A rookie in uniform tramped through the trees to the line of cars where Keenan rested. The detective tried to remember his name.
"Taking five?" Keenan asked.
"Maybe ten," the rookie replied. He seemed troubled and distracted, shifting around as he poured himself a Styrofoam cup of crappy coffee from the little snack table some volunteers had set up. "What about you?"
"My brain is fried," Detective Keenan said. "Tired as I am, I might see Bigfoot out there."
Instead of the chuckle Keenan had expected, the rookie gave him a dark look. "You're giving up on the kid?"
The detective bristled. "Who said anything about giving up?"
"A lot of the searchers are saying there's no way he could've survived in the storm last night, or he drowned, or whatever," the rookie said.
Something about his tone made Keenan take a closer look at the man. His name tag identified him as Marco Torres. Short, muscular, black hair buzzed close to his scalp, he'd been with the Coventry PD just a few months, but apparently he thought that gave him the experience to needle a detective.
"It's weird," Keenan said. "You say that, but it doesn't sound like you believe it."
What it really sounded like, to Keenan, was a test of faith, like Torres had thrown out that comment to see if the detective would agree with him, like a girlfriend commenting on the beauty of another woman just to gauge her guy's response.
"I don't know what to believe," Officer Torres said, turning away as he sipped his coffee. "I just hope we find him soon, or that he's got somewhere warm to spend the night. Nobody should have to die alone, out in the cold, especially not a child."
Though he agreed, something about the guy's tone still troubled Keenan,. He studied the rookie from behind, trying to decipher what it was about Torres that set him on edge.
The sound of tires on gravel made Detective Keenan turn. In the gloaming of the day, light fading, a familiar, unmarked Crown Victoria pulled onto the shoulder and stopped. The engine shut off, ticking as it cooled. Keenan didn't have to be able to see through the tinted windows to know who was behind the wheel and his belief was confirmed when the door popped open and Lieutenant Duquette emerged. The fiftyish man had a rounded belly, a walrus mustache, and a balding pate, and he wore round little glasses that reminded Keenan of the aging actor in the diabetes commercials that were always on TV.
"Torres," Keenan said.
The rookie turned around just as the lieutenant approached them, hitching up his belt. Lieutenant Duquette glanced at Torres but then turned his entire attention on Keenan.
"You look like shit, Joe."
Keenan nodded. "Thank you, sir."
"I'm not kidding. You've been out here too long. It's taking a toll. You should rein things in a little, go home and get some sleep."
"I don't look much better than this on my best day, Lieutenant."
"I'm not asking, Detective."
Keenan frowned. He was aware of Officer Torres watching them but this seemed very personal and he had no idea why that might be.
"What's changed?" he asked.
The lieutenant arched an eyebrow. "I don't take your meaning."
"You tried to get me to pull back on the search this morning and here you are, in person. Sorry, but I just want to know if there's been a break in the case I don't know about, because it seems to me we've still got a missing kid."
Lieutenant Duquette shot a glance at Torres. "Give us some breathing room, would you, Officer? But don't go far. I'll need you momentarily."
"Yes, sir," Torres replied, taking his coffee off in the direction of the lieutenant's Crown Vic because his other choices were toward the river or toward the media.
When Torres had excused himself, the lieutenant took a step closer to Keenan, invading the detective's personal space with his belly and his 'stache and his bad breath.
"The Stroud boy must be in the river," Lieutenant Duquette said. "We've gone house to house on all of the adjacent streets, combed the woods, checked the hospitals, put out a call for help through the media … it doesn't take a detective to realize there's only one logical explanation."
The last bit had been meant as a jab, Keenan knew. He felt it, but didn't let it show.
"The divers found nothing," he said, dumping out the rest of his paper-bag coffee. "There are other possibilities. And there is zero evidence that the kid went into the water. None. Maybe you don't believe he's still out there, but I do. Zachary Stroud was injured in the accident and wandered off. Maybe he hit his head and he's confused. Maybe he asked the wrong person for help and got abducted. Hell, maybe the crash was no accident and the whole thing was set up to snatch the kid."
"That's ridiculous."
"But not impossible," Keenan insisted, his irritation burning some of the exhaustion out of him.
The lieutenant sighed and it was like the sound of a whale venting from its blowhole. Stroking his mustache, Duquette looked around and then turned back to Keenan, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone.
"The search isn't coming up with anything, Joe. We've done all we can on the ground. The divers will be back in the water tomorrow but we're cutting back on the man power out here. We'll keep leading searches for a couple of days on a smaller scale, but if we still haven't found him by then, the river gets the blame."
Detective Keenan knew better than to argue any further. The decision had been made, and as much as he hated it, he understood.
"All right," he said. "I've got two more days."
The lieutenant's eyes narrowed and he tapped one finger to Keenan's chest.
"Go home, Joe. You're no good to this kid if you can't even think straight," the lieutenant said. He turned and called to Torres to return to them. "I'm going to make sure you get home in one piece. I don't want you behind the wheel on so little sleep."
"I'm fine, Lieutenant-"
"No, Joe. You're not. You're going home. Unless you want to tell me what makes you so damned special?"
"What?" Keenan said, unable to hide his anger. "When have I ever-"
"Do you honestly think all of these other police officers and the volunteers-some of them firefighters and EMTs and veterans-do you really think they need you here to tell them what to do?"
Detective Keenan faltered, exhaling, feeling all the anger bleeding out of him. Much as he hated to admit it, the lieutenant had him.
"Of course not," he said.
Lieutenant Duquette nodded, then cleared his throat as he turned back to the rookie.
"Officer Torres, I'm worried about Detective Keenan falling asleep behind the wheel. Run him home, would you?"
Minutes later, Keenan sat in the passenger side of his own car as Torres chauffeured him. Another officer would swing by and pick Torres up afterward. The nighttime rushed in around them, somehow managing to make the car's headlights seem altogether brighter.
They rode in silence for a while before Torres piped up.
"Ugly storm coming," the rookie said. "Weatherman says it could be as bad as the Big One."
"So I hear."
Silence, save for the purr of the engine and the tires on pavement and the occasional burst of police-radio static.
"I don't know how you kept it together after that night," Torres said, his voice flat, carefully neutral.
Detective Keenan turned slowly to look at him.
Torres flexed his fingers on the steering wheel and shifted in his seat, feeling Keenan's displeasure.
"I'm just saying," Torres went on. "It had to be traumatic for you, those two boys being electrocuted, one of them dying right in front of you. Then the father just vanishes. It has to change you, something like that. I only wondered if it made you care more in a case like this, or care less, and just work harder so you don't have to add to the guilt you're already-"
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Keenan shouted.
"Sorry. I didn't mean anything. I just heard about-"
"You've been with the department what, six months?"
Expressionless, Torres gripped the wheel and kept his eyes forward. "Something like that."
"And you think you've earned the right to ask me questions like that?" Keenan said, fuming, slowing his breathing, trying to get a handle on his anger. His pain. "You don't know me, Torres. Don't ever talk to me about the storm again, or about anything I might think or feel. Just do your job and I'll try my best to keep you from being shot in the back of the head by some meth-head because you've got no common sense and you've alienated your fellow officers."
"Detective, I-"
"Shut it."
Torres complied, but for only a minute or two. When he took the turn onto Detective Keenan's street, just blocks from his house, the rookie made the mistake of speaking up again.
"You're not going to give up, are you?" Torres asked hopefully, as if he'd never asked a more important question in his life. "Just tell me that much."
"Hell no," Keenan said, still fuming. He shook his head in frustration.
The tires skidded in sand as Torres braked in front of Keenan's house. Detective Keenan popped the door and got out, sticking out his hands for the keys, which Torres promptly turned over.