Page 8 of The Pact

Pulling gloves from my utility belt, I go to the pack and kneel. It’s small, the kind a boy might take to school. Camo print on canvas. My eyes land on the smear of what looks like blood next to a zippered pouch, and my concern notches up. I slide my cell from my pocket and snap several photos of the backpack from different angles.

“Skid, take some photos of those footwear marks and blood,” I call out. “I got a backpack over here.”

There’s a bottle of water strapped to the exterior. I unzip the pack. Inside, I find a pair of rolled-up jeans. A wadded-up T-shirt. A pair of gloves. A lighter. A graphic novel. The cover depicts a flying deer and two brooding superheroesque figures. A bag of chips. Deeper, I find a folding pocketknife. A flashlight and extra batteries.

I startle when a rock song blares—“Heathens” by Twenty One Pilots. I fumble the bag, find a zippered pocket, yank it open. Sure enough, a sleek iPhone is lit up and vibrating. I snatch it up, hit the green button, and wait.

“Kevin?” Monica Dennison’s voice comes at me, filled with panic and relief. “Kevin! Honey, where are you?”

“Mrs. Dennison, it’s Kate Burkholder.”

“But … how…” She chokes out a sound of anguish. “Where’s Kevin? Did you find him?”

“Skid and I found a campsite. The boys aren’t here, but there’s a trail. Looks like he’s with Aaron Kuhns.”

“He left his phone behind?”

“He left his backpack. The cell phone was inside. Either he dropped it or he forgot it.” Or someone—or something—was chasing him, and in his haste to leave he didn’t go back for it.

“But how…”

“Mrs. Dennison, do I have your permission to look at his phone?” I ask. “Maybe he sent a text—”

“Yes!” She gives me a password and I’m in.

Quickly, I scroll through recent calls. Sixteen calls from his mother. The last outgoing call was to her cell phone number this morning. Next, I check texts. “There was a text sent to Kathy Baker at noon,” I tell her. “Something about a game this weekend. Is he close with Kathy?”

“No, but he’s got a crush on her. She’s cute as a button.” A breath shudders out of her. “I know her mom. We take yoga classes…”

I’ve already decided not to mention the blood. Not only do I lack an explanation, but I suspect the information will cause her undue worry. “Mrs. Dennison, would you give Kathy’s mom a call and see if Kevin has been in touch?”

“Okay.” She brightens. “Maybe she knows where he is.”

“Call me with any news, even if it doesn’t seem important. Try not to worry. We’ve just begun looking.”

I hear the crunch of leaves and underbrush and I look up to see one of my other officers approach. T.J. Banks is our departmental rookie—an honor that will be undertaken by Mona once I get a dispatcher hired.

“Any sign of the kid, Chief?” he asks.

I tell him about the blood and backpack. “We’ve got at least two sets of prints.” I motion to where the backpack lies. “It looks like the boys left their campsite in a hurry.”

Skid calls out. “Chief, I’ve got more prints back here.” I look over to see him round a thick bramble forty feet away.

T.J. and I start toward him. Skid motions to a place where damp soil is exposed. Sure enough, several sneaker-type sole imprints stare back at us.

“Looks like a couple more people were here.” Kneeling, Skid pulls a mini measuring tape from his equipment belt. “This one’s size ten or eleven.” He grimaces. “Could be an adult or a kid with big feet.”

The concern that’s been plaguing me since receiving word of the missing boys transforms into something darker and a hell of a lot more urgent.

“If there were others out here,” T.J. says, “might explain why they were running.”

“Get some photos of those prints, too,” I tell Skid, and turn to T.J. “Call Pickles,” I say, referring to my only remaining officer, seventy-seven-year-old Roland Shumaker. “Tell him to canvass the farms in the area. See if anyone has seen the boys or heard anything unusual. Call County, too. Tell them we need dogs and all the manpower they can spare.” I sigh. “Skid and I are going to follow the trail, see if we can figure out where they went. If we don’t find those boys in the next few hours, we’re going to put out an Amber alert.”

Turning away, I yank my cell from my pocket and call Mona.

“Hey, Chief.”

“Get me a list of RSOs for Holmes County,” I say, using the police acronym for “registered sex offender.” “Narrow it down to all males within a ten-mile radius of Painters Mill. Anything involving a juvenile.”