He has messed up his plan to appear in a hunting mask and hammer-smash the mouth of Riley Rilke-Rickreiner’s stepdad. He never should have said he had the hammer, for one thing. Before that, he should have kept his thumb back, taken a chance, and waited for a better-looking ride. And before that, anyway, the stupid early 4-H bus had come all the way to the house so he couldn’t get his dad’s orange mask from where he had re-stashed it in the newspaper tube at the end of the driveway. So turd-mouth Riley’s turd-mouth stepdad is still out there yelling nasty words at Taylor’s mother, who is angry, Taylor worries, because she isn’t coming in to get him, and she would have come in to get Opie or Dylan or his dad, by now, for sure. In fact—he searches—his mom has vanished.

So he sits there stiff as a stump in front of the man while not his mother but Deputy Schwem walks up with a red plastic gas can and sets it on the top step. Then Taylor and the gas can just sit there, waiting for something.

“What time is it in France?” the man asks into the phone. “Perfect. Thirty minutes. New-midnight, French time.”

CHAPTER 46

“Heidi,” Denise said, “I just found out he’s called all three La Crosse TV stations.”

Sheriff Kick had gone around the building to inspect the alley. Too narrow for fire trucks. With her phone at her ear, she started back toward Second Street, feeling seasick with adrenaline as the alley seemed to pitch and roll beneath her. She had to be right. Had to. She could not image life without… could not imagine life going forward if she was wrong. Golly didn’t need to hurt Taylor. That did not seem to be his kind of insanity. She just could not bear…

“He told them he has your little boy hostage. He told them to come and see the show. Seven A.M., which he seems to think is noon in France, they said.”

Denise tapped keys and hit switchboard buttons. “Actually it’s two P.M. there. He thinks they care? Or he’s in France?” She said to someone else, “We’re not looking for a girl on a horse anymore. Get here now.” Something clattered. “Heidi, Golly invited the TV people to ‘the summit,’ he said, to ‘witness history.’ And they’re coming.”

“Send the fire trucks,” she said.

“The guy from Channel 8 said he was rambling about some burning monk who died in Vietnam fifty years ago and some naked little girl running from a firebombing who survived. What does all that mean?”

“It means send the fire trucks,” she repeated.

“Harley’s on his way. I said leave Dylan with the neighbors if he could. Your mother-in-law was yelling. I tried not to tell him very much.”

“Thank you.”