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that evening. He said, “Luke went in after my ball.”
    At the sight of the baffled look still stamped on Chief Buckner’s face he added, “I stole the ball from my dad’s collection. It was signed by Carlton Fisk.” The admission wasn’t done out of benevolence or in the misguided hope they would tear apart Flatrock Bridge looking for Luke, who was surely dead. It was a calculated maneuver, made by a desperate boy.
    The name didn’t alleviate the confusion on the Chief’s face. He was a Texas football fan. Talk to him about Coach Bryant, talk to him about high school football, college football, anything from the past fifty years involving football and he’d have something to say but he didn’t know anything about Carlton Fisk, the Boston Red Sox or any East Coast baseball team. Griffin Tanner, on the other hand, unaware he had a valuable stake in the game until that moment, turned with an odd gleam in his eyes. Barry had his father’s undivided attention.
    Murphy Jobes felt the dull weight of sobriety taking hold. He watched Mike Casteel’s eyes glaze over and drift toward the damn drainage pipe again and again like any moment his boy might come scrambling out like the whole night had been a lark. If the boy was stuck, he’d be in there kicking up a ruckus—caterwauling and what not—and there hadn’t been diddly squat, nary a sound coming out of that pipe the whole time he’d been standing there. Silence told its own sorry tale.
    He smacked his lips together and scanned the ragtag gathering of people wondering if anyone had thought to bring along a cooler. He had a bad case of cotton mouth and desperately needed a drink. The mayor and two city councilmen stood close to the dirt trail leading up to the road. It was doubtful the wound tight, uptight citizens of Junction would have a beer to spare.
    Damn it was hot. Had to be a hundred degrees and the sun wasn’t even shining. Hell he would have settled for a drink of water, that’s how bad his thirst was. He spotted Suzy standing near Beth Riley and her kid. The oaf Horace Buckner stood nearby. He’d have to get Suzy up the trail and in the truck before Horace got around to thinking how ol’ Murph got out to Flatrock Bridge without driving.
    He licked his lips again. He needed a drink. Bad. Deciding it was past time to go he shook Mike Casteel’s hand, wished him the best, and headed for the 2x4s laid across the mud.
    Beth Riley watched Murphy Jobes approach the makeshift bridge of 2x4s like a single-minded oxen. If he saw Griffin Tanner ahead of him, he didn’t show any sign. In his haste, his size 12 work boot caught the edge of a board and sent him stumbling forward. The planks shifted and Griffin Tanner, almost across, had to step sideways to catch his balance. One leg sank to mid-calf in the mud. For a split second Griffin’s perfectly composed face twisted with rage and he spat out, “You stupid oaf.”
    She thought. Get a good look folks, that’s the real Griffin Tanner . A smirk of satisfaction almost made it to her lips but it froze and slid away replaced by growing trepidation. That’s who Barry was going home with, not the polished, perfectly pressed version the town always saw.
    She didn’t want to be involved with the Tanners, she’d been against Barry since the first day he stepped through her door, but over the past year he had become a permanent fixture in her home. As much as she wanted to take Jared and get away, a mother’s concern kept her feet rooted in place. She wanted to make certain her son’s best-friend would be all right.
    Chief Buckner offered Griffin a hand and hoisted him to dry land. The genial mask returned and Griffin expressed his appreciation. “Thanks Chief. If it’s all right I think I’ll collect the boy and head home.” He pinched his wet pant leg between his thumb and fingers gave it a little shake and grimaced.
    “You go on Mr. Tanner. If I have any more questions, I’ll just give you a