Chapter 9

Valerie Boren-Odell, 1990

Lucky Ned Pepper had been seen three days earlier at McAlester's store on the M K T Railroad tracks. His intentions were not known….Rooster said we would be better off if we could catch the robber band before they left the neighborhood of McAlester's and returned to their hiding place in the fastness of the Winding Stair Mountains.

—Mattie Ross, 1873. True Grit, by Charles Portis.

A sudden change in the weather steals the late-day sun as I drive back to Talihina. Milky clouds shroud the higher elevations, obscuring all but the next few feet of road. The underbrush of dogwoods, redbuds, sumac, witch hazel, and sassafras disappears along with road signs warning of steep grades and S curves. In the valleys, I punch through the cloak. Wooded lowlands, trickling clear-water creeks, and boldly painted spring wildflowers emerge like woodland fairies.

The Heap's radio goes silent, and it is as if I depart from the world, then reenter, then vanish into the clouds again. The experience would be tranquil, but I'm pondering the abandoned Ford LTD. The face in the photo tucked under the visor was familiar because the same girl, Sydney, chatted me up at Emerald Vista last Friday. The photo captured her standing beside an athletic-looking teenage boy in camouflage pants and a T-shirt. He's a redhead, so I'm guessing that's the brother she mentioned at the overlook.

You see my brother out there?

He didn't visit me at Granny Wambles's when he said…

Braden. Sixteen or seventeen, now adrift in the world. Absent father. Bad mother. Grandmother had a medical crisis and couldn't take care of him anymore. Little sister stuck in foster care. The car is registered to an LLC owned by the grandmother, Budgie Blackwell. It hasn't been reported stolen.

"So a high school kid leaves a car in the trailhead lot—" I mutter to myself as I roll into Talihina. "Wanders off into the woods…and then never resurfaces. Why?"

Not for any good reason I can think of. That's what scares me.

"But no one reports him missing…"

Is he okay? Mentally? Emotionally? Is he in some kind of trouble?

Might be he's lost.

I dunno…maybe.

Tell him to come get me.

Is Sydney telling the truth, or is she just desperate for a way out of an unhappy foster home situation?

She'd have motivation, if what Charlie told me over the weekend is true. Mrs. Wambles and her wards are the source of epic daycare chatter. Kids get sent to Granny Wambles's house to be locked up, and at school you should watch out for them because they'll steal your stuff. They are bad kids and they lie and get other kids in trouble, plus they smell bad and use cuss words, which can make the whole class have to sit out recess. That's the gist of it from a first-grader's perspective. It's a horrifying mischaracterization of an emergency shelter and why kids go there. I've tried to clear it up so Charlie won't feed the rumor mill, but he likes the creepy Hansel and Gretel version better.

I'll have to wait until tomorrow to find out more. There's zero chance Frank Ferrell will waste his remaining knee power on an abandoned car and the murky word of an adolescent. He'll pass the hours until midnight clocking motorists with the radar gun, looking for illegally parked ATV trailers and horse rigs, and handing out a few campground citations. Meanwhile, my shift was over forty-five minutes ago, and Charlie is probably more than ready to head home to a frozen pizza and the 998th consecutive showing of Aristocats.

When I arrive at the daycare, he's singing the theme song and playing an imaginary saxophone. The daycare owner and her assistant think it's cute, and so they're egging him on. I apologize for being late, but they assure me it's fine. The owner's husband is with the county sheriff's office. They're accustomed to unpredictable shifts.

Charlie leaves singing "Everybody Wants to Be a Cat" and feeding the nonstop ear worm in my head. He quickly moves to the latest news on the street. He'd like to sign up for T-ball, maybe soccer, Boy Scouts, and when it's time for his birthday in September, he wants a dinosaur birthday party with a dinosaur costume he can also wear on Halloween. Dustin James will be having a Batman birthday party in three weeks, and can Charlie go? Can he spend the night afterward? Also, can we have mac and cheese tonight instead of pizza? Is mac and cheese nutrition-ous?

How much money do I think a dinosaur party will cost? Can we have it at the lake? Make s'mores? Swim? Look at fossils and rocks? Do I think all the kids know how to swim like he does?

Can kids come if they don't know how to swim? Will it be too cold to swim by his birthday? Or does it stay warm around here all the time? Because it's really hot here already compared to St. Louis, don't I think?

"Hey, bud?" I say finally. "Why don't we sing the cat song?"

And so goes our foreshortened evening—mac and cheese, carrots, and broccoli to doodle in the leftover sauce, Aristocats, bath, jammies, reading time, bed. Up in the morning to shuffle the grouchy, groggy, less talkative version of the boy child off to daycare. We share a long, sleepy hug and cuddle before I set him free.

From there, the day takes on a life of its own, beginning with torrential rain and an on-the-fly crew meeting about bad-weather contingency plans for the park's official dedication ceremony at the end of the week. My abandoned car is briefly mentioned. I say I'm following up. Nobody's very interested.

Morning is almost over before I have time to seek out Mrs. Wambles's place. The paint-bare gray house fits Charlie's maudlin lore perfectly. Overgrown holly bushes cloak the front windows. Partial sets of shutters hang askew, resembling crooked teeth. A netless basketball hoop leans over a weed patch by the gravel driveway, and behind the backyard chain-link fence, faded plastic yard toys lie scattered like flood debris. The smell of cat urine mixed with cigarette smoke chokes the air as I approach the house.

A thin, thirtysomething woman in cutoffs and a tank top preemptively emerges from the front door. "Mrs. Wambles ain't here. She took the kids down to town." Curling her lip, she squints at my uniform. "Oh, you're a park ranger. Sorry. I thought you were from the sheriff's department. What'd you want?" A baby fusses somewhere inside, and she fidgets nervously. "I gotta get back. One of them's sick. We just got her last night. She come in that way."

I apologize for interrupting and quickly seek clarification as to Mrs. Wambles's whereabouts. Fortunately, the worker is as eager to have me gone as I am to leave, so she is more than happy to point me to a nearby church.

The door snaps shut and the dead bolt turns before I'm halfway to my vehicle. A chill runs along my spine as I drive to the church, where the atmosphere turns out to be as bright and cheery as the daycare was grim. Some sort of kids' activity camp is happening. The front walk has been decorated with vines, cutouts of jungle animals, and a Register Here sign, but activity on the playground in back draws me there instead.

I don't even get the chance to ask after Mrs. Wambles before I gather the attention of children who assume I'm part of the jungle entertainment. Questions fly from all directions.

"Are you the police?"

"She's the game warden!"

"Are you a lady ranger?"

"Do you got a ranger horse?"

"Where's your truck?"

"My mama saw a bear in the backyard!"

"Can you come git a snake from under our house?"

"What's a armadillo eat?"

"Guys! Guys! Quiet down." A helper chastises the gaggle. She jogs toward me like a first responder bent on performing a rescue, but a streak of blue jeans, orange T-shirt, and flying hair cuts her off before she can arrive on scene.

"Hey-eeee!" Sydney hits me at high speed, wrapping me in a hug, or a wrestling hold. I'm momentarily pinned, arms at my sides, before she turns me loose, casts a warning look at the other kids, and says, "She's my friend."

One of her hands slides into mine. The other encircles my wrist, and she leans backward, lolling against my arm. "I been wonderin' when you were gonna come by," she says as if the two of us had plans together.

"Uhhh…" The motherly part of me goes squishy and warm…and sad all at once. I want to be the special visitor for this kid who will undoubtedly have no one else stop by to share her day, but that's not why I'm here.

"Did you do the color I said?" she inquires. "Of the paper?"

"Actually…well…yes, I did."

If she's worried about her brother right now, it certainly isn't showing, which makes the drama at Emerald Overlook seem to have been an act. "That's the best one." She offers her approval of the paper choice. "It'll look so good. What else you need me to help with?"

"Hmmm…Let me think about that." There's probably something. Isn't there something? A few parks have at-risk teens serving as volunteers. They monitor trails, offer directions, warn people about heat stroke, bears, and weather threats, but Sydney is too young for any of that.

The hand clasped around my wrist breaks free to swat away a small boy who's trying to touch the flashlight on my belt.

"Get back! She's my friend, I said."

"Sydney!" The playground monitor, who is authoritative but probably not far past teenagerhood herself, closes in. Grabbing Sydney's arm, she tugs the girl off me, then gets in her face with a pointed finger. "You better keep your hands to yourself, or I'll tell Granny Wambles, and you'll be sittin' home tomorrow, understand?"

"Yes. But she is my friend. I knew her before." Sydney turns to me for vindication. "Right, huh?"

Law enforcement habits kick in. De-escalation. Always. Begin by separating the parties involved, then gather information. "Yes, we did meet. And thanks for the help. It's good to see you again, Sydney. Right now, I need to have a quick word with—"

"Joanie," the attendant fills in. Up close, I realize I've met her somewhere in town.

"Joanie. Maybe if there's time, I can answer questions from the other kids later. You probably already know more about it than they do, right, Sydney?"

"Yeah." She brightens slightly before being shooed off.

"Sorry about that," Joanie says. "They didn't tell us you were coming."

We position ourselves side by side, watching the wild rumpus on the playground. Nearby, Sydney loiters under a covered walkway. One hand around the support pole, she rotates like a lazy tetherball, eyeing us on each new turn.

"They?"

"The highway patrol, or…where're you from? We just had the firemen yesterday for the kickoff parade. They didn't tell us somebody was coming today, too."

"National Park Service, but I'm not here to—"

"Makes sense." She nods toward a few cardboard animals and vines taped to the church door. "Jungle and nature stuff and all. But I thought there was a park ranger person talking Friday." Frowning, she checks a printed schedule from her back pocket. "Yep, it says Friday."

"I'm actually not here to talk to the kids. I'm looking for Mrs. Wambles."

"Uh-oh." Offering a conspiratorial look, Joanie leans closer, ready for the dish. "What's gone on now?"

"Quite possibly nothing, but I'd like to ask a few questions of her, and our friend Sydney, over there."

Joanie chews her lip. "She tells tales…a lot."

Nearby, Sydney stops circling the pole and directs a wrinkle-nosed sneer our way.

"They're fairly basic questions." I redirect the conversation.

"And once Myrna Wambles drops these kids, she scoots. She's not back till it's time for afternoon pickup."

"So, about Sydney…"

Across the playground, a dispute over a swing is brewing. Joanie yells, "Y'all cut that out at the swings! Cody and Cole, stop it right now or I'll sic this police officer on you!"

I stiffen instantly. It's maddening when people invoke law enforcement to threaten children.

"Sorry." Joanie winces apologetically. "That pair is from Mrs. Wambles's place, too. Hers are always the troublemakers. That one on the left, he…" She spills the sad history of both boys, whose mother is an addict who can't get herself straightened out.

It's heartbreaking and more than I want to know. I hate problems I can't barrel in and fix. "Actually, you might be able to answer some of my questions. I'm looking for information on Sydney's brother. Any idea where I might find him?"

"Braden Lacey? No, ma'am." She studies me curiously. "You might could ask the ladies in the office…or Mrs. Wambles whenever she comes." A quick wristwatch check, and then, "It's just a little more than an hour now…till we're done for the day. We've gotta get back inside for our last rotation."

"Do you know Braden?"

"Well, not much. He dated a cousin of mine one time. I couldn't tell you how to find him."

"I see." I let the silence stretch. Silence bothers people. They feel a need to fill it. With information.

"I mean, last I heard, he was living over in Antlers with his grandmother, old Budgie Blackwell. That family's got land all over three counties. They used to raise tons of cattle, but maybe they quit after Budgie got old. I really don't know. Budgie's husband died way back years and years ago…and their one son, too. Both of them got carbon monoxide poisoned in a hunting cabin way up on their land someplace."

"Oh. That's awful." I go silent again, waiting for more information. If the Blackwells are property owners of means, with a ranch down in Antlers, it's even more inexplicable that no one would be tracking Braden's whereabouts and that Sydney would be in Talihina, in a foster care situation. How did that happen?

"But then I heard Old Mrs. Blackwell died and the government took a bunch of her land for the park, so now they're broke, and she had to be buried in Oklahoma City because it's free, since she was in state politics way back when."

"I see." That tranche of factoids is at least 80 percent nonsensical. No land was taken from private citizens for the park. We haven't put anyone in the poorhouse, and I doubt that former state politicians get free burial plots in Oklahoma City. "So…you don't know where Braden has been living recently?"

"No, ma'am. I mean, I heard he was workin' for Parker Construction and living out there at the equipment yard." Her eyes dart off. She pinches an earring, plays with it. "They don't look alike—Braden and Sydney. They're only half relations. Braden's redheaded as all get out. Not a little red in the sunlight, like yours. I mean, real red. You'll know him if you see him."

"Good tip. Thanks." I adjust my ball cap and make ready to slip away without attracting the kid herd again, since they've forgotten about me. Even Sydney has finally wandered off.

"Sorry I'm not more help." Joanie checks her watch again, takes a couple of steps toward the playground, then stops to look back. "Is he in trouble? Braden?"

"Do you have reason to think he is?"

"I just hope not, that's all. I never heard he was bad or anything. Kind of quiet and brainy, into military stuff, but nothing bad. He isn't…is he? Into anything bad?"

"Not that I know of, but I would like to talk to him about a vehicle left in one of our parking lots." I hand her a business card. "If you think of anyone who might know where to find him or his grandmother, could you call me? Or if you're able to get a message to him, have him call me directly."

"All right." She tucks the card away for safekeeping. "You might give Mrs. Wambles one of those."

"Good idea. Thanks for the help."

We part ways, Joanie rounding up the kids while I proceed to the playground gate. A nearby lilac bush comes to life as I reach for the latch.

"Hey, Lady Ranger," it whispers. "Over here."

I stop, rest a hand on the fence. Sydney partially emerges, squeezing herself between the greenery and the church wall, to avoid line of sight from the playground.

It's funny, but not, but it is. "I heard you say Braden's name. You find him at the park?"

"I haven't. But I would like to talk to him about a car that was left in one of our parking areas, a Ford LTD belonging to your grandmother. I'd also like to talk to her about it. Do you know where she is under medical treatment or how I can reach her?"

"No, ma'am. Nobody tells me anything about that stuff."

"Have you heard from Braden since you and I talked at the overlook last week?"

"Nope. But he's probably just workin' a lot. He's gonna pay a lawyer to bust me outta the Wambles's place. He promised."

My confusion level creeps upward a bit. That doesn't sound like a kid who'd head to the woods to do himself in. He was making plans. Promises. "I saw a picture of you two in the car. Did he say he was going camping in the park…or say anything about exactly where he planned to be, or for how long?"

"Nope."

"You told me the other day you thought he might have gotten lost."

Sidling along the fence, she checks to be sure the coast is clear. The playground has gone quiet, other than the rhythmic tapping of a metal flag clip against a pole.

"He said he might be gone awhile." Cupping a hand beside her mouth, she adds, "He's treasure hunting."

"Braden is?"

"Yeah."

I'd discount that as tale telling, per Joanie, except that Sydney seems so earnest about it. Her brown eyes widen with enthusiasm. "Braden's gonna get the treasure and make some money. Like, tons. Then he won't have to work for Parker anymore, diggin' ditches, and mowin' grass, and helpin' at the rock quarry. He's gonna get his GED and skip senior year in Antlers High School. Then we'll move over to Ada, and he can go to East Central for college, unless if he gets in army flight school. Either way I'll be out of the stupid Wambles house. That place is—"

"Sydney Potter!" The shout is so shrill and sudden it jerks us to attention like string puppets. I turn to see a dilapidated twelve-passenger van, of the sort that might've once been a hotel shuttle, pulled to the curb. A heavyset woman in a hot-pink muumuu and tennis shoes traverses the sidewalk at a goodly pace. From the salt-and-pepper bun and the authoritative manner, I'm guessing this is Mrs. Wambles.

Glaring at Sydney, she stabs a finger toward the building. "I do not know what you think you are doin' out here, but you better git your sassy little self up in that buildin' right this dang minute!"

Sydney flees like a gazelle, leaving me alone to face the wrath of Mrs. Wambles.

Fortunately, the wrath disappears as quickly as the kid.

"I am sorry, Officer." The muumuu woman presses one hand to her chest, chubby fingers outstretched, her head tipped forward solicitously. She can't be more than five feet tall—a good eight inches shorter than me—but her voice packs a punch. "I am Myrna. Myrna Wambles. It's so good to meet ye-ew. I am so, so, so sorry for that little mess there. She should not have been botherin' you. No she should not. We've only had her a couple weeks, and hadn't got her lined out yet. It takes patience. Lots of patience. That's what these kids take. Lots of patience till they settle."

"I'm sure."

Peering up at me, she tries to decide whether I'm buying the tender act. Sweat glistens under a thick layer of pancake makeup. Fetching a wadded Kleenex from her dress pocket, she mops up a bit. "And at first, oh Lordy, they will walk up to any-body and ask about their mamas, or their daddies…or when they can go home. They'll tell all kinds of stories to get you to take them places or buy them treats. They'll latch on to anyone. They all started callin' me Granny years ago, because they are that terrible lonesome for family. But I am sorry, so, so sorry, Officer, that she bothered ye-ew."

I'm possessed of a sudden, fierce need to defend Sydney, maybe get in a minor swatting match and wreck Myrna's fresh manicure. I grip the gate instead, because of course I know better. "I asked her a question, actually. And she was no trouble. It was my fault she didn't go in with the other kids."

"Do say?" Mrs. Wambles draws back, eyeballing my uniform. I have a feeling she's just realizing I'm not city police or county sheriff's office—as in someone who'd be checking up on complaints about a shelter. "A question?"

"Yes."

"Oh, honey!" Cackling, she tosses her head. The Kleenex hand flops down and lands, damp and squishy, over my fingers on the gate. I'm revolted. "Oh, darlin'! You cannot listen to a word that one says. She is very manipulative."