The police station had been transformed into a makeshift press room. They’d pushed their desks to the perimeter of the room.
Ten chairs had been set up in two rows of five each in the middle. A podium—dragged from the Rotary Club storeroom—had been placed in front of them.
Cal sat at his desk, answering the phones. Peanut stood in the hallway, surveying the setup. For some bizarre reason, she was certain she knew how to manage this.
As if.
Ellie at least had some media experience. Her Uncle Joe had held a press conference once, back when she was a new recruit. Her ex, Alvin, had sworn he’d seen Bigfoot. A few local papers and one tabloid had shown up. So had Alvin—drunk as a parolee.
Ellie checked the chairs again. On each metal seat was a flyer held in place by a small stone. She was rereading the statement she’d prepared when Earl walked into the station. He was in full dress uniform, with his few remaining strands of hair shellacked in place. He seemed taller.
Lifts in his shoes.
The realization made her smile. Not that she could tease him much. She’d applied a pretty healthy amount of makeup herself. It was her first time on television, and she wanted to look good. “Hey, Earl. You ready for the hoopla?”
He nodded. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his thin throat. “Myra pressed my uniform. She said a man on television needed knife pleats on his pants.”
“That’s a good woman you married, Earl.”
“Yes, it is.”
Ellie went back to reading. She concentrated on each word, trying to memorize her lines. She barely looked up as reporters streamed in and sat down. By six o’clock all of the chairs were filled. Photographers and videographers stood behind the rows of chairs.
“It’s time,” Peanut said, coming up to her. “And you have lipstick on your teeth.”
Perfect. Ellie wiped her teeth and leaned forward, tapping the microphone. It thumped and whined. Sound ricocheted through the room. Several people covered their ears.
“Sorry.” She eased back a little bit. “Thank you all for coming. As most of you know, we need your help. A young girl has arrived in Rain Valley. We have no idea who she is or where she is from. Our best estimates put her age at somewhere between five and seven years. On your seats, you’ll find an artist’s sketch. She has black hair and blue-green eyes. Dental records are not yet available, but she appears to have had no fillings or other work done. She has naturally lost a number of baby teeth—such a loss is consistent with our age assertions. We have consulted with all available state and local agencies, as well as the Center for Missing Children, and have—as yet—been unable to identify her. We’re hoping that you all run this as front page news to get the word out. Someone must know who she is.”
“A drawing? What the hell is that about?” someone said.
“We’re in the process of getting a photograph. For now, this is what’s available,” Ellie answered.
Mort from the Rain Valley Gazette stood up. “How come she doesn’t just tell you her name?”
“She hasn’t spoken yet,” Ellie answered.
“Can she speak?”
“We don’t have a definitive answer to that yet. Early indications, however, lead us to believe there is no physical barrier to speech.”
A man wearing a Seattle Times baseball hat stood up. “So she’s clammed up on purpose?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Is she wounded or ill?”
“Or crazy?”
Ellie was formulating her answer when Earl stepped to the microphone and said, “We’ve got a famous psychi—”
Ellie kicked him hard. “Our very best doctors are taking care of her,” she said. “That’s all we have for now. Hopefully someone will come forward who can answer some of these thorny questions for us.”
“I heard she had a wolf pup with her.” This from a woman near the back.
“And that she jumped from a branch that was forty feet in the air,” someone else added.
Ellie sighed. “Let’s not get carried away by small-town rumors. The point is the identification of this child.”
“You’re not giving us much to go on,” someone said.
Ellie had said everything she had to say, but the questions just kept on coming. Her personal favorite (this from Mort): “Are you sure she’s human?”
From there it was all downhill.
“You’re lucky it was raining this morning when I left the house. Otherwise I’d have my motorcycle,” Max said, opening the passenger door of his truck for her.
“Let me guess,” she said as he got into the driver’s seat and started the engine, “Harley-Davidson.”
“How’d you know?”
“The pierced ear. I’m a shrink, remember? We tend to notice the little things.”
He drove out of the parking lot. “Oh. Do you like bikes?”
“The ones that go seventy miles an hour? No.”
“Too fast, too free, huh?”
She stared out the window at the passing trees, wishing he would slow down. “Too many organ donors.”