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“Yeah, guess I wasn’t born yesterday,” Meg said, shrugging on her pack.
“I wasn’t trying to trick you,” Silas protested. “Really.”
And then she believed him, which made her feel glad. Because suddenly the thought of him trying to take them back to their old normal held zero appeal.
They both remained quiet on the hike back, Meg fluctuating between wishing she knew what Silas was thinking and gratitude that she didn’t. For her own part, she thought about what remained of their summer and the decisions that still awaited her at the end of it. Whatdidshe want?
Should she stay the course with Danny, or fling herself into the unknown? Silas, of course, had been plenty vocal about what he would pick, and the knowledge made her feel less alone.
When the Jeep came to a stop in front of her house, Meg placed the small chunk of obsidian she’d saved into Silas’s hand. “This, at least, will last forever,” she said softly. As an answer to his earlier question it was acop-out, but it was all she could offer just now. A placeholder of sorts, while she gathered up her courage for whatever came next.
He looked from her face to the obsidian almost cautiously, and for a brief second she was gripped by the fear that she was the only one grappling with impossible choices, loyalty and guilt and the possibility of escape vying for dominance in her head. But then his fingers skimmed over hers as he took her offering with a sad smile, and it was all back: the energy, the heat, the weight between them. She climbed down from her seat with a small wave, and then the Jeep roared back to life, Silas popping the clutch and propelling himself away from her.
21
MEG
Matheson search
November 21, 2018
5:00 a.m.
Marble Lake Staging Area
Meg opens her eyes to the first weak light penetrating the dirty white canvas of a staging-area tent wall. For a moment she has trouble orienting herself. Then the events of the evening before return in a rush: the fruitless helo flight, the disappointment on Silas’s face, his insistence that she rest while he continued the search through the night.
Most of the ground pounders retreated to the comfort of the lodge for the night—its fifty-plus beds make for a pretty ideal overnight headquarters—but she crashed here, on one of the cots intended for quick naps and first aid, away from anyone who would want to talk to her, comfort her, help her, or need her. Away from Danny, even, pleading exhaustion to buy herself a few hours alone. It still nags at her, the way he dismissed her opinion about re-searching Long Lake. How he was so quick to go over her head with Santos, pushingthe Marble Peak angle. She slept a little, but she still isn’t sure she has the energy to spare to confront him.
She last saw Silas around 8:00 p.m., departing with a deputy on a vehicle patrol along the perimeter of the search radius. She wonders: How long did he plead his case before Darcy relented and let him participate? The perseverance necessary sounds like the Silas she knows, and somehow the thought comforts her.
She slept fully clothed, and after rummaging around the sleeping bag and cot for her gloves and beanie, she wrestles her boots back on and steps into the new morning. Outside the tent, base camp is already buzzing with activity. There’s no sign of Danny, but the K9 team is in their leads and harnesses, bells jangling, and what looks like at least one fresh team of ground pounders are piling out of a Washoe County Sheriff’s van. Reinforcements from Reno.
Silas, looking more ragged than ever, stands in front of the Lemon next to Santos and a woman Meg has never seen before. She first thinks “media liaison” based on the civilian attire and well-groomed appearance, right down to the perfect pixie cut, but as she comes closer, she can make out the tortured expression on the woman’s face, and she knows: this is the boys’ mother, Miranda Matheson. No, her mind corrects quickly, Miranda Stevens, per Santos’s info sheet on the family.
Meg instantly halts, not wanting to encroach but also not wanting to see for herself whether she’s been replaced as Silas’s primary pillar of comfort, tenuous as their reunion has been. And not liking herself for this reaction one bit. It’sgoodthe kids’ mother is finally here, she reminds herself fiercely. Good for the boys, good for Darcy, trying to keep a rein on Silas. Good for everyone.
As they are both ushered back into the com van, she focuses on Santos instead, glad to see that he’s covering all his bases this morning, from fresh boots on the ground to additional tech resources. She migrates to the mess van for a cup of weak coffee and a granola bar as he begins the morning announcements ... which include more remindersabout evidence recording and radio protocol. But then she hears the term “POD,” and suddenly, he has her undivided attention.
Gripping her coffee cup, she joins the crowd, finding a place next to Max, who’s straining to hear.
“What’s he talking about?” Max hisses.
“The POD—probability of detection—determines the probability that a victim will be found—alive.” She stumbles over the word. “It’s reassessed lots of times during a search. Just like the search radius. It’s normal.”
Is she trying to convince Max or herself? Because unlike the radius, very little can be done to accommodate a POD or rectify it.
“POD is affected by four elements,” Santos reminds the newbies in the crowd. He lifts his fingers one by one, counting off to four. “The searchers, the subject, the weather, and the environment.”
“Spencer and Cameron have the first aspect in their favor,” Meg tells Max in an undertone. “We’re one of the best search units in Northern California.” She gestures toward the Washoe team. “And look, we have help now.”
“We can do everything right as a team,” Santos continues, “but we have to accept that some aspects, like this weather, are out of our control.” He pauses, and not for dramatic effect. Because he doesn’t want to say what he needs to say next. Meg braces for it. “The Matheson boys’ POD is low at this point, people.”
Even expecting it, the reality of this situation hits Meg squarely in the gut. She looks around again for Danny, hoping to gain at least a modicum of comfort in his presence, but he’s still a no-show.
A mutter blankets the crowd. Somewhere to Meg’s right, a searcher calls out, “How much longer until this turns into a recovery effort, Lieutenant?”
The mutters turn into outright protest at the use of the dreaded R-word. Nothing deflates morale faster than a search turning into a recovery. Meg echoes the dissent all around her. It’s only been twonights! No way is it time to change this rescue to a recovery. Immediately her training kicks in. It’s beentwo nights. In freezing temperatures and rain. The time, whether she likes it or not, is coming. The fact that it’s coming for Silas’s kids is an extra punch to the gut.
