to her mother’s side.
The evidence of the crime lay scattered on the ground. The spent can of Raid left behind by the work crew. The survey stake Andy had managed to heft and swing with unfortunate accuracy, knocking the nest from the overhanging limb. The crumpled hive buzzing with angry yellow jackets—
And Andy’s still, flaccid body a few feet off, his puffy skin dotted with red welts. “Milada—” Rachel started to say, but Milada hardly hesitated. She picked up the nest and flung it a dozen yards into an open house foundation. Not a yellow jacket lit upon her. She knelt next to Andy. Rachel said to her daughter, “Laura, go get your father.”
She didn’t move. “Laura!” her mother said again. Laura took off across the field.
Rachel kneeled next to Milada, who said in her calm voice, “The boy has stopped breathing.” She pressed on his sternum with the
Just then, Brother Millington bellowed—and the man could bellow like a water buffalo—“Andy!” He stood at the edge of the patio and stared out at the yard and field beyond.
Laura jumped up, the braids falling out of her hair. Her mother stood behind her. Charlene hurried up to them, her eyes full of fear. Rachel said, “Charlene, what’s going on?”
She gasped, “We can’t find Andy.”
Chapter 14
Every cloud has a silver lining
T he men coalesced in a phalanx around them. President Forbush asked, “Where did you last see him?”
“Maybe he wandered down to the creek bed,” the bishop suggested.
Brother Millington shook his head, but not in disagreement. “I’ll just bet that’s what he did. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times—”
Troy said, “He probably followed the trail the Cub Scouts use.”
Milada joined Rachel. Laura said under her breath, “The Pillsbury Dough Boy bounced away.” Her mother didn’t bother admonishing her. Laura had much experience babysitting the Millington children.
Rachel agreed with her husband about the creek bed of the arroyo. “It’s like a magnet for kids around here. A boy drowned there last summer in a flash flood.” She grimaced to herself as she spoke. Why in the world did I say that? Perhaps it was to state the worst-case scenario so anything else would be an improvement.
The men fanned out across the field and snaked down the crumbling, sandy slopes, Brent Millington’s voice blaring like a foghorn.
With a dispassionate expression on her face, Milada watched the men move off. Then she kicked off her shoes and stepped up on the picnic table bench, her gaze moving slowly like a predator scanning the Serengeti for fresh prey. She stepped down, put on her shoes, and walked to the edge of the property line.
Laura took off after her. Rachel said to Charlene, “It’ll be okay.”
Charlene sighed wearily, then snapped at her two older children, “Mary, Brent Junior, get over here and sit down. Don’t want you getting lost as well, for Pete’s sake.”
High along the ridgeline of the Wasatch Mountains, the setting sun gleamed off the granite walls of Twin and Lone Peaks. The contrast threw the shadowed valley floor below into an exaggerated darkness. Milada waded through the tall, dry grass with unhurried strides. Not toward the arroyo but toward a John Deere backhoe parked next to a gnarled apple tree at the edge of the new housing lots. Rachel jogged to catch up with her, and then fell back a step behind with Laura. The field hummed with the buzz of cicadas. Mormon crickets sprang out of their path. The grass, charred from the harsh September sun, shattered at the touch.
A nervous droning sound grew louder as they approached the backhoe. It wasn’t the droning of cicadas. It reminded Rachel of the sound the vacuum cleaner made when it grabbed a penny off the carpet and jammed it against the belt. Laura ran ahead, stopped, let out a shriek, and retreated to her mother’s side.
The evidence of the crime lay scattered on the ground. The spent can of Raid left behind by the work crew. The survey stake Andy had managed to heft and swing with unfortunate accuracy, knocking the nest from the overhanging limb. The crumpled hive buzzing with angry yellow jackets—
And Andy’s still, flaccid body a few feet off, his puffy skin dotted with red welts. “Milada—” Rachel started to say, but Milada hardly hesitated. She picked up the nest and flung it a dozen yards into an open house foundation. Not a yellow jacket lit upon her. She knelt next to Andy. Rachel said to her daughter, “Laura, go get your father.”
She didn’t move. “Laura!” her mother said again. Laura took off across the field.
Rachel kneeled next to Milada, who said in her calm voice, “The boy has stopped breathing.” She pressed on his sternum with the
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