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if she went with the ambulance. She would only hinder things here, they said. She'd said she didn't care and had stubbornly stepped out of the ambulance, back into the storm, knowing that Kyle needed her. As if in complete control, she'd asked for a raincoat and flashlight. After a couple of steps, the world had begun to spin. She'd pitched forward, her legs uncontrollable, and fallen to the ground. Two minutes later the ambulance siren had roared to life and she was on her way.
    Aside from shivering, she hadn't moved since she'd been on the gurney. Her hands and arms were completely, eerily still. Her breathing was rapid but shallow, like that of a small animal. Her skin was pale, sickly, and her latest fall had opened her head wound again.
    "Have faith, Miss Holton," the attendant soothed. He'd just taken her blood pressure and believed she was suffering from shock. "I mean, I know these guys. Kids have been lost around here before, and they always find 'em."
    Denise didn't respond.
    "And you'll be okay, too," the attendant went on. "In a couple of days, you'll be on your feet again."
    It was quiet for a minute. Denise continued to stare upward. The attendant began to take her pulse.
    "Is there anyone you want me to call when you get to the hospital?"
    "No," she whispered. "There's no one."
    Taylor and the others reached the spot where the blanket was found and began to fan out. Taylor, along with two other men, headed south, deeper into the swamp, while the rest of the search team headed east and west. The storm hadn't let up at all, and visibility in the swamp-even with the flashlight-was only a few yards at most. Within minutes Taylor couldn't see or hear anyone, and he felt a sinking sensation in his gut. Somehow lost in the adrenaline surge prior to the search-where anything seemed possible-was the reality of the situation.
    Taylor had searched for lost people before, and he suddenly knew there weren't enough men out here. The swamp at night, the storm, a child who wouldn't answer when called . . . fifty people wouldn't be enough. Maybe even a hundred. The most effective way to search for someone lost in the woods was to stay within sight of the person to the right and left, everyone moving in unison, almost like a marching band. By staying close, searchers could canvas an area thoroughly and quickly like a grid, without wondering whether something had been missed. With ten men that was simply impossible. Minutes after they'd split up, everyone involved with the search was on his own, completely separated from the others. They were reduced to simply wandering in the direction of their choosing, pointing the flashlights here and there-anywhere-the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack. Finding Kyle had suddenly become a matter of luck, not skill.
    Reminding himself not to lose faith, Taylor pressed forward, around trees, over the ever softening earth. Though he didn't have any children himself, he was godfather to the children of his best friend, Mitch Johnson, and Taylor searched as though looking for one of them. Mitch was also a volunteer fireman, and Taylor wished fervently that he was out here searching as well. His main hunting partner for the past twenty years, Mitch knew the swamp almost as well as he did, and they could use his experience. But Mitch was out of town for a few days. Taylor hoped it wasn't an omen.
    As the distance from the highway lengthened, the swamp was becoming denser, darker, more remote and foreign with every few steps. Standing trees grew closer together, rotted trees lay strewn across the ground. Vines and branches tore at him as he moved, and he had to use his free hand to keep them away from his face. He pointed his flashlight at every clump of trees, at every stump, behind every bush, moving continually, looking for any sign of Kyle. Several minutes passed, then ten.
    Then twenty.
    Then thirty.
    Now, deeper in the swamp, the water had risen past his ankles, making movement even