His scoutmaster had started two piles: one for deadfall and lumber, which would be burned later; another pile for any type of steel, which would be loaded into a truck and taken to a recycling center. So far this morning, Josh and his partner for the day, Scott, had been concentrating on dragging branches from a felled maple tree to the fire pile. Hopefully, they’d get to have a bonfire later and maybe some hotdogs and s’mores. Mr. Hutchinson was usually pretty cool about stuff like that.
“Hey, Josh, let’s get all them boards over there.”
Dropping the branch he’d dragged over to the bonfire, Josh walked over to where his friend was standing and looked down at the old wooden siding scattered over an old concrete footer.
“Musta been a hell of an old barn,” Josh said.
“Or a big fuckin’ outhouse.”
Both boys cracked up at that. Josh’s mom didn’t like Scott. She called him a smartass and said he cursed too much. Josh didn’t tell her those were the two things that made Scott so fun to hang out with.
“Let’s do it.” Josh bent and picked up a six-foot-long plank. One side had once been painted red, but that must have been a long time ago because most of the paint had faded to gray.
For twenty minutes the boys picked up two-by-fours and busted-up siding and a door that had been split in half, and dragged all of it to the woodpile. Josh was thinking about the bonfire and wondered if Scoutmaster Hutchinson would buy some hotdogs. It wasn’t yet noon and already he was starving.
He tugged a long plank from the collapsed floor, when something round and white rolled out from beneath it. At first, Josh thought it was a rock, but it was a little too round and rolled easily. Too light to be a rock. Definitely not a soccer ball. Dropping the plank, he walked over to it and knelt, rolling the thing over with his hand. That was when he saw grinning skeleton teeth and the black holes of eye sockets.
“Holy shit!” Josh lunged to his feet and stumbled back so fast he lost his balance and fell on his butt. “Scott!”
Vaguely, he was aware of his friend laughing as he walked over to him. “If you’re freaking out over a mouse, I swear I’m gonna tell Missy Hansch, and she’s going to think you’re the biggest * that ever walked—” Scott let out a short little scream. “Whoa! What the hell is that?”
“It’s a fuckin’ head!” Josh swallowed a big wad of something gross at the back of his throat.
The two boys exchanged looks. Scott’s mouth was open so wide Josh could see the cavities in his back molars. “You mean like a human?”
“Well, duh. You ever seen a cow with teeth like that?”
Both boys crept closer, their eyes glued to their macabre find. “I wonder who it is,” Scott whispered.
“I wonder why it’s here and not buried in a cemetery or something,” Josh said.
“We’d better let Hutchinson know.” Scott sighed.
“Jeez, I hope we still get to have a bonfire,” Josh said.
*
I’m standing in the middle of a street littered with twisted sheet metal, pieces of vinyl siding, a paneled door, and other unrecognizable debris. A few feet away, a flowered sofa that’s remarkably clean sits in the grass near the curb with a young maple tree draped across it. Farther down, a mangled car has been dropped down on top of an otherwise undamaged double-wide. On the lot next to it, someone has pounded a T-post into the ground and raised an American flag.
A dozen mobile homes are crushed as if some drunken giant staggered through, stepping on everything in his path. Several were blown off their foundations. At least two are completely gone, the pieces of which are yet to be found. At the end of the street, a bulldozer pushes debris into a pile that will eventually be loaded into a truck and hauled to the dump. Pieces of peoples’ lives gone in an instant.
Tomasetti and I had risen at the crack of dawn, downed a cup of coffee, and then he’d driven me up to our farm, where I picked up the Explorer. We parted ways after that. Neither of us broached the subject of last night’s discussion, and we didn’t revisit the death of little Lucy Kester.
The American Red Cross, with its iconic red-and-white disaster-relief step van and a small army of volunteers, was already on scene when I arrived, handing out bottled water, serving up hot food, and passing out teddy bears for the traumatized kids.
“Bad as this is, it’s a miracle more people weren’t killed.”
I turn at the sound of Glock’s voice to see him come up behind me. His usually crisp uniform is damp with sweat and streaked with dirt. His trousers are wet from the knee down and clotted with mud.
He shoves a steaming cup of coffee at me. “Thought you might need this.”
“I do. Thanks.” I sip, burning my lip, but it’s worth that pain because it’s hot and strong and just what I needed. “You been out with search and rescue?”
He nods. “No sign of the kid yet.”
“God, I hope they find him. I can’t imagine what the parents are going through.”
“No one’s going to give up.”
I nod. “You know I’ve got you covered with OT, right?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Looking out over the destruction, he sips coffee. “I’da been out looking for him anyway.”
“I know.” I’ve just taken my second sip of coffee when my cell phone chirps.
“Chief.” It’s my dispatcher, Lois Monroe.