Page 4 of The Pact

“Any idea where he was fishing?” I ask.

“Painters Creek. Down by the icebox,” she tells me, referring to a large pool of water that’s a local favorite for swimming and fishing. “Mr. Dennison walked the area, but there’s no sign of him.”

“Some deep spots down that way.” This from the woman sitting across from me. When I look at her, she gives me a knowing look, her expression concerned. “My grandkids swim there in the summer.”

The area is heavily wooded, too. The greenbelt is a mile wide in places and runs north and south for most of the county. It’s several hundred acres of old-growth trees, thick brush, ravines, and feeder creeks, and I find myself hoping that either the boy shows up or we’re able to locate him quickly.

I reach for the yellow pad I keep next to my phone. “Who’s on patrol this evening?” I ask Mona.

“Skid.”

The switchboard dings with a series of incoming calls. Simultaneously, the bell on the front door jangles, telling us we have a visitor, likely the Dennisons.

Mona glances over her shoulder toward reception, waits.

“Get Skid on the radio,” I tell her. “Tell him to head out that way. Notify County and ask them to stand by.”

“Roger that.”

The phone on my desk lights up. The display tells me it’s John Tomasetti, my significant other and an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I ignore the call and glance at the woman sitting across from me.

“I suspect this is one of the ‘when it pours’ moments,” she says, rising.

I smile. “We’re going to have to do this another time.”

“Of course you are.” She sticks out her hand. “Wish I could help. Don’t like the idea of an eleven-year-old not being accounted for, especially with heavy weather moving in.”

I nod, my thoughts heading in the same direction. Temperatures were in the fifties today, but according to the National Weather Service, the first snow of the season is due tonight and it’s going to be a doozy.

We shake hands. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let some other department steal you away until we’ve had time to talk.”

She gives me a mock salute. “Roger that.”

I sense the tension radiating off the couple the moment I enter reception. Jeff Dennison paces near the door, checking his watch every couple of seconds, free hand shoved into the pocket of his trench coat. His wife, Monica, stands next to the reception desk, wringing her hands. They’re in their forties and live in a big Victorian house a few blocks off Main Street. Jeff has worked at the Painters Mill Bank as long as I can remember. Monica teaches geometry at the high school. She coaches track and took her team to the state finals last year. Both of them look as if they’re still wearing their work clothes.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dennison,” I say as I stride toward them. “I hear your son is missing.”

The couple swivels toward me. Worry is etched deeply into their features.

Monica rushes to me, her husband coming up behind her. “It’s Kevin,” she says. “He went fishing today and hasn’t come home. He was supposed to be home at five. He’s never late, especially when dinner’s on the table.” The words tumble out of her in disarray. She’s talking too fast. Breathless. Brain clogged with anxiety.

“Officer Skidmore is on his way to Painters Creek.” I motion to the row of chairs along the wall. “Let’s sit so I can get some information from you.”

In unison, they cross to the chairs, but they don’t sit. They’re wound tight. Nerves on edge. Their concern for their son is palpable.

“When did you last see Kevin?”

“This morning,” she tells me. “School’s closed for Thanksgiving, but I went in to catch up on some things. He was having cereal. That was at nine or so.”

“Was he okay this morning?” I ask. “Normal?”

“He was fine. Getting his fishing tackle ready.”

“Said he was going to catch some bass for dinner,” Jeff adds with a tight smile.

I turn my attention to the husband. “Do you know where exactly on Painters Creek he was fishing?”

“He usually goes to that deep pool half a mile from the covered bridge,” Jeff says. “Out by all those Amish farms.”