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where she resumed styling the doll’s stiff hair. After the first three outs Mark’s teams was at bat. The leadoff batter took his position in the batter’s box and prepared for the first pitch. Suddenly a loud strange shriek came from behind the field at the river. All the players looked to the sound.
    â€œWhat was that?” the boy at bat wondered.
    â€œI don’t know,” replied the catcher, tossing the ball back and forth into his glove, “sounded like a dog got hit by a car.”
    â€œThere are no cars over there,” Mark replied, “let’s take a look.”
    Curiosity took over and the boys walked to the edge of the water. They lined the bank and peered down river following the slow current until it disappeared around a bend at the far side of the town. In unison, they all turned up river to where they could see the water seeped from the swampy land at the base of the heights.
    â€œNo dog, no car, no nothing,” Mark’s friend Bobby said, “Some stupid dog got himself stung by a hornet and yelped, is all,” another of the players declared.
    â€œYou’re probably right,” said the boy with the bat, “let’s get back to the game.”
    A feeling that something was missing settled on Mark, like when he left for school without his homework. Then he remembered Cathy. He looked to the bleachers. She was gone.
    â€œWait a minute, fellas,” Mark’s eyes scanned the bleachers, the closed snack stand behind the fenced backstop, the entire field. He asked, “anyone see Cathy?” The boys looked in different directions but none answered. “I have to find her.”
    â€œAw, hurry up,” complained the boy at bat, wondering if he would ever have his turn. The others tossed the ball around while Mark investigated the last place he saw Cathy, a bench in the bleachers that paralleled the first base line. When they heard him scream, they ran to him.
    Mark sat sobbing hysterically, holding Cathy’s doll. The cotton stuffing dangled from its torn body. Lying nearby in a small puddle of dark blood was the hairbrush.
    The boys talked wildly with voices that piled higher onto each other, explaining their own versions of what happened to Cathy. Art Finely heard the commotion and joined the boys.
    â€œWhat happened?” he asked Mark.
    â€œM-m-my sister, C-C-Cathy,” stuttered the upset boy, “she was h-h-here and now s-she’s gone.”
    â€œTake it easy, son,” Finley placed his hand on the boys shoulder trying to calm him. “I’ll go for the police. Don’t you boys touch anything understand?” The boys nodded as Finley left.
    â€œI hope nothing happened to her,” Bobby tried to comfort his friend.
    â€œI hope not either,” Mark sobbed.
    â€œMaybe you should go home and get your father?”
    â€œI can’t, I have to wait for the police. You go and my dad,” Mark said.
    Without hesitation, Bobby jumped onto his bike and peddled for Marks home.

    * * * *

    Michael Collins sat on the front stairs spraying a fine mist from the garden hose over the lawn. He noticed the cat lying in wait under the car for an unsuspecting bird to land nearby. As the cat prepared to pounce on a chickadee, Michael turned the water on the cat. It jumped past the confused bird and ran to the safety of its own yard. Mike grinned, following the path of the fleeing cat until he spotted Bobby on the bike speeding into the driveway.
    â€œWhoa, Bob. Where’s the fire, what’s the matter?” Mike reached out and took hold of the bike before the boy lost control.
    â€œMister Collins,” he stammered, pausing to regain his breath, “Mister Collins…something’s happened over at the field…Mister Finley went for the cops.”
    â€œFor Christ sake, what happened at the field?”
    â€œCathy’s missing and there’s blood, lots of it.”
    â€œWhere’s