“Please, don’t drop me,” the kid begged. “Please. I can’t swim. I don’t know how.”
Those words were music to Steve’s ears. If Brian knew how to swim, Steve would have had a whole other set of problems, and he would have had to bodily hold the boy underwater. Once far enough into the lake, Steve pried Brian’s arms loose from around his neck and then threw him as hard as he could into even deeper water. Brian landed face down with a loud splash. Moments later the boy’s pale arm and head emerged from the water.
“Help me,” he sputtered. “Please.”
But Steve didn’t help. He simply stood and watched. Twice more the kid managed to kick his way to the surface, but after that third appearance, he disappeared completely. Steve stood there for another minute or two, making sure it really was finished before turning on his heel and splashing his way back to the truck.
As he walked, Steve was relieved to hear the distant rumble of thunder. That was what he needed. If there were any telltale footprints or tire tracks left on the dirt track that led to the lake, a sudden summer rain squall would erase them completely.
Back at the truck, he searched the footwell until he found the Cub Scout pin. After shoving it into his pocket, he ripped off his pants along with his shoes and socks. If someone came looking, it wouldn’t do to have mud from Arthur Lake found in the footwell of his truck.
Back home, he rinsed off his soaked clothing in the metal watering trough by the barn and then tiptoed into the house. His mom and Gramps were in the living room, listening to a major league baseball game on the radio. Gramps was deaf as a post by then, andthe volume was turned up full blast. As Steve made his way upstairs, they were completely oblivious.
Eight-year-old Brian Olson was reported missingthe next day. Everyone from the surrounding area, including Steve and Gramps, participated in the massive search effort that followed. Three days later the boy’s body was found floating in Arthur Lake, still wearing his Cub Scout uniform. If anyone noticed that his Wolf pin was missing, no one ever mentioned it, at least not in any of the newspaper articles Steve read about the case. In the immediate aftermath, investigators regarded the boy’s stepfather as a person of interest, but eventually he was cleared. After that, the case went cold and stayed that way.
As for Cotton Candy Boy’s Wolf pin? That went straight into Steve Roper’s cigar box, right along with Grandma Lucille’s wedding ring. It became the second item in his collection of treasures.
Chapter 4
Bisbee, Arizona
Saturday, November 25, 2023
For the first time ever, Thanksgiving dinner at HighLonesome Ranch happened on Saturday rather than Thursday. Jenny was scheduled for graveyard shift the week of the holiday, Thanksgiving Day included, and didn’t get off work until eight o’clock in the morning. She had gone home long enough to shower and change clothes, then she and Nick set out from Tucson in a driving rainstorm, arriving at High Lonesome Ranch a little past eleven.
“How was it?” Joanna asked, welcoming them inside. Just walking from the car to the house had left them soaked to the skin.
“I’ve never driven in rain like that,” Nick said, shaking his head.
Joanna was well aware of the weather situation. She had just gotten off the phone with Tom Hadlock, her chief deputy, who had reported that so far deputies had been called out to rescue occupants of three different vehicles stranded in flooded dips between Double Adobe and Elfrida.
“The weather forecasters have been saying for days that a storm out in the Pacific was going to bring an atmospheric river into southeastern Arizona this weekend, and for a change they weren’t wrong,” Joanna said. “Unfortunately, there are far too many drivers out there who refuse to believe that the words ‘Do Not Enter When Flooded’actually apply to them. My department’s already been called to several fast-water rescues.”
“But everybody’s safe?” Jenny asked.
“So far so good,” Joanna replied.
Jenny went over to hug Butch, who was standing at the counter putting together the family’s traditional Turkey Day fruit salad.
“Smells great,” Jenny said, sniffing the air in the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?” she asked jokingly.
“The works of course,” Butch answered. “I baked pumpkin pies yesterday. The turkey’s in the oven and the dinner rolls just came out. We’re planning on eating right around four.”
“Who all’s coming?”
“You and Nick, Jim Bob and Eva Lou, and the four of us. Sage just finished setting the table. You’re working graveyard, right? Are you going to want a nap before we eat?”
“How did you guess?”
“Not my first rodeo,” Butch replied. “The guest room’s all yours. Help yourself.”
While Jenny headed for the guest room, Nick wandered into the kitchen and eyed the preparations. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Nope,” Butch said, depositing the fruit salad in the fridge. “The potatoes are peeled and ready to boil, and everything else is under control. How about a cup of coffee?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Nick replied, settling his lanky frame on the back bench seat of the breakfast nook. Butch poured a fresh mug of coffee for Nick and refilled the two cups he and Joanna had been using. As he passed her one of the cups, her phone rang.
“Work,” she explained over her shoulder as she disappeared into the living room.
