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ex-wife, then. And even there, things are a little fuzzy. They assume that they flew, mainly because the plane belonging to Cody Jamieson is missing from the airport. Plus, there are some witnesses who heard one or both of them talking—”
    “How long, then? Before we have harder details, I mean?”
    Brandon knew these people had no answers, but it was as if he somehow needed to direct the discussion. As his visitors searched for something to say, Brandon zeroed in on Father Scannell. Of the two men before him, the priest seemed the most willing to answer questions. “So, what happens next, Father?”
    At sixtyish, Father Scannell looked more like a tennis player than a priest, his leathery skin testament to many hours in the sun. He wore his white hair closely cropped with a part so sharp that it looked sculpted. But it was the priest’s eyes that captured Brandon and wouldn’t let him go. A shade of blue that he’d never seen before, the eyes were at once piercing and sad, windows to a soul that had absorbed and absolved more than its share of sin. Scannell spoke with those eyes, and right now they offered only sympathy and kindness. Brandon wanted none of it. Terror blossomed in his gut like a poisonous black flower. Clamping his jaw tight and pursing his lips, he cocked his head to the side as his vision blurred.
    “We can pray,” the priest said softly.
    The quiver in Brandon’s gut turned to pain. There had to be more than that. Praying was the last resort, what you did when all options were gone. You prayed for the dead.
    For the first time, he saw what they saw: A plane crash at night, in the mountains, in winter. In Utah. Brandon drew a huge breath through his mouth, and held it, hoping to stop his head from spinning. “He’s not dead,” he whispered. “My son is not dead.”
    “Pray with me, Mr. O’Toole.”
    “He’s not dead!” This time, his voice showed strength that the rest of his body didn’t possess.
    “Then we’ll pray for God to protect them and keep them safe.”
    “Scott is not dead. He can’t be dead.”
    Father Scannell held out his hand, and Brandon looked at it for a long moment before grasping it. Then the priest offered his other hand to Officer Hoptman, who closed the circle. Brandon watched, dumbstruck, as they bowed their heads.
    “Heavenly Father, in the name of your Son and the Blessed Virgin, we ask you to intercede at this critical hour. To protect Scott O’Toole from harm, and to guide him to safety. We beseech you to open his heart to your love and your guidance….”
    Don’t let him be dead, Brandon thought. Let him be healthy and unhurt. Let this all be a miserable dream or a terrible mistake.
    If what these people said were true, Brandon would know it. The cosmos could not continue its normal rhythm while his son was in mortal danger. It just wasn’t possible.
    Praying was not the answer. It couldn’t hurt, but it wasn’t anybody’s solution. Brandon needed to take real action, concrete action. He needed to do something that would directly affect the outcome of this nightmare, without intercession from third parties, God notwithstanding. There had to be something. Someone he could call. Some action he could take.
    “How do they go about locating lost aircraft?” he asked, interrupting Father Scannell’s prayer.
    The priest looked startled. “Excuse me?”
    “Not you, Father.” Brandon’s tone sounded more abrupt than he’d intended. “Officer Hoptman, how do they locate lost aircraft?”
    The young police officer looked suddenly confused, caught off guard. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never actually participated in something like that.”
    Brandon nodded. That seemed reasonable. Aircraft don’t fall out of the sky every day. “Who do I need to call to find out?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know that, either.”
    “Would your supervisor know?”
    Hoptman shrugged. “Maybe. I guess. Listen, Mr. O’Toole, these are things that I think