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While Casey watched the news on TV and checked his phone, Val showered and dressed in jeans, boots, a yellow blouse, and a black blazer. She fluffed her hair and added a dab of lipstick. Only her reddened eyes betrayed the distress she was feeling.
By the time they’d eaten breakfast, packed, and checked out of the motel, it was past 8:30. Casey had discovered a “grave finder” app on the website for Hillcrest Memorial Park, the largest cemetery in Bakersfield.
“I think I’ve found the parents in the directory,” he said as they climbed back into the truck. “Phillip Peterson and Cora Mae Randall Peterson.” He tilted the phone to show Val. “There’s nothing about a child, but we can’t be sure until we’ve seen the gravesite.” He reached over the console for her hand. “Are you ready to do this?”
Val shook her head. “No, but let’s do it anyway.”
“Thanks, Val,” he said. “I don’t know if I could manage alone.”
“I know I couldn’t,” she said as he backed out of the parking place and joined the stream of morning traffic. “But there’s one thing I’d like to do first, if you don’t mind indulging me.”
“Anything.”
She told him. He nodded. “Just let me know where to stop.”
* * *
The cemetery, a private enterprise on the far side of Bakersfield, was a vast spread of grass, watered, cut, and shaded in some areas by trees. The headstones, laid out in neat rows, were placed flat at ground level to allow for efficient mowing. Narrow roads crisscrossed the landscape. Finding any grave here was as simple as finding an address.
Val gripped the bouquet of spring blossoms she’d bought in the floral section of a supermarket. They would probably wilt and be thrown out by the end of the day, but she wanted to pay this small tribute to the couple who had adopted, raised, and loved her baby.
Her legs shook as Casey helped her out of the truck. He held her free hand as they walked together to the graves. Val remembered the dream she’d had—the small, bottomless grave she’d fallen into. But as they drew near, she could see that there were only two graves, side by side, both names engraved on a single headstone. Phillip Clifford Peterson and Cora Mae Randall Peterson, along with their birthdates and the same death date. Their son wasn’t here.
“Did you look for a separate grave under his name in the directory?” she asked Casey.
“I did.” His voice choked with emotion. “It wasn’t there.”
Val bent and laid the bouquet at the base of the headstone. Did anyone else remember this tragic couple—maybe a relative who might have taken the boy? That remained to be discovered. So far, only one thing was certain. Their search was just beginning.
* * *
Casey drove back downtown and headed for Memorial Hospital. He knew that Seegmiller had already checked with the records clerk and found no trace of the boy. But they had to start somewhere. Any small lead would be better than nothing.
Beside him in the passenger seat, Val wept softly. Seeing the graves and learning that their son wasn’t buried with his adoptive parents had undone them both. But the chance that he might be alive was still too precious and too fragile to mention.
The plump, graying records clerk at Memorial Hospital remembered Seegmiller’s recent visit. “Like I told your friend,” she said, “we have no record of the boy ever being here—and we’re not in the habit of losing people. We track everyone who comes through our doors, alive or not.”
“I believe you,” Casey said. “But he’s our son, and we can’t stop looking until we know what happened to him. Can you give us any idea where to go from here?”
The woman paused, then slowly nodded. “There is one possibility. The news article claimed that the boy was taken in an ambulance to this hospital. But there’s a chance the ambulance could’ve gone somewhere else. There could’ve been a traffic jam. Or the driver might have gotten word that our ER was full. With critical injuries like your son’s, the patient would have been taken to whatever hospital was closest.”
“And which hospital might that be?”
She shrugged. “Take your pick. There are seventeen hospitals in Kern County. You have a name and a date, that should be enough for a records search. If I were you, I’d make a list, start with the biggest ones that have trauma units, and work your way down. All I can do is wish you luck. You’re going to need it.”
As they walked out to the parking lot, Casey felt Val’s fingers creep into his palm. “Well, at least we know what we’ll be doing for the rest of the day,” she said.
His hand tightened around hers. “Thank you,” he said. “Somehow we’re going to get through this and be all right. I love you, Val.”
“And I love you.” She meant it, but she wasn’t so sure about being all right. They might never be all right again.
* * *
After the hit man’s death, Tess had made a quick visit to the hospital while Brock had loaded her bulls. After that, she’d driven the loaded rig home, with Brock following in his SUV. At her urging, he had left her at the turnoff and continued on to his own ranch. They both knew she’d be safe enough driving the rest of the way alone.
The sun was coming up as she pulled into the yard. Pedro was waiting to help her unload the trailer. With his father-in-law in the hospital and Tess away, he’d carried extra burdens of worry and work. It showed in his usually cheerful face.
“I’ve got good news for you, Pedro,” Tess told him as the pasture gate closed behind the four bulls. “Ruben’s recovering well. We should be able to bring him home in a few days. And the people responsible for the bomb are dead. They’ll never hurt our family again.”
