Truly, Madly by Heather Webber Page B

turned in. Cars lined both sides of the road leading to the gatehouse. News crews milled about. I found a place to park and shut off my engine.
    I made a snap decision. ''Are you busy tomorrow? There's something I might need you for.''
    ''Sounds intriguing.''
    My stomach tightened with his flirtatious tone.
    ''I'll be in bright and early,'' he said.
    I didn't miss that he worked long hours and didn't seem to be in a rush to get home to his girlfriend. Was she his girlfriend? Now that I thought of it, he didn't sound all lovey-dovey on the phone. Yet he was doing her shopping. . . . ''I'll come up and see you. Thanks for staying late tonight.''
    ''You're welcome.''
    I said a quick good-bye before I went and did something stupid like ask him if he believed in love at first sight.
    Tall trees diffused the wind, but the temps continued to fall. I pulled on my stocking hat, slipped my mittens into my coat pocket. The night air was scented with burning pine, decomposing leaves, and the sharp sting of strong coffee.
    The command post had been set up in the park's visitor center. Outside the building, hundreds of people streamed around. To one side of the center, a small tent had been set up, according to a handmade sign, by the Friends of Wompatuck to serve coffee and snacks. On the other side, a line of police cars—local, state, and environmental—and two ambulances sat abandoned. There were several officers on horseback and bicycles. Several ATVs, four-wheeled all-terrain vehicles, were being ridden around the camp, others parked in a crowded parking lot across from the center.
    Floodlights had been set up as well as portable heaters. Someone had started a campfire inside a ring of rocks in the center of the crowd. People hovered around the flames, warming their hands.
    Blinking against the harsh artificial lighting, I didn't know where to start. I hadn't seen Suzannah, but I had the feeling she was around somewhere. Knowing her, she wasn't as lost as I felt. She'd probably barreled in and taken over the search.
    Leaves crunched beneath my feet as I stopped near a tree to digest all that was going on around me.
    It looked to be chaos, but as I stood there a man on a megaphone corralled volunteers onto a school bus that would drive them deep into the four-thousand-acre park to continue the search.
    Every few minutes, a roving reporter would be bathed in spotlights, updating the viewing audience on the search's progress. I stood nearby one reporter as she fed her news to the evening anchor.
    ''Maxwell O'Brien has been missing for close to ten hours now. Tired searchers have been scouring Wompatuck State Park for any signs of the four-year-old boy, who goes by the name Max. Efforts to find the little boy are hampered by the sheer size of the park, the many trails, ponds, and marshes. Hope lies in the many places Max could seek shelter. Back in World War Two, this site was owned by the military, and many of the old ammunition bunkers still remain standing.''
    She went on to describe the park's topology and included a warning about falling temperatures and wild animals, including foxes, bobcats, and coyotes, before getting to the meat of the story: whether the father was guilty.
    ''John O'Brien, the boy's father, is still answering police questions at this hour. He has not been charged or labeled as a person of interest. Divers continue to search the reservoir and various ponds. K-nine search and rescue has been brought in by the state police. The boy's mother, Katherine O'Brien, is anxiously awaiting news of her son.''
    At this point, the cameraman swiveled toward a group of people standing near doors of the visitor center. Among them stood a slight woman, early thirties, whose eyes held a vacant, faraway look.
    ''Mrs. O'Brien stands firm in her belief that her son is alive and well. Again, here is a picture of Max O'Brien. He's four years old, forty-five pounds, blond hair, blue eyes. He was wearing jeans, a navy blue