“Hamilton. Good, you’re still here.” He swiped a hand over his weathered face in an unsuccessful attempt to remove the exhaustion. Pete had been with the Omaha Journal for almost fifty years, starting as a carrier. Despite the white hair, bifocals and arthritic hands, he was one of the few who could single-handedly put out the paper, having worked in every department.

“Major writer’s block.” Christine smiled, trying to explain why anyone would be working late in the “Living Today” section. She was relieved to see Pete instead of Charles Schneider, the usual night editor, who commandeered the place like a Nazi storm trooper.

“Bailey called in sick. Russell’s still finishing up on Congressman Neale’s sex scandal, and I just sent Sanchez to cover a three-car smashup on Highway 50. There’s some ruckus out by the river on Old Church Road in Sarpy County. Ernie can’t make out too much from the radio dispatch, but a whole slew of patrol cars are on their way. Now, it could just be some drunk kids playing with their daddies’ tractors again. I know you’re not part of the news team, Hamilton, but would you mind checking it out?”

Christine tried to contain her excitement. She hid her grin by turning back to the half-baked article on her computer screen. Finally, a chance at real news, even if it was a bunch of drunk teenagers.

“I’ll cover your ass with Whitman on whatever you’re working on,” Pete said, misreading her hesitation.

“Okay. I suppose I can check it out for you.” She chose her words carefully to emphasize that she was doing him a favor. Although she had been on the staff for only a year, she knew that journalists were promoted more quickly due to favors than talent.

“Take the interstate since Highway 50’s probably tied up with that accident. Take exit 372 to Highway 66. Old Church Road is about six miles south on 66.”

She almost interrupted him. As a teenager she had made out on Old Church Road many times. However, one slip-up could dismantle all her work to shed her country roots. So, instead, she jotted down some directions.

“Get back here before one so we can get a couple paragraphs in the morning edition.”

“Will do.” She slung her handbag over her shoulder and tried not to skip down the hall.

“Now, if I could just get Russell to write half as fast as he talks, I’d be a happy man,” she heard Pete grumble as the door closed behind her.

Safe in the dark parking lot, she twirled once and shouted, “Yes!” to the concrete wall. This was her chance to get on the other side of the door, to go from recipes and household anecdotes to real news. Whatever was happening out at the river, she planned to capture all the nitty-gritty drama. And if there was no story…well, surely a good reporter could dig something up.

He smashed through the branches, the cracking wood exploding in the dark silence. Were they following? Were they close behind? He didn’t dare look back. Suddenly, he skidded on the mud, lost his balance and slid down the riverbank. He crashed knee-deep into ice-cold water. His arms and legs flayed in a panic, splashing water like claps of thunder. He dropped to his knees, burying his sweat-drenched body, sinking into the silt until he was up to his chin in the rolling river. The current sloshed against him, jerking him, threatening to sweep him back to where he had just escaped.

The cold water numbed the convulsions. Now, if only he could breathe. The gasps racked his chest and stabbed at his side. Breathe, he commanded himself as his lungs strangled for air. He hiccuped and swallowed a stomachful of the river, choking and gagging most of it back up.

He couldn’t see the spotlights anymore. Perhaps he had run far enough. He listened, straining over his own gasps.

There were no running footsteps, no yelping bloodhounds, no racing engines. It had been a close call-the guy with the flashlight. Was it possible the intruder hadn’t seen him crouched in the grass? Yes, he was sure no one had followed him.

He shouldn’t have come tonight. It had become a stupid habit, a dangerous risk, a wonderful addiction, a spiritual hard-on. The shame spread through him, liquid and hot despite the cold water. No, he shouldn’t have come. But no one had seen him. No one had followed him. He was safe. And now, finally, the boy was safe, too.

The rancid smell clung to Nick. He wanted to crawl out of his clothes, but the scent of river and blood was already soaked deep into his pores. He peeled off his shirt and thanked Bob Weston for the FBI windbreaker. The sleeves stopped six inches above his wrists, and the fabric stretched tight across his chest. The zipper stuck halfway up. He knew he must look and smell like a putz. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw Eddie Gillick, one of his deputies, elbow his way through the crowd of FBI agents, uniformed cops and other deputies just to hand Nick a damp towel.

The scene looked pre-Halloween. Blinding searchlights teetered from branches. Yellow tape flapped around trees. The sizzle and smoke of night flares mixed with that awful smell of death. And in the middle of the macabre scene lay the little, white ghost of a boy, asleep in the grass.

In his two years as sheriff, Nick Morrelli had pulled three victims from car crashes. The adrenaline had erased the sight of tangled metal and flesh. He had witnessed one gunshot wound- a minor scrape, someone cleaning his gun while drinking a pint of whiskey. He had broken up numerous fistfights, sustaining his own cuts and bruises. Nothing, however, had prepared him for this.

“Channel Nine is here.” Gillick pointed at the new set of headlights bumping down the path. The bright orange nine emblazoned on the top of the van glowed in the dark.

“Shit. How did they find out?”

“Police scanner. Probably have no idea what’s going on, just that something is.”

“Get Lloyd and Adam to keep them as far from that line of trees as possible. No cameras, no interviews, no sneak peeks. That goes for the rest of the bloodsuckers when they get here.” That was all he needed-a stint on the morning news in his clown jacket and muddy jeans revealing his incompetence to the entire state.

“Oh, good. Another fuckin‘ set of tire tracks,” Weston said to the agents who were on their knees working in the mud, but looked at Nick to make sure he knew the comment was meant for him.

Nick’s face grew hot, but he swallowed his response and walked away. Weston made it no secret he thought Nick was a small-town hick of a sheriff. They had been at each other’s throats since Sunday when Danny Alverez had disappeared into thin air, leaving behind a brand-new bike and a bagful of undelivered newspapers. Nick had wanted to call in the masses to search fields and parks, while Weston had insisted they wait for a ransom note that never arrived. Nick had succumbed to Weston’s twenty-five years of FBI experience instead of listening to his gut.

Why didn’t he buy Weston’s suspicions that the boy had simply been taken by his disgruntled father? A father who had been enraged with his ex-wife for keeping him away from his only child. Hell, the paper was full of similar cases. When they couldn’t locate Major Alverez, it only made even more sense. So why wouldn’t Nick listen to Special Agent Bob Weston, despite his irrational dislike of the man?

From the very beginning, Nick resented Weston’s arrogance. At five feet six inches, he reminded Nick of a little Napoleon, always using his wiseass mouth to compensate for his small frame. Weston was a good six inches shorter than Nick and a skinny bit of a man compared to Nick’s athletic build. Yet tonight, anything Weston said made Nick feel small. He knew he had screwed up, from contaminating a crime scene to not securing a large enough area to bringing in too goddamn many officers. So, he deserved Weston’s put-downs. Now he wondered if Weston had even given him the too-small jacket on purpose.