KnockOut - Catherine Coulter [7]
He knew it was time to call it a day. Or a night.
Where are you?
Ethan’s cell screamed out “Blood on Your Hands,” a grinding death-metal rock ringtone that spiked his brain better than a double espresso. He picked it up and said right off, his heart speeding up a bit, “Tell me she’s been found.”
“Sorry, Sheriff, still no sign of her,” said Ox, his senior deputy. “I called to tell you the three rangers from Thunder Ridge district are ready to call it quits for the night, said they can’t do anything more now that it’s dark.”
“Yeah, they’re right. I’ll call Faydeen, have her round everybody else up, tell them to go home. We’ll pick it up tomorrow morning. How you feeling, Ox?”
“I’m hunkered down beside you in a swamp of worry, Sheriff. Even my evening infusion of Turkish tar didn’t hold me up long.”
Ethan said, “There’s lots of room in my swamp, so welcome aboard. See you in the morning.”
“You going to go home too, Sheriff?”
“Yeah, to feed the critters, then I’ve got to see Mrs. Backman in town, let her know what we’re doing. I’m nearly finished driving the perimeter of the wilderness.” Again. “Damnation, where is she, Ox? We’ve covered all the roads, the rangers have checked and rechecked the trails and campsites without a sign of her, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of her in or out of town. Nothing more to do until it’s light again. Go home to Belle, Ox.”
“Yeah, my sweetheart and I deserve big steaks, then we’ll have a nice run in the woods.”
Three more miles, Ethan thought as he punched off his cell, and he’d hit Rural Route 10, a winding two-lane country road that would take him to Highway 41, and back into Titusville.
Titus Hitch Wilderness. He’d grown up here, knew every inch of the four thousand and fifty-four acres. He’d climbed the highest peak, called Titus Punch, many times and fished since he was four years old alongside his grandpa in the Sweet Onion River that flowed below the Appalachian Trail. He’d eaten tuna-salad sandwiches on Sod Drummer’s Ridge, a jagged, toothy line of rocks that cut the wilderness in half, and painted the endless stretches of tree-carpeted hills in every season. He’d explored the treacherous gullies, like knife gashes made by pissed-off giants, his grandpa had said, spent nights in almost all the caves. He’d even run through it in hundred-mile ultramarathons every year until a torn ACL, nearly rehabbed now, had brought him down on the last one the year before.
But none of his knowledge had helped. His birthplace, his sanctuary, had turned a deaf ear. He felt itchy and cold, and the creep of fear for the single little girl. At night the trees and hills seemed to draw in around you here, smothering all light, like the devil closing his black fist.
He hadn’t found one seven-year-old little girl, missing since this morning. He didn’t want to let the thought in, but he couldn’t help it. She could be lying somewhere hurt, unable to call for help, or even dead. Someone could have lured her away, maybe even killed her, buried her, or left her for the animals.
He hated it.
He punched in the sheriff’s office number and got Faydeen. She sounded tired, and no wonder, but he knew she’d make sure every searcher was thanked and asked to start up again in the morning. He started to call Gerald’s Loft, the B-&-B where the mother and child had been staying, but disconnected. No, better to tell her everything in person. He had some questions for her.
Ethan had seen her and the little girl around Titusville for the past week