Page 71 of Fallen

I look through the window, see three kids splashing in the pool outside, oblivious to what’s about to unfold, and I silently curse Dane Fletcher. How could a man who has so much—a family—children who need him—destroy it? And for what?

“Dane’s in trouble,” I tell her. “It’s serious. We have a warrant for his arrest. That’s all I can say at this point.”

“What?” She pales, an odd shade of pink rising to her cheeks. “I’m going to call him.” Spinning away from us, she rushes to the island, picks up her cell.

I look at Tomasetti. “I’m going to go get him.” I lower my voice. “Keep an eye on them, will you?”

Argument flares in his eyes. The scowl that follows tells me he doesn’t like the idea of me picking up Fletcher alone. “Take the deputy,” he says.

“Okay.”

“Who’s on duty?” he asks.

“T.J.”

“Call him, will you?”

“Yep.” Taking a final look at Jennifer, I head toward the door.

I hail T.J. en route to the school and fill him in on the situation, ask him to meet me there.

The Painters Mill elementary school was built back in the 1960s at the height of the mid-century-modern phase of architecture. It’s a two-story building fabricated of mud-yellow brick and mullioned windows set back from the street in a treed lot the size of a football field. A big sign stands guard in front, next to the flagpole, and proclaims: PANTHER COUNTRY!

I pull around to the rear of the building. Ahead is the baseball diamond, replete with freshly painted bleachers, overhead lights for night games. There’s a small clapboard concession stand that sells soft drinks and hot dogs during games. Closer to the school is the public pool—not yet open for the season, but there’s a good-size pool house and a cinder-block public restroom. A dozen or so cars are parked in the gravel lot on the south side. I idle through and spot Fletcher’s Focus at the end of the row. No one inside. I park next to it and get out.

The deputy parks next to me and we meet at the rear of his cruiser. “See him?” he asks.

I shake my head, motion toward the restroom and pool house. “Want to check in there?”

“Yeah,” he says, and heads that way.

It’s nearly dusk now. Golden light slants down through the treetops as I make my way toward the diamond. The quiet is punctuated by the shouts and squeals of children playing baseball and the occasional bark of an overzealous mom or dad. It’s an innocent scene, but when a young batter smacks out a single, I find myself thinking of the bat used to murder Rachael Schwartz.

I speak into my shoulder mike. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene. “I got eyes on our ten-fifty. T.J expedite.”

“Roger that,” comes T.J.’s voice, telling me he’s on his way. “Ten-seven-seven ten minutes.” He’s ten minutes away.

My uniform draws a few stares as I approach the bleachers. I answer those stares with a wave. A dozen or so moms and dads watch their kids play. A couple of Labrador puppies wrestle in the grass behind the bleachers. No sign of Fletcher. I look toward the field, try to ascertain if his son is one of the players, catch sight of him at the shortstop position, his eyes on the batter who’s just stepped up to the mound.

I stroll between the chain-link fence and the bleachers, trying to look nonchalant. One of the coaches glances my way and waves, but I can tell he’s wondering why I’m here. I’m relieved he’s too busy to talk.

Where the hell is Fletcher?

I reach the end of the bleachers and head toward the concession stand. A girl with a nose piercing, the tattoo of a rose on her throat, lowers a strainer of fries into a vat of boiling oil. I go to the window. “Any fries left?” I ask.

“Going to be four minutes,” she says without looking at me.

“Have you seen Dane Fletcher?” I ask. “The deputy?”

The girl straightens. She looks bored. Put out by her job. Annoyed that I’m requiring her attention. “The cop?”

I nod. “You seen him?”

She raises a ring-clad hand and points toward the park across the street. “I think he went over to the park a few minutes ago.”

“Thanks.” I head that way.

Creekside Park has been around as long as I can remember. There’s a playground replete with monkey bars and a slide. In summertime, a fountain featuring a giant catfish spurts water and beckons kids to wade or toss pennies for good luck. There’s a hiking path with a footbridge that crosses a small, trickling stream that eventually feeds into Painters Creek. All six acres of it is crowded with old-growth trees that were likely here before Painters Mill became a village back in 1815.