The Narrows(46)
Ben doubted eleven-year-old Matthew Crawly had cut out for Lovers’ Leap with a six of Pabst under his arm, but he didn’t say anything.
“I got two of my own,” Witmark said. “They’re always storming out of the house.”
Ben felt eyes on his back. He looked over his shoulder and saw a face in one of the downstairs windows, looking out at him. It was Brandy Crawly, Matthew’s sister. Ben hadn’t thought to ask Wendy if her daughter was home.
“Sometimes I think they hate me,” Witmark went on.
Ben glanced at his wristwatch. “You guys in a hurry to get back?”
Witmark shrugged again. He had softened over the matter in the wake of the search.
“Would you and your guys mind following me out to a road on the outskirts of town? There’s some woods out that way I’d like to search, too.”
“It’s like we’re hired help around here,” Witmark commented, a bit of the old obstinacy back in his voice.
“It won’t need to be as involved as this was,” Ben assured him.
“What happened out on this road?”
“Local woman says she hit a boy with her car Friday night, around midnight.”
“Christ, Journell. You didn’t think—”
“We conducted a search of the area but couldn’t find anything. She was confused and scared and I thought maybe she hit a deer. But when I heard about this kid disappearing…”
Witmark nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Lead the way, hoss.”
3
It was closing on five thirty when they decided they were finished out on Full Hill Road. The sun had already set prematurely behind the western mountain and the sky was ribbed with salmon-colored bands of dwindling light. The wind spoke up, gaining courage with the oncoming night. The brown leaves in the trees shook like rattlesnakes and the occasional low moan could be heard slaloming through the valley.
Again, they found no evidence of what had happened to the Crawly boy…or any evidence that Maggie Quedentock had hit anyone with her car out there Friday night, for that matter. Drained and weary, Ben had every intention of keeping his promise about treating the men to a meal at the Belly Barn, but Witmark quickly waved him off. At some point throughout the day, George Witmark had warmed to him…or at least pitied him enough to fake it.
“Don’t worry about dinner,” Witmark said, sucking the life out of another cigarette. Ben guessed he’d gone through an entire pack that day. “My wife wants me home tonight, anyway. You married?”
“No.”
Witmark laughed, his eyes crinkling into sparkling little gems. Ben wasn’t sure what was so funny.
A light rain began to fall as the police officers from Cumberland got back in their cars and dispersed from Full Hill Road. (Before they left, Ben heard one of the officers mutter something about how creepy it was to have the sun set so early. Ben thought the guy looked pleased to be leaving Stillwater behind.) Ben sat on the hood of his car and stared up beyond the trees where stars could already be seen poking through the fabric of the sky.
Mike Keller joined him on the hood. “I just heard back from the last number on that list you gave me of the Crawly kid’s friends,” Mike said. “No one’s seen him. He hasn’t been staying at any friends’ houses.”
“Yeah, okay. I was beginning to think that was the case, anyway.”
“What now?”
Ben rubbed his forehead. “Contact the staties, have them put out an AMBER Alert. There’s also a contact number for the Baltimore field office of the FBI pinned to that corkboard in Harris’s office. You know the one I’m talking about? You should notify them, too.”
“The FBI?”
“Tell them there’s nothing concrete, but I want them to know that it could be a possible kidnapping.”
“Holy Jesus, Ben! What are you talking about?”
“It’s just something I’ve been thinking. The boy’s father split in the middle of the night a year or so ago. What if he came back just as quietly and took his son?”
“Shit. I didn’t think of that.”
“It’s probably a long shot. But I’m sort of hoping for it, too. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll get right on it.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“You interested in some dinner? Me and the guys were gonna grab something.”
“Go ahead, I’ll grab something myself.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
Three minutes later, Ben was alone on Full Hill Road, a soft rain pattering down all around him.
He decided to go into town for a quick bite, giving much consideration to stopping in at the Belly Barn for Bo’s meat loaf special after all. But when Crossroads rose up on the side of the road, he pulled into the parking lot without thinking about it, as if on autopilot. Alvin Toops had run the place for the past two and a half decades and, in all that time, nothing much had changed—it was a dark, dank, squalid little pit that practically oozed cigar smoke from the lathing. Country music played in rotation from the wall-mounted juke and the usual suspects were hunched like buzzards over the bar top nursing foamy mugs of beer when Ben walked in. A few of the regulars raised their hands at him and he did the same. He sat at the end of the bar and rubbed his face with his abraded hands.