“Who else have you talked to?”
“Nobody. You’re the first.”
I know he’s really asking if I’ve called Andrew. The man who Lucas assumed was the reason for this call. Lucas has never been a fan.
I sigh. “I’ll call him in the morning, if they still haven’t—”
“They’ll find him,” Lucas says, cutting off that depressing sentiment with a voice that’s sure and determined. “And if they don’t, I will.”
My breath comes out in a whoosh, a hot sigh fueled by relief. They’re the words I’ve been waiting to hear, the reason, if I’m being completely honest, why I called. Lucas is on his way. He won’t rest until he finds Ethan.
A not-so-tiny voice inside of me prays Lucas is not too late.
* * *
I knew Ethan was special three days after his ten-month birthday, when he handed me his bottle of milk and said, “No, I want juice.” Four little words and not very special ones at that, but a full sentence. Subject, verb, direct object. Unheard of for a baby his age.
Andrew insisted we have him tested as soon as the psychologist said it was possible, when Ethan was two. I’ll never forget Andrew’s face when that woman, a straitlaced type in a pencil skirt and pearls, told us that Ethan’s score fell in genius territory. All of a sudden, Andrew didn’t care that his toddler was obsessed with the mating rituals of penguins, or that the only way to quieten a terrible-two meltdown was to dial the radio to Bach. Ethan’s weird quirks had an explanation—one worth showing off to the world.
“My son is brilliant,” Andrew would say to our friends, his tennis teammates, the strangers behind him at the checkout counter, and in a voice meant to carry. He’s always been loud, but he likes to notch things up a few decibels when he’s bragging. “No, like, seriously brilliant. Equivalent to an IQ of 158, which is only two points lower than Einstein’s. The psychologist says it’s genetic.”
Of course Andrew meant him. His son’s intelligence had come from him.
“Ethan is a genius,” I say to Detective Macintosh now, cringing at how it makes me sound just like Andrew. “My son is not an outdoorsy type, but Lucas was right—he’s smart enough to figure out how to get to the bathroom and ba—the compass!”
The detective glances over. “What compass?”
“I gave him one, just this morning. Well, it’s an old surveyor’s compass, but it’s operational, and he knows how to use it.” Hope expands in my chest, soft and light like cotton candy. “If he’s lost, he can use it to find his way back.”
“Or find his way out.”
“Out of the woods?” I shake my head. “You don’t know my son, but he wouldn’t go deeper into the forest on purpose. He’s scared of the dark, and even if he had a flashlight, he’s too much of a rule follower. I just don’t see him doing it.”
“Make sure you tell the sheriff all these things when we get there. He’s going to want to get into Ethan’s head, to better understand what he’s thinking.”
By now it’s close to six, and the sky has gone from pitch-black to gunmetal gray, swollen clouds blocking out the first of the morning light. Most of the 18-wheelers and rush hour travelers are headed in the opposite direction—toward the city—leaving the northbound lanes largely clear. Mountains rise up like behemoths on either side of us, dark rolling ridges disappearing into a thick layer of haze.
Ethan will be okay, I tell myself, repeating the words over and over like a mantra. He’s just lost. Someone will find him soon.
But other words—heart-pounding, breath-stealing words—are louder, firmer, fiercer, tattooed like angry graffiti across my vision. Hungry animals. Bottomless ravines. Toppling trees. For an eight-year-old on his own, the mountains are a perilous place.
“How much longer?”
The detective checks the GPS. “Another forty minutes or so.”
In the dim light of the car, he looks young, almost boyish, but his face carries the weathered look of someone who’s seen it all. As a detective in a city like Atlanta, one that consistently ranks in the top twenty most dangerous places in America, I guess he would have.
A burst of noise erupts from the radio, then falls into silence. It’s been doing this since we left Atlanta, intermittent squawks and disembodied voices speaking in codes and numbers, a secret language of emergency that sends me spiraling into panicky shakes each time I hear them.
“What did they say?”
“Dogs haven’t caught his scent yet. Or at least not his most recent one.”
“What kind of dogs?”
“Air scenters, trackers, trailers. Probably all three, I’d imagine. I don’t know where these ones came from, but a well-trained search-and-rescue dog can find somebody a heck of a lot faster than a human can, and they don’t need daylight to do it.”
“But Ethan disappeared almost four hours ago. What’s taking them so long?”
The detective glances over. “Scent contamination would be the biggest hurdle they’ll have to face. The dogs are trained to discriminate, which means they’ll be able to pick your son’s out of all the other kids’ scents, but it’ll take them a minute to find the right trail, and the most recent one.” He gestures over the dash, to the wipers sloshing rain across the windshield and beyond. “Rain’s not helping, either.”
And it’s the kind of rain that goes on for hours and hours. No sun. No strips of blue sky. Just dark clouds dumping water in blinding, never-ending sheets.
“Because it makes things harder to see?”
“No, because it makes things harder to smell. Search-and-rescue dogs are highly effective, but they can’t scent something that’s washed away, which is what happens after about three inches of rainfall. Wind isn’t good news, either, and neither is cooler air, which creates an updraft when it hits the wet ground. The dog trainers’ll know how to combat weather, and they’ll take all this into account when positioning the dogs, but honestly, these conditions don’t make their job any easier.”
My eyes sting, struck by his less-than-optimistic update. As hard as it is to hear, I appreciate his honesty all the same.
The car radio crackles to life, and I hold my breath and lean in, electric with equal parts hope and dread. I strain to make out the words over the noise of the wipers and rain, but the message emerges slushy with interference. I look to the detective’s expression for guidance. His eyes crinkle into a squint and he rolls his neck before he looks over.
“They’re requesting a description of Ethan’s backpack.”
My heart freezes, and I grip the seat on either side of my legs. “Why, did they find it?”
“Sounds like they’re trying to locate it and need confirmation of the description. As many identifying details as you can give would be helpful.”
“It’s light blue and black, with an Angry Bird on the front. His first and last name is written in Sharpie on the inside flap.”
He relays my answer to the person on the other end of the radio, along with what I just told him about the compass. The voice sputters something back, and he presses the device to his thigh. “Is there anything else that might be used to track him? A cell phone, an iPod touch, gaming electronics, things like that?”
“No. He doesn’t own a cell phone, and I don’t like him playing video games. He’s allowed to use my old iPad, but it’s at home.”
Because I was worried about him losing it. Because I was worried about the cost. A stupid hunk of metal and glass, irrelevant and immaterial until now, when it might have been used to find him.
He