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in the corner of the couch.
    In the fantasy, he had bent down to kiss her sleeping eyes, only to find her opening them suddenly in a gaze so loving he knew it forgave all his shortcomings—his being a bad husband to her mother, a sometimes inattentive father, a selfish man.
    But ... she wasn’t there.
    Sheriff Wayman, sensing the overwhelming despair gathering up inside Carnes, made a clucking sound and said, “Doesn’t mean she won’t turn up.”
    Carnes spun toward the man, all his frustration and anger telling in his voice. “Why don’t you lay off the reassurances and get your ass to doing something helpful?”
    Instantly, Carnes regretted his words. Wayman had been quite helpful, quite supportive.
    “I—” Carnes began.
    Wayman raised a halting hand. “No need for apologies. I’d be just the same way.”
    The two men went inside the office. The clerk was asleep in an arm chair, the TV set nothing more than snow.
    Wayman went to the phone, checked with his office.
    In the small bathroom, Carnes splashed water over his face. He knew he needed to remain as calm, as reasonable as possible. He didn’t want to become the kind of man he detested—the kind of men too many of his clients were; bullying, hysterical, unhelpful to themselves or anybody else—and so he made a pass at saying another prayer, one with two intents—finding Deirdre and helping himself behave better.
    When he emerged from the bathroom, he saw another man standing there, a short, stout man in a windbreaker and khaki pants. In his fifties, the man had the air of a suburbanite, surprising for somebody in Burton. The handsomeness of his face was being buried in his jowliness. His carefully combed salt-and-pepper hair marked him as a man of some pride.
    He saw Carnes and a kind of professional sympathy filled his blue eyes. He crossed the room and said, “I’m Kevin Heath. I’m the local Methodist minister.” He assessed the surprise in Carnes’s expression and said, “The sheriff just thought it might be helpful for you to talk to somebody. He said he was afraid he was beginning to irritate you.” Heath nodded to the pickup truck outside. “The sheriff’s helping load up the truck.”
    “No word came into his office about my daughter?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    “Shit,” Carnes said, then realized he was swearing in front of a minister. He flushed.
    “Quite all right,” Reverend Heath said in his very polished manner. “It’s a word I am given to using myself on occasion.” He nodded to the Mr. Coffee behind the counter. “How about if I pour you a cup of coffee?”
    “I’d like that. Thank you.”
    Reverend Heath went back and found them two cups and filled them. When they were seated, Heath said, “You know, most of them turn up.”
    Carnes had been staring morosely into his cup. “I’m sorry.”
    Reverend Heath smiled. “I was just saying that most of them turn up. The great majority. Of kids who disappear, I mean. They have their own reasons for going and they go to some place you’d never think to look for them and then they turn up. Perfectly safe.”
    Carnes could hear the man in the pulpit. There was no doubt the man was very good. The impression of a city person grew stronger the longer the reverend talked.
    “Yeah,” Carnes said. “Maybe that’s what’ll happen. She’ll just turn up safe and sound.”
    “I’m saying prayers for that, Mr. Carnes. Prayers can cure a lot of ills.”
    “It’s been a long time for me, I’m afraid.”
    “Praying, you mean?”
    Carnes nodded.
    “Well, God doesn’t mind if we’re less than poetic when we address Him.”
    “I suppose not.”
    “I always say to people to forget formal prayer. Just say what’s in your heart.”
    Carnes wished Sheriff Wayman would come back. The unctuous piety of the reverend was beginning to annoy him.
    The door opened. Wayman walked in. He looked at the clerk—still asleep despite all the conversation—and then at the reverend and