Page 5 of Disappeared

Glock and I reach the pond. It’s a large body of water, an acre or so, and is surrounded by a profusion of weeping willow trees. I wade through cattails, my beam sweeping left and right. I stop in water up to my knees, skim the rippled surface with my beam. A few yards away, Glock runs his beam along the muddy bank.

“I got nothing,” he calls out. “No footprints.”

I motion for him to go left. I go right. Fighting my way through mud and reeds, I sweep my beam from side to side, looking for any sign that the boy came this way. The only movement I see is a fat raccoon looking for a meal.

“Little Joe!” I call out.

I’m thinking about how best to set up a grid when the rumble of swiftly moving water surmounts the thrum of rain. I shine my light ahead. A sinking sensation grips my chest when I see water cascading over a small spillway. I walk toward it. I almost can’t believe my eyes when I see the water rushing down a deeply cut gorge toward Painters Creek a hundred yards away.

“Chief!”

I turn to see Glock kneeling, his spotlight illuminating an object on the ground. I go to him. It’s a sneaker, covered with mud, lying on its side, laces splayed, inches from the water’s edge.

Glock looks up at me, his mouth tight. “That’s about the right size for a two-year-old.”

“Oh, no.” I kneel beside him, not feeling the cold of the mud on my knee. “Doesn’t look like it’s been here long.”

“Yep.”

I rise and look around, take in the proximity of our location to the spillway and streaming water. “If he slipped or went into the water, he may have been washed over that spillway and gone into Painters Creek.”

“Damn, Chief.” Glock rises, scrapes water from his face, blinks to clear his vision. “We gotta go look.”

I hail Dispatch. “Ten-seven-eight,” I say, using the code for “need assistance.” “Ten-thirty-nine,” I add, letting them know an emergency response is needed.

I pull a plastic bag from my equipment belt, use it to pick up the sneaker, and, turning the bag inside out, I drop both into my slicker pocket. Glock is already picking his way down the hill, sliding in mud, but he’s athletic and strong and maintains his balance. I follow, slipping, trying mightily to avoid a fall. The roar of the water increases in pitch as we near the creek. When I reach the base of the hill, I run my beam over the water’s surface and I can barely believe my eyes. Painters Creek has metamorphosed into a whitewater rapid. The saplings that grow along the bank are barely visible, their tops bent as the current tries to tear them from the ground. Debris, vegetation, and uprooted trees tumble in the churning brown brew, ramming anything that stands in the way.

“I’ve lived in Painters Mill my whole life,” Glock tells me. “Never seen it like this.”

Hoping for a glimpse of a little boy clinging to a tree or some floating object, we shine our beams across the tumultuous surface and along the bank, listening.

“Little Joe!” Three times, I shout his name.

Next to me, Glock cups his hands on either side of his mouth and does the same.

The only sound that comes back at us is the thundering deluge of water, and a forlorn voice inside my head warning me to brace because there’s a very real possibility this situation will not have a positive outcome.

The eastern sky lightens to the color of ash as Glock and I fight through heavy brush and a foot of standing water. We’re ten feet apart, beams sweeping left and right. A few yards away, Painters Creek thunders east. The temperature hovers around fifty degrees. A far cry from freezing, but cold enough to put even an adult into hypothermia if they’re wet.

“There’s the bridge.” Glock points.

I look ahead to see the hulking form of the old steel-truss structure. A shiver passes through me when I notice that the water is just a couple of feet from engulfing the roadway. Trees and debris have piled up on the upriver side, adding to the damming effect. I close my eyes against the thought of a child being swept beneath the bridge—or God forbid getting caught in all that debris.

Tilting my head, I speak into my shoulder mike and hail Dispatch. “Ten-forty-seven,” I say, using the code for “emergency road repair.” “The bridge over Painters Creek on Township Road 49.”

“Roger that,” comes Margaret’s voice.

“I want the road blocked to all through traffic. Call every officer at home. Get them out here. I want all hands on deck.”

“Ten-four. Chief, I just received a call from Auggie Brock. Water’s about to swamp the Tuscarawas covered bridge, too. County has crews and volunteers with sandbags, trying to save it.”

Auggie Brock is the mayor of Painters Mill. The Tuscarawas Bridge is a historic fixture. If it’s swept away, not only will everyone on the west side of it be stranded, but we’ll lose one of our most beloved historical sites.

“Keep me posted,” I say, and end the call.

We reach the bridge. Glock traverses the ditch and climbs up to the gravel shoulder. I do the same, then cross the bridge, aware of the boil of water scant feet below, keeping my beam on the upriver side. The creek hasn’t yet crested. There’s no question of if the water will swamp the bridge, but when—and how much damage will be left in its wake.

Though it’s barely dawn and the rain is still coming down hard, there’s enough light for me to see the gravel pullover ahead. I’m nearly there when I spot the tire ruts. They’re fresh and deep; someone has been here recently, within the last couple of hours I’m guessing, because the rain hasn’t yet eroded them.