“Francis thinks it will go just fine. She’s really in pretty good health, all things considered.”
“And then afterward?”
Estelle ducked her head and gazed off in the general direction of the green chili that Camille was slicing on the counter. “I don’t know, sir. We’ll have to take it one step at a time.”
I grunted and plugged in the coffeemaker. To my surprise, Camille didn’t squawk. Instead, she pointed at the cupboard with her knife. “Coffee’s in there,” she said. “Toward the back.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” I muttered, and she glanced at me quizzically. “Tomorrow, no coffee. Maybe,” I said. “One step at a time.”
And in a few minutes, I felt better than I had in weeks. The green chili in the omelette was real, even if the eggs weren’t. And the coffee even made the battalion of pills easier to swallow. I popped the last capsule and frowned at Estelle. “I need to ask your husband how many of these things are really necessary,” I said. I poured a final cup of coffee, set the pot back on the machine, and added, “So tell me what’s going on up on the mountain.”
“You saw Sheriff Holman last night.” It wasn’t a question, and I just nodded. “He’s pretty sure we’re doing everything that can be done.”
“But you’re not so sure,” I said. “Martin says you’re being your Oriental self again.”
Estelle smiled at the departmental joke. “Is there any chance you can come up sometime this morning?”
“Sure. What are you thinking?”
Estelle frowned, gazing down into the coffee. She cradled the cup in both hands. “I don’t think he’s up there, sir.”
“Who, the youngster?” She nodded and fixed me with those bottomless black eyes of hers. “What makes you think that?” I asked.
She took a deep breath and held up her hands, tapping one index finger against the other. “For one thing, the search hasn’t turned up anything except rumors. That happens when there aren’t any traces, anything to provide a lead. Not even a scent for the dogs.”
“What rumors?” Camille asked.
“For instance, yesterday someone said that they’d found a child’s shoe print about two miles farther down the road.”
“Two miles? We’re talking about a three-year-old, aren’t we?” I said.
Estelle nodded. “When that report came in, a whole sea of people flocked down that way. It wasn’t a child’s print at all. In fact, Bob Torrez said that the print was made by a woman’s shoe, about size five or five and a half.”
“It could have been someone on the search team, stopping for a break,” I said, “or a hundred other possibilities.”
“Sure. What is true is that the print was not that of a child—at least not this particular child. And then things begin to get even more bizarre. About two o’clock yesterday afternoon, just before I came down, we got a call that someone had seen the child riding in a white Ford van, heading down the mountain toward town.”
“And let me guess,” Camille said. “A white van with out-of-state plates on it.”
I looked at her in surprise, and she shrugged. “It’s always got to have out-of-state plates,” she said. “If you watch all the crappy television docudramas, that’s a staple. What good does it do if the van belongs to weird Uncle Louis down the street? That’s too easily traced.”
Estelle smiled, and that expression lifted half a ton of worry from her pretty olive-skinned face. Except for the aristocratic aquiline nose and narrow jaw, she might have been a younger sister to Camille. “No one actually saw a van. We checked on the rumor, and it was just that. And sir, that’s what I mean. All these shapeless rumors,” and she rocked her hands back and forth, “the sort of things that surface when the search is getting desperate and there just isn’t a break of any kind.”
“And you still haven’t said why you think he isn’t up there.”
“He’s too little, sir. I listen to all the
“And then afterward?”
Estelle ducked her head and gazed off in the general direction of the green chili that Camille was slicing on the counter. “I don’t know, sir. We’ll have to take it one step at a time.”
I grunted and plugged in the coffeemaker. To my surprise, Camille didn’t squawk. Instead, she pointed at the cupboard with her knife. “Coffee’s in there,” she said. “Toward the back.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” I muttered, and she glanced at me quizzically. “Tomorrow, no coffee. Maybe,” I said. “One step at a time.”
And in a few minutes, I felt better than I had in weeks. The green chili in the omelette was real, even if the eggs weren’t. And the coffee even made the battalion of pills easier to swallow. I popped the last capsule and frowned at Estelle. “I need to ask your husband how many of these things are really necessary,” I said. I poured a final cup of coffee, set the pot back on the machine, and added, “So tell me what’s going on up on the mountain.”
“You saw Sheriff Holman last night.” It wasn’t a question, and I just nodded. “He’s pretty sure we’re doing everything that can be done.”
“But you’re not so sure,” I said. “Martin says you’re being your Oriental self again.”
Estelle smiled at the departmental joke. “Is there any chance you can come up sometime this morning?”
“Sure. What are you thinking?”
Estelle frowned, gazing down into the coffee. She cradled the cup in both hands. “I don’t think he’s up there, sir.”
“Who, the youngster?” She nodded and fixed me with those bottomless black eyes of hers. “What makes you think that?” I asked.
She took a deep breath and held up her hands, tapping one index finger against the other. “For one thing, the search hasn’t turned up anything except rumors. That happens when there aren’t any traces, anything to provide a lead. Not even a scent for the dogs.”
“What rumors?” Camille asked.
“For instance, yesterday someone said that they’d found a child’s shoe print about two miles farther down the road.”
“Two miles? We’re talking about a three-year-old, aren’t we?” I said.
Estelle nodded. “When that report came in, a whole sea of people flocked down that way. It wasn’t a child’s print at all. In fact, Bob Torrez said that the print was made by a woman’s shoe, about size five or five and a half.”
“It could have been someone on the search team, stopping for a break,” I said, “or a hundred other possibilities.”
“Sure. What is true is that the print was not that of a child—at least not this particular child. And then things begin to get even more bizarre. About two o’clock yesterday afternoon, just before I came down, we got a call that someone had seen the child riding in a white Ford van, heading down the mountain toward town.”
“And let me guess,” Camille said. “A white van with out-of-state plates on it.”
I looked at her in surprise, and she shrugged. “It’s always got to have out-of-state plates,” she said. “If you watch all the crappy television docudramas, that’s a staple. What good does it do if the van belongs to weird Uncle Louis down the street? That’s too easily traced.”
Estelle smiled, and that expression lifted half a ton of worry from her pretty olive-skinned face. Except for the aristocratic aquiline nose and narrow jaw, she might have been a younger sister to Camille. “No one actually saw a van. We checked on the rumor, and it was just that. And sir, that’s what I mean. All these shapeless rumors,” and she rocked her hands back and forth, “the sort of things that surface when the search is getting desperate and there just isn’t a break of any kind.”
“And you still haven’t said why you think he isn’t up there.”
“He’s too little, sir. I listen to all the
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