Page 97 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
Max shakes his head. “He was dressed normal. Pants and a jacket. Well, plus a ski mask.”
I ask him to describe the man’s clothing more, but he only knows they seemed “normal.”
I’ll have more questions for him later. Lots more if Dalton doesn’t catch up with the bear-man. But for now, Max is safe, and I need to keep gathering what I can here.
Gathering evidence as I work through what has happened. Because something tells me I have a lot to work through.
* * *
Dalton doesn’t catch Max’s captor. The guy went straight for the nearest body of water. He must have heard us and run.
We haven’t forgotten Joe, but by the time we get there, he’s gone. One of his fellow guards tacked a note to a tree, saying they found him and took him back for medical care. I only hope Joe doesn’t catch too much shit from his boss. Right now, though, I’m just relieved that we don’t need to escort Joe closer to the mining camp. We don’t have time for that.
We return to Haven’s Rock. That is the main thing. Max is safe, but he needs to get back to his mother and back to a medical examination before I can comfortably question him.
Anders carries him most of the way. Then Dalton takes over, and Anders runs ahead. Twenty minutes later, the roar of an engine sounds in the distance.
“That’s your ride,” Dalton says, and swings Max to the ground.
The ATV’s lights hit us first. Then, before Anders can bring it to a stop, the side door is opening and Dana is flying out. She runs to Max and scoops him up.
I don’t watch the rest. It feels too raw, too private, and I walk to the ATV instead, with Dalton beside me.
We quietly talk with Anders until Dana is ready to get into the ATV. Dalton insists we catch a ride with them, and we perch on the rear with our legs dangling out. I sit against Dalton, his arm around me, as I lean onto his shoulder. Over the roar of the engine, he puts his mouth to my ear and whispers, “We found him.”
My eyes fill, as I nod soundlessly.
We did.
Thank God, we did.
* * *
It’s nearly ten. It was dusk when we arrived in Haven’s Rock, and we’d taken Max the rear way to the clinic. Yes, everyone will soon know Max is back, but Dana doesn’t need the well-wishers descending just yet.
April has already been alerted, and she’s waiting in the clinic. Carson is there, too. I don’t see that reunion. I’m ordered to stay in the ATV while they take Max in, and then we head back home.
There’s nothing we can do right now. April needs to examine Max, and then he needs to rest. Questioning will wait until morning, and it should, because my brain is in no shape to handle it. Thoughts keep poking at me, questions and riddles and all the little voices that whisper “Something’s wrong with this story,” but I don’t have the bandwidth to puzzle it out.
Max is safe, and we can pick this up again tomorrow. For now, I desperately need to sleep, so I go home and do exactly that.
Yeah … that’s not quite how it goes. Oh, I want to sleep, and I’m exhausted enough that I’m surprised I didn’t fall asleep on the ATV ride, however bumpy it had been. But while my body screams for slumber, my brain refuses. It’s not in any shape to help me unravel the case, but it’s not letting me rest either.
An hour later, I’m on the sofa, with the remains of dinner scattered around me. I actually ate it all. Apparently, the trick is to wait until the sun is down and my stomach has settled.
Now I’m on the sofa watching Dalton and Anders, sprawled on the floor as they play an impressively brutal game of Scrabble. No blows have been exchanged, but insults certainly have been. I don’t know who’s winning. My brain isn’t even working well enough to track that.
I suspect my mental condition explains why Dalton insisted on Scrabble. I don’t have the energy to play anything more challenging than Snakes and Ladders. He probably hoped that if I couldn’t play, I’d sleep. I’m not, but that’s okay. I’m happy lying here, half dozing as I listen to them talk and argue and play and laugh and talk some more.
For this moment, life is good. Max is home. April stopped by a while ago to inform me that his condition is excellent given what he experienced. He reports no sexual interference, and there are no obvious signs of such, to my eternal relief. I’ll still have to question him, but this is a start. His ankle is sprained, but that’s from jumping out of a tree. Otherwise, he’s dehydrated and exhausted, and there are friction burns on his wrists and ankles from being bound.
Physically, he is in better shape than we dared hope. Emotionally? That’s another story. He just endured a trauma right on the heels of the trauma of his father’s death. All that is for another day. Right now, what matters is that he’s home with his mother and brother.
Max is home, and I am home, and I am so happy that I feel as if I’ve downed my usual two shots of tequila. Blame the hormones, I guess. Everything is magnified, and if that’s what I’m feeling right now, I’ll take it. I’m lying on a sofa that feels like a dream bed, with the fire roaring, my dog right below me, my husband and our best friend arguing over the legitimacy of the word “dawg,” and I cannot remember ever being happier.
Also, I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant, and with Max found, I can stop feeling guilty every time a little thrill rises at the thought. I can take this new idea and explore it without feeling as if I’m wasting brain power better spent searching for a child who has already been born.
I want our baby. I would never deny that. I desperately want it, and I know I might not get it, and I need to be okay with that. We’ve made our choice. We aren’t going to ignore the possibilities—the dreams—just because they might not last. We will indulge them, and if we need to mourn them later, we’ll do that, too.
