theories—”
“Everyone’s got one of those, or two.”
“Yes, sir. But they talk about a three-year-old as if he’s going to trek off across rugged country, maybe covering miles and miles, sleeping under logs, and all that sort of nonsense.”
“Stranger things have happened, Estelle.”
“Not to three-year-olds, sir. Now, an older child would walk, maybe even run. But a three-year-old? His legs are what, about this long?” She held her hands, one above the other, about two feet apart. “At most? That means a tiny little stride, if you can say that a three-year-old strides at all. And he’s got no balance, not like an older child. He just can’t manage rough terrain at any speed.”
“How did he get separated from the camp in the first place?” Camille asked. “Three-year-olds don’t go off on solo strolls at night.”
“His mother says that he was playing beside the camp trailer. He was digging in the dirt with a stick, perfectly content, just on the edge of the light from the campfire. She said she and her boyfriend had been fussing with the fire, trying to arrange some baking potatoes in the coals. Then her boyfriend went into the camper to get his guitar. The mother says that it was getting late, and she wanted little Cody by the fire, sitting in her lap while her boyfriend sang.”
“And she looked around and the child was gone,” I said.
Estelle nodded.
“Just like that.”
She nodded again.
“He never cried out?” Camille said. “A child’s voice would carry at night like a ringing telephone.”
“It was blustery, and the campfire was roaring,” I said. “And somebody was tuning a guitar.”
“No,” Camille said, and shook her head.
“No what?”
“Just no,” she repeated. “From the time she last noticed the kid playing in the dirt to the time she realized he wasn’t there, how many minutes could it have been? Two, three? Maybe ten at the most if mommy was really numb? I mean, isn’t that a rule of three-year-old ownership, that you have to pay attention every second?”
“Sure enough,” I said, “So the choices are limited. Either the tyke wandered a few yards and fell among the rocks or he wandered where the walking was easiest for his tiny legs, on the road. How far could he go?”
“Not could . It’s how far he would go, Dad. Remember, it was dark. How many brave three-year-olds do you know?”
I grinned, then reached over and patted Estelle on the forearm, thinking of her oldest, my godson. “One,” I said. “The kid would walk from here to Cleveland if there was a reason.”
“Maybe not,” Estelle said. “Francis is beginning to think that there are monsters in the dark now.” I found it hard to imagine Francis Guzman, Jr., three years old, as darkly handsome and intelligent as both his parents, afraid of anything.
“So what are the other choices?”
Estelle rested her head in her hands. “I don’t know.”
“Do you think someone picked him up?”
“I’d hate to think that, but it’s a possibility. And I guess that’s why I wanted you to go with me this morning. I’ve got some things I want to show you.”
“Sure,” I said again. “I don’t know what I can tell you that your instincts haven’t already covered.”
“You never know,” Estelle said. She frowned. “Do you mind if Francis goes with us?”
“If he can get away from the hospital, of course not.”
Estelle smiled again. “No. I mean the kid .” She used the nickname I’d adopted when the child was born. As Francis junior’s padrino , I figured I was entitled. It was a name that was easy to remember.
“That country’s no place for a child,” I said, “especially in this weather.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Estelle murmured. She looked at Camille. “Can I talk you into going up with us?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” my daughter said.
Chapter 8
The sunshine that morning had been a false promise, a tantalizing little blast of morning
“Everyone’s got one of those, or two.”
“Yes, sir. But they talk about a three-year-old as if he’s going to trek off across rugged country, maybe covering miles and miles, sleeping under logs, and all that sort of nonsense.”
“Stranger things have happened, Estelle.”
“Not to three-year-olds, sir. Now, an older child would walk, maybe even run. But a three-year-old? His legs are what, about this long?” She held her hands, one above the other, about two feet apart. “At most? That means a tiny little stride, if you can say that a three-year-old strides at all. And he’s got no balance, not like an older child. He just can’t manage rough terrain at any speed.”
“How did he get separated from the camp in the first place?” Camille asked. “Three-year-olds don’t go off on solo strolls at night.”
“His mother says that he was playing beside the camp trailer. He was digging in the dirt with a stick, perfectly content, just on the edge of the light from the campfire. She said she and her boyfriend had been fussing with the fire, trying to arrange some baking potatoes in the coals. Then her boyfriend went into the camper to get his guitar. The mother says that it was getting late, and she wanted little Cody by the fire, sitting in her lap while her boyfriend sang.”
“And she looked around and the child was gone,” I said.
Estelle nodded.
“Just like that.”
She nodded again.
“He never cried out?” Camille said. “A child’s voice would carry at night like a ringing telephone.”
“It was blustery, and the campfire was roaring,” I said. “And somebody was tuning a guitar.”
“No,” Camille said, and shook her head.
“No what?”
“Just no,” she repeated. “From the time she last noticed the kid playing in the dirt to the time she realized he wasn’t there, how many minutes could it have been? Two, three? Maybe ten at the most if mommy was really numb? I mean, isn’t that a rule of three-year-old ownership, that you have to pay attention every second?”
“Sure enough,” I said, “So the choices are limited. Either the tyke wandered a few yards and fell among the rocks or he wandered where the walking was easiest for his tiny legs, on the road. How far could he go?”
“Not could . It’s how far he would go, Dad. Remember, it was dark. How many brave three-year-olds do you know?”
I grinned, then reached over and patted Estelle on the forearm, thinking of her oldest, my godson. “One,” I said. “The kid would walk from here to Cleveland if there was a reason.”
“Maybe not,” Estelle said. “Francis is beginning to think that there are monsters in the dark now.” I found it hard to imagine Francis Guzman, Jr., three years old, as darkly handsome and intelligent as both his parents, afraid of anything.
“So what are the other choices?”
Estelle rested her head in her hands. “I don’t know.”
“Do you think someone picked him up?”
“I’d hate to think that, but it’s a possibility. And I guess that’s why I wanted you to go with me this morning. I’ve got some things I want to show you.”
“Sure,” I said again. “I don’t know what I can tell you that your instincts haven’t already covered.”
“You never know,” Estelle said. She frowned. “Do you mind if Francis goes with us?”
“If he can get away from the hospital, of course not.”
Estelle smiled again. “No. I mean the kid .” She used the nickname I’d adopted when the child was born. As Francis junior’s padrino , I figured I was entitled. It was a name that was easy to remember.
“That country’s no place for a child,” I said, “especially in this weather.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Estelle murmured. She looked at Camille. “Can I talk you into going up with us?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” my daughter said.
Chapter 8
The sunshine that morning had been a false promise, a tantalizing little blast of morning
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