“She made me come in second,” Argus said, in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Shannon said. “She was probably just playing with us.”

By the time the rest of the team began to cross the line, Argus had caught his breath and was thinking about what he could do to improve himself for the next day. He’d run again tonight, of course, but running on the road wasn’t the same as running through the forest. Cross-country running consisted of hills and valleys, uneven ground and the occasional obstacle to be avoided. The forest had all of those things. If he could run through the forest, then maybe he’d be better tomorrow.

Consumed by his thoughts, Argus headed back to the school before the rest of the team had finished the run.

“Argus?” Coach Quinn called. “Is everything okay?”

Argus kept walking.

“There’s practice tomorrow,” he said.

“I know,” Argus said, without turning around. “I’ll be there.”

Chapter 11

The Redstone RCMP detachment was a small square building just off the main highway, at the south end of town. It was built of red brick in the 1970s, when the existing detachment was knocked down to make room for a supermarket. The lighted POLICE sign had been taken from the old building and looked its age. The tall rectangular windows and black-shingled roof had never been upgraded or repaired.

There were six empty parking spots out front, two to the left of the flagpole and four to the right. A Canadian flag flew at the top of the pole, with the RCMP standard flying beneath it. More parking spaces were around back, for police cruisers and people working inside, as well as a large garage door that allowed cars carrying prisoners to drive right into the building.

Ranger Brock was usually able to park out front whenever he visited the detachment, but today each of the spots was filled by an old pickup truck or beat-up car.

“Full house,” he said, under his breath, as he drove around back. He parked his 4 × 4 in the spot furthest from the building. Then he exited his car and walked around to the front doors.

“Hi, Garrett,” Mary Lou Valade said. She was the detachment’s console operator, who took care of just about everything that didn’t have to do with policing. Everyone called her Grammalou because she was never able to have a conversation without mentioning her grandchildren.

“Hey, Grammalou,” he said, with a wave. “Are they here yet?”

She smiled and tilted her head backward. “Can’t you hear them? They’re making more noise than my grandkids on a Saturday night.”

A slight din was coming from a room somewhere behind her. “You better get in there,” she said. “The sergeant’s been with them for twenty minutes and he’s come out four times looking for you.”

“Lead the way.”