Page 4 of Disappeared

Erma won’t hear it. “You’re soaking wet.”

“I can’t sit here and do nothing while Little Joe is out there in all that cold and rain!” Bonnie cries.

I make eye contact with her. “I’d like for you to search the house again. The barn. The chicken house, too. Sometimes kids find a place to hide and fall asleep.”

Nodding, Bonnie fights tears. “I’ll do anything,” she sobs. “I just want him back.”

“Get yourself dry.” I reach out and touch her shoulder. “Try to stay calm. We’ll find him.”

The sound of her sobbing follows me to the door.

Lightning splits the sky as I run to the barn. I enter, take a moment for my eyes to adjust to the murky light. A lantern hanging from a rafter casts a golden dome on an Amish man harnessing a sorrel gelding.

“Mr. Kline?” I call out.

He looks at me over his shoulder, continuing to work, his hands deft and quick. Joseph Kline is a reserved man. He’s serious and quiet, but with a proclivity for sharing snippets of unexpected humor. This morning, he looks as if the weight of the world resides on his shoulders.

“Kate Burkholder,” he says. “You’re here to help us find my grandson?”

I nod. “Any idea where he might’ve gone?”

He lowers his head, gives a single, grim nod. “There’s a creek that feeds into our pond and then overflows to Painters Creek. It’s usually just a trickle, but with all this rain…” His voice trails as if he’s suddenly physically incapable of finishing. “I didn’t mention it to the women, but I’m worried.”

A quiver of trepidation moves through me at the mention of a pond. “How far?”

“A quarter mile east of the barn.” He raises his hand, pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a moment to compose himself. “I took Little Joe fishing in the pond a couple weeks ago. He caught a sunfish. He likes the water…” His voice breaks, and he turns, goes back to the harness.

“I’ll check it out.” I hand him my Maglite. “Take this.”

When he raises his gaze to mine, tears shimmer. “You’ll need the light.”

“I’ve got another.”

“Dank.” Thanks. He takes the flashlight, buckles a harness strap, rushing because he knows he can’t get out there quickly enough. I leave him to his work and make my exit.

Rain whips my face as I jog to the Explorer. Using the fob, I open the rear, grab my spotlight, and check the battery. I’ve just closed the door when the flash of red and blue lights alerts me to the arrival of a law enforcement vehicle. I turn to see Glock emerge from his cruiser, yellow slicker shiny and wet in the flicker of lightning.

“Hell of a night to lose a kid,” he says as he approaches. “Any luck?”

“No sign.” I reach him, see the concern in his eyes and realize he’s thinking about his own small children, safe at home in their beds.

Quickly, I update him on the particulars. “We need to check the creek.” A toddler falling into a rain-swollen creek is a worst-case scenario, one that none of us wants to consider. But we have to look. If that dire possibility becomes reality, I’d rather it be us who finds him instead of a family member.

I motion east and we start that way at a brisk pace. “The pond is only a quarter mile away and feeds into Painters Creek.”

A curse hisses through his lips. “Damn, Chief. I just heard on the news the creek is about to crest. We’re going to have flooding to contend with.”

“County is en route,” I say, referring to the sheriff’s department. “Once we have more manpower, we’ll set up a grid. For now, let’s walk it. Keep your eye out for footprints or something the kid might’ve dropped.”

He nods. “Two-year-old couldn’t have gotten far.”

Neither of us mentions the reality that tragedy involving that age group usually happens close to home and takes only seconds.

A sense of urgency pushes us into a jog. Spotlights leading the way, we come upon a rail fence and climb over it, land in standing water on the other side. There, we separate by a few yards and continue toward the trees that grow in profusion around the pond.

“Little Joe!” I call out the boy’s name as we approach.

I listen for a voice or cry, but the slap of rain against the ground drowns out all other sound.