“What happened?” the constable asked.
“I tried to catch him,” Ralph croaked. He coughed, water still coming up from his lungs.
The constable took the shirt.Dennis Owen, said the label on the back. Gertrude and the others saw it, which was how they were later able to tell the newspaperman the boy’s name.
“We need to form a search party,” the constable said, turning to the others.
“Sure thing,” Charlie said. More people were gathering, including the fisherman and his wife. Some carried thermoses filled with sugary hot chocolate or coffee, and blankets for one another, and for the boy, if he was found.
“Who has the walkie-talkies?”
“Me,” said Gertrude, pulling open the drawer behind the counter.
“Okay.” Charlie took charge. “Come on, we’ll divide up the beach.”
“I want to help,” Ralph coughed.
“You nearly drowned,” the constable said. “Do you want someone to drive you to the hospital?”
“I’ll be okay,” the custodian said, wiping his face. “We need to find him before it’s too late.”
The searchers looked at one another. No one was going to say the obvious. They all hoped too. That’s why they carried the blankets.
The constable put a hand on Ralph’s wet shoulder. “Go home for now. I’ll be in touch. Don’t leave town until the investigation is done.”
Ralph nodded, miserable.
The locals spent two arduous days searching, taking risks themselves. Brett Jarvis, sober for a change, climbed the rocks by the cliffs to see if the body had washed up there. Others walked the surf, examining the deep waves, and a few took their fishing boats out beyond the rocks, just in case the boy was floating out there.
There was nothing. The boy’s body could be tumbling along the ocean floor miles away by now, fifty or a hundred feet under. It could be bobbing alongside an ocean liner or tossed up on a remote beach halfway across the globe.
On the second day, Martha King paid the constable a visit. She sat across from him, smiling at the quaint decor. She had worn lipstick for the meeting.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
She told him how Dennis Owen had taken the keys. He had unlocked the back door, replaced the keys, and run. She had fired the night watchman and would be hiring someone who didn’t sleep on the job. That was it.
“What will you do?” he asked.
“What else? Keep working.”
“Any idea why he ran?”
“No,” she said, then smiled. “He was very disturbed.”
She rose to go. The constable was thinking of the boy standing at the window. He was gone now and never coming back.
“I wanted to remind you,” Martha said, “that state law prohibits us from sharing anything related to the boys with the press or anyone else. We are both bound by confidentiality.”
Constable Roberts understood exactly what she was saying. If he talked, she would get him fired.
“Here to give notice?” Martha asked Ralph as he entered her office.
Two weeks had passed. The constable had officially closed the case. The local paper had run an article, and the town had put up the memorial, which concerned Martha. But neither seemed to get any attention. The caseworker for Dennis had closed his file and moved on.
Martha knew she should be relieved. It was over. But the boys buried in the woods told her it was not.
“The constable says I’m free to go,” Ralph said.
