I rowed at a faster pace all the way to the bridge, working up a sweat, bringing up my heart rate. Then I picked up the oars and held them over the water, gliding as I sailed under the bridge. I looked up as I drew under, not surprised to see what looked like a thousand splatters of bird droppings, several abandoned nests, and a few tiny bats nestled among the eaves. I coasted to a stop about ten feet on the other side, did a careful sweep and brace, and eventually worked myself around toward the opposite direction.

The ride back was slower and more thoughtful as I allowed my mind to turn toward all of the happenings of this day. I had seen two men get shot right in front of my eyes. I wondered when I would finish reeling from the shock of that; I knew wise old Eli would tell me to deal with it right now, right away. These things can build up in you, he had told me after my first traumatic day as a detective. Find a way to let off some steam, or you’ll end up going a little bonkers.

I knew he was right. In the early days, I had taken a tip from my policeman brother and learned to play racquetball, pounding out my emotions on the court. Nowadays, I found better solace in prayer and in canoeing. At this moment, I prayed for Alan Bennet, for his physical health and his spiritual well-being. How quickly we can move from life to death, I thought. How tragic if that happens before our hearts have been sealed for heaven by the Savior.

By the time I rowed into the shore at Lorraine’s house, I felt calm and at peace despite the confusion that I knew would continue to swirl around me. There were still many unanswered questions, still much work to be done—even with Alan Bennet arrested for the murder and Monty Redburn in police custody.

I got one shoe a little wet as I stepped onto the bank, but otherwise it was a clean landing. I dragged the heavy boat up to its tree, huffing and panting until it was safely back in place. It was then that I noticed Harriet running across the lawn toward me, with what looked like my cell phone in her hand.

“Thank goodness you’re back!” she yelled, running closer, her breathing ragged and heavy. “They’ve been texting and calling almost since the minute you left.”

“They who?” I asked, taking the phone from her.

“The Smythe family,” she wheezed. “The wife. The son.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s the boy,” she said.

“Carlos?”

“Yes. Carlos.”

“What about him?” I asked, my heart leaping into my throat.

“He’s gone,” she said, wringing her hands, shaking her head. “Disappeared. They were hoping you might know where he is.”

Forty-Three

Forty-Three