Ink and Bone(59)

Jones gripped the wheel and looked ahead.

“The feelings of a distraught mother who’s lost a child are not a reliable guide for an investigation.”

“But what if they’re the most reliable source of all? Maybe she’s tuned in to her child, in to some kind of energy the rest of us aren’t.”

He tapped his thumbs on the wheel, beating out an impatient staccato. “Tomorrow morning first thing,” he said. “In the light with the right equipment and an extra man. It won’t be too late.”

A wind picked up outside and bent the trees, sending a spray of leaves onto the hood of the car.

They’re so often wrong, Agatha said. That’s why they need us.

There was something about him, though. He was sure of himself, so knowing. And she was so inexperienced, so not sure of herself. And even if he was old school, she knew he was right. It was dangerous, and Abbey had been missing ten months, the other children longer than that. There was almost no chance of evidence still being there, and what difference would it make now? She sank back, disappointed, the energy leaving her.

“First thing in the morning,” Finley said. “Fine.”

You don’t need him. He’ll only hold you back.

In the rearview mirror, she caught the flash of red hair, the pale fire of skin. Abigail.

You’re not a baby. You don’t need him to take you to the mines.

Finley knew better than to answer her. But she wondered if Abigail was right.


*

Back at the house, Eloise was waiting. She had tea steeping, as if she’d known Finley was on her way home. At the kitchen table, sipping the hot, sweet drink, Finley recounted the evening for Eloise, who listened carefully, nodding, making soft affirming noises in all the right places. Her grandmother was one of the few people who actually listened when Finley spoke. Her mother was always talking over her, then barking “Let me finish, Finley!” when Finley tried to get a word in. Her father always seemed to be just waiting for her to stop talking so that he could tell her how it really was.

“If you hadn’t been with him,” Eloise asked when Finley was done, “what would you have done next?”

Finley had to think about it a moment. “I probably would have gone back up to the trail and tried to find an entrance to those mines.”

Eloise rocked a little. She looked tiny, dwarfed in her big, soft gray robe that was nearly the same color as her salt-and-pepper hair.

“So, you would have gone up there alone, in the dark, with no supplies and no idea where you were going or what precisely you were looking for?”

“I’d figure it out,” said Finley.

Eloise sipped her tea. “Or you might have gotten yourself hurt, or into a situation from which you couldn’t extract yourself. And then you’d be no good to anyone.”

Ugh, so frustrating. Everyone was so methodical, so cautious. Sometimes you just had to go out there and do what needed to be done. There was value to a seat-of-your-pants methodology, wasn’t there?

“So what?” said Finley, that sizzle of frustration making her angry. “You just sit and do nothing while time runs out. What about following your instincts? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”

Eloise wrapped her arms around her body as if warding off a chill, but she held Finley’s eyes.

“There’s a difference between following your instincts and being reckless, my dear. Only age teaches you that.”

“Then what’s the point of this?” said Finley. She leaned forward. “What’s the point of knowing when you can’t do anything?”

“Just because it’s ill advised to go off unprepared,” said her grandmother, “doesn’t mean you do nothing. What’s the next best thing?”

Finley leaned back in her chair, then got up and paced the room, from the door to the range and then back again.

“Maps,” she said. “I’ll find maps of the area, and research the mines.”

Eloise gave her an approving smile. “That’s my girl.”

Finley gave Eloise a big kiss on the cheek, then bounded up the stairs to her laptop. Sitting on her bed, she entered “Maps iron mines Hollows New York” into the search bar and waited for the information to load. They were all there: Faith, the boy with the trains, the squeak-clink. But Finley barely noticed them.





EIGHTEEN


Wolf sent Kristi a text, turned off the phone he used exclusively for some of his less above-board activities. Then, on the corner, he tossed it into the trash. He didn’t feel that bad about breaking up with Kristi via text. People of her generation were all about texting, which was just one example of their soullessness.

I’m sorry, Kristi. I can’t see you tonight. In fact, we should take a break from seeing each other at all. My family needs me and I can’t let them down. Please forgive me. I do love you. It’s just not time for us right now.

It was final without being hopeless. Romantic without leading her on, implying that in another time and place, they might be together. And anyway maybe it was even true.

Wolf ducked into The Parlor on West Eighty-Sixth Street, a kind of divey, not too crowded sports bar that he and Blake had been drinking at since college. He spotted his friend over by the bar, as usual with his face buried in the newspaper, glasses drifting down his nose. His blond hair was graying, his sleeves rolled up, and his jacket and briefcase rested on the stool beside him. Blake had been a middle-aged man since he was sixteen. Still, two girls at a high-top were looking over at him, whispering with curious smiles. But Blakey, as ever, was oblivious. He only had eyes for his wife, Claire.