And now her son was lost.

What a homecoming.

Judy didn’t debate long-procrastination simply wasn’t in her nature. She had always been the take-charge type, and at sixty-three she hadn’t slowed down at all. Years earlier, after her husband had died, Judy had taken a job at the library and had raised Taylor by herself, vowing to make it on her own. Not only did she meet the financial obligations of her family, but she did what it usually took two parents to do. She volunteered at his school and acted as room mother every year, but she’d also taken Taylor to ball games and had gone camping with the Scouts. She’d taught him how to cook and clean, she’d taught him how to shoot baskets and hit baseballs. Though those days were behind her, she was busier than ever. For the past dozen years her attention had shifted from raising Taylor to helping the town of Edenton itself, and she participated in every aspect of the community’s life. She wrote her congressman and state legislators regularly and would walk from door to door collecting signatures for various petitions when she didn’t think her voice was being heard. She was a member of the Edenton Historical Society, which raised funds to preserve the old homes in town; she went to every meeting of the town council with an opinion on what should be done. She taught Sunday school at the Episcopal church, cooked for every bake sale, and still worked at the library thirty hours a week. Her schedule didn’t allow her to waste a lot of time, and once she made a decision, she followed it without turning back. Especially if she felt certain she was right.

Though she didn’t know Denise, she was a mother herself and understood fear when children were concerned. Taylor had been in precarious situations his entire life-indeed, he seemed to attract them, even at a young age. Judy knew the little boy must be absolutely terrified-and the mother . . . well, she was probably a basket case. Lord knows I was. She pulled on her raincoat, knowing with absolute certainty that the mother needed all the support she could get.

The prospect of driving in the storm didn’t frighten her; the thought didn’t even enter her mind. A mother and son were in trouble.

Even if Denise Holton didn’t want to see her-or couldn’t because of the injuries-Judy knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep if she didn’t let her know that people in the town cared about what was going on.

Kyle had been gone for nearly three hours.

Taylor, meanwhile, was nearing the highway and was struck by how bright it seemed compared with the murky recesses he’d just emerged from. He also heard voices for the first time since he’d split up with the others . . . lots of voices, people calling to one another.

Quickening his step, Taylor cleared the last of the trees and saw that more than a dozen extra vehicles had arrived-their headlights blazing with the originals. And there were more people as well. Not only had the other searchers returned, but they were now surrounded by those who’d heard about the search through the town grapevine and had come out to help. Even at a distance Taylor recognized most of them. Craig Sanborn, Rhett Little, Skip Hudson, Mike Cook, Bart Arthur, Mark Shelton . . . six or seven others as well. People who’d defied the storm, people who had to work the following day. People whom Denise had probably never met.

Good people, he couldn’t help but think.

The mood, however, was gloomy. Those who’d been searching were soaking wet, covered with mud and scrapes, exhausted, and dejected. Like Taylor, they’d seen how dark and impenetrable it was out there. As Taylor approached them, they quieted. So did the new arrivals.

Sergeant Huddle turned, his face illuminated by the flashlights. His cheek had a deep, fresh scratch, partially hidden by splattered mud. “So what’s the news? Did you find something?”

Taylor shook his head. “No, but I think I have an idea of which way he headed.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know for sure. It’s just a guess, but I think he was moving to the southeast.”

Like everyone else, Sergeant Huddle knew of Taylor’s reputation for tracking-they’d known each other since they were kids.

“Why?”

“Well, that’s where we found the blanket, for one thing, and if he kept heading that way, the wind would be at his back. I don’t think a little boy would try to fight the wind-I just think he’d go with it. The rain would hurt too much. And I think he’d want to keep the lightning at his back, too. His mother said he was afraid of lightning.”

Sergeant Huddle looked at him skeptically. “That’s not much.”

“No,” Taylor admitted, “it isn’t. But I think it’s our best hope.”

“You don’t think we should continue searching like before? Covering every direction?”

Taylor shook his head. “We’d still be spread too thin-it wouldn’t do any good. You’ve seen what it’s like out there.” He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, collecting his thoughts. He wished Mitch were with him to help make his case-Mitch was good at things like this.

“Look,” he finally went on, “I know it’s just a guess, but I’m willing to bet I’m right. We’ve got, what? More than twenty people now? We could fan out wide and cover everything in that direction.”

Huddle squinted at him doubtfully. “But what if he didn’t go that way? What if you’re wrong? It’s dark out there . . . he could be moving in circles for all we know. He might have holed up somewhere to take shelter. Just because he’s afraid of lightning doesn’t mean he’d know enough to move away from it. He’s only four years old. Besides, we’ve got enough people now to head in different directions.”

Taylor didn’t respond as he considered it. Huddle made sense, perfect sense. But Taylor had learned to trust his instincts. His expression was resolute.

Sergeant Huddle frowned, his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his rain-soaked jacket.

Finally Taylor spoke: “Trust me, Carl.”

“It’s not that easy. A little boy’s life is at stake.”

“I know.”

With that, Sergeant Huddle sighed and turned away. Ultimately it was his call. He was the one officially coordinating the search. It was his report, it was his duty . . . and in the end he would be the one who had to answer for it.

“All right,” he finally said. “We’ll do it your way. I just hope to God you’re right.”

Twelve-thirty now.

Arriving at the hospital, Judy McAden immediately approached the front desk. No stranger to hospital protocol, she asked to see Denise Holton, her niece. The clerk at the front desk didn’t question her-the waiting room was still filled with people-and hurriedly checked the records. Denise Holton, she explained, had been moved to a room upstairs, but visiting hours were over. If she could come back tomorrow morning-

“Can you at least tell me how she’s doing?” Judy interrupted.

The lady shrugged wearily. “It says she was taken in for an X-ray, but that’s all I know. I’m sure more information will be available once things begin to settle down.”

“What time do visiting hours start?”

“Eight o’clock.” The lady was already reaching for another file.

“I see,” Judy said, sounding defeated. Over the clerk’s shoulder, Judy noticed that things seemed even more chaotic than they were in the waiting room. Nurses were moving from room to room, looking harried and overwhelmed.

“Do I have to stop here before I go up to see her? Tomorrow, I mean?”

“No. You can go in the main entrance, around the corner. Just head up to room 217 tomorrow morning and inform the nurses at the station when you get there. They’ll direct you to her room.”

“Thank you.”

Judy stepped away from the desk, and the next person in line moved forward. He was a middle-aged man who smelled strongly of alcohol. His arm was in a makeshift sling.