Take Me With You Read online

  “Oh. Got it. To be frank, we been treating this as a runaway all along. So this doesn’t change the thinking much. You go wait in the rig. We’ll let you know what we find.”

  Chapter Three:

  One REAL GOOD DOG

  “You okay, August?” Seth asked suddenly, startling him.

  He sat up on his unmade bed. Blinked into the light. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “It kind of freaks me out how you’ve just been lying still for like an hour with your hands over your face. Could you . . . I don’t know . . . talk to me or something?”

  August looked around the inside of the rig for reasons he couldn’t pin down.

  “Has it really been an hour?”

  “Pretty much. I think he’ll turn up, August. He always did before.”

  “This is not exactly the same kind of landscape he was lost on before.”

  “Oh.”

  A long silence. August was trying hard to keep the inside of his head and gut still. He felt an overall sense of heavy, sickening dread, but it was surprisingly low-level. He knew if he jostled it he’d be in for an unpleasant surprise.

  “Or I could talk,” Seth said. “But I really need somebody to talk. What’ve you been thinking all this time, August?”

  August sighed. “I was thinking I was too hard on my ex-wife.”

  August expected Seth to ask what he meant.

  Instead Seth just asked, “You mean about the accident?”

  “Right. That.”

  “But somebody got killed. That’s big.”

  “But what if somebody gets killed tonight because I left Henry alone while we went to that meeting? Remember how we talked about it? The first time we did it? We said, ‘We’ll just be right in there. We can see him and hear him from here. And Woody is here to bark. And there’s an alarm.’ And all that time what we were saying is that we knew something could happen, but we figured the chances were pretty slim that it would. And how many times do we do that every day of our damn lives? We take all these little calculated risks. All the time. Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand nothing goes wrong. And the one time it does, we blame the person who took the risk, tell them they should have known better than to ever do such a thing. Which I’m not saying is wrong, but we know we take risks, too. Maybe we even blame them more because we want to pretend it never could have happened to us. But of course it could have. We make life-and-death decisions every day. The odds are just really good on most of them. But if something goes wrong, we’re still responsible. And we don’t get to do it over, either.”

  “But she drove while she was drinking, August. That’s so big.”

  “Under the legal limit. I’m not saying it was okay, Seth. I don’t know what I’m saying. Yes, I do. I think. I drove when I’d been drinking, too. But I never got into an accident. And now who the hell am I to act like I’m better than her because she was sitting at a red light when someone ran it? And I wasn’t? That’s luck. That’s not to my credit. We’re responsible for everything. Everything we do. Not just when it backfires on us.”

  A silence.

  Then Seth said, “This is making my brain hurt, August.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m the one who said you should talk to me about anything. It’s my fault too he took off.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “But you said we’re responsible for everything we do. And I was the one who said it would be okay to leave him alone in here.”

  “I’m still the adult.”

  “But I’m supposed to look after my brother. So how can it be your fault but not mine? What’s the difference?”

  “The difference . . . Seth . . . is that you already think everything is your fault. You try to hold the whole world on your shoulders. I need to step up a little. You need to dial it back.”

  A knock on the door startled them both.

  “It’s just Emory,” the familiar voice said.

  August bolted to the back door and swung it open so hard that Emory had to jump out of the way.

  “Sorry,” August said.

  “No worries. Look. I’ve been doing a little poking around with the police, but I think I’m going to head on home now. Hope that’s okay. I got work in the morning.”

  “Oh. Yeah, of course. I didn’t even know you were searching.”

  “Well, I wanted to do what I could. But I really think the police have it covered.” He turned his head and looked off to the horizon in the moonlight. “They’re good at what they do. They got a grid thing worked out . . .” Then he tailed off again. Just as August was beginning to wonder what he was looking at, Emory said, “Is your dog about so big?”

  He held his two hands one above the other in an approximation of a dog about Woody’s size.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “That him right there?”

  August stepped out into the moonlight and looked where Emory pointed. About a hundred feet away he just barely made out Woody at a dead run in their direction. Stretched out, running so hard and so flattened that he appeared closer to the ground than he ever had before. His hugely extended tongue flapped out of his mouth on one side.

  “Woody! Seth, come see! Woody’s back!”

  As Seth stepped off the bottom step into the dirt, Woody hit August. Literally. Took off from the ground a few feet away and slammed against August’s chest, landing in his arms. August could feel the little dog’s labored breathing. And the pounding of his heart. For a moment he worried that Woody’s heart might explode.

  “August, why did he leave Henry?”

  “I have no idea,” August said, “but I—”

  But before he could even finish the reply, Woody was back in the dirt. Apparently the name Henry spoken out loud set him back into motion. He ran a few yards away, back into the open landscape. In the direction from which he’d just come. Then he stopped. Looked over his shoulder, his tongue still lolling ridiculously from one side of his mouth, flipping sweat. He ran back to August and whined desperately.

  “I think you need to see where he’s trying to take you,” Emory said.

  August looked around. There were still police vehicles parked in the dirt. But no policemen. They were all out sorting a grid.

  “I was thinking that, too. But the policeman told me I had to stay put. So they wouldn’t end up having to send out a search party for me. Because I don’t know the land.”

  “I know the land,” Emory said.

  “But you have work in the morning.”

  “Guess I’ll be tired, then.”

  August resisted the urge to bear-hug the man. He wasn’t quite sure how that would be received.

  “Seth, you wait here.”

  “I want to go, August.”

  “I know, son,” Emory said. “I understand. But I think you should stay here just on the off chance he comes wandering back.”

  Seth’s shoulders slumped. “I guess,” he said. “Yeah.”

  Emory’s flashlight provided just enough illumination to see the footing of each next step. To make sure they weren’t about to trip over rocks or low vegetation. Every now and then Emory had to raise the beam to see Woody, who was always ten or twenty feet ahead of them, tongue hanging out straight now, waiting impatiently.

  It struck August how incredibly easy it would be to get his directions completely turned around out here in the dark without being able to look up and see landmarks of any kind. He wondered if even Emory had a good enough grasp of their direction of travel to get them back to the rig again. Then he wondered how a seven-year-old was supposed to find his way, but he swallowed the lump in his throat—and whatever else was trying to push its way up behind it—and tried to shake the thought away again.

  “This is a long way for a boy of seven to come,” Emory said after a couple of miles. “You sure he could even get this far on his own steam?”

  “Definitely. Henry’s a great hiker. We’ve been training all summer.”

  �
�Ah,” Emory said. “Just our luck.”

  They picked their way along in silence for another half hour or so. Then Emory said, “Aha.”

  August looked around but saw nothing in the darkness. “Aha what?”

  “Dog’s taking us to a house. Walt and Velma Begay’s house to be exact.”

  “I don’t even see a house.”

  “There.”

  He shone the light, but it didn’t reach quite as far as the house. But it served as a pointer, and August saw the dark shape of a modest, blocky stone home. There were no lights on. No sign that anybody was inside.

  “What’s that scratching noise?” August asked.

  “I think the dog is scratching on the door.”

  They walked up onto the porch in the weakening flashlight beam. Woody was indeed scratching at the wooden door. With both front paws, as if digging.

  “Woody, stop,” August said, worried that he would mar Walt and Velma Begay’s front door. Woody responded by jumping into August’s arms.

  Emory knocked. There was no movement in the house. No reply.

  “Lemme go look in the carport,” Emory said, and took the weak beam of light away.

  August sank down into a sit on their front stoop holding Woody in his arms. A chorus of coyote yips and barks split the night again, morphing into spooky howls, and August tightened his grip on the dog, who shivered once.

  A few minutes later Emory came back and sat beside him on the stoop, turning off the flashlight. To save batteries, August assumed.

  “They’re not home,” Emory said.

  “I can’t imagine Woody would lead us here for no reason.”

  “Especially with that scratching on the door and all. I looked through the windows as best I could, but it’s all locked up and no sign anyone’s in there. Maybe the boy was here but he’s not here now.”

  “Where would he be if that was the case?”

  “Well, if we’re having a lucky night, they might’ve run him down to the police station. See who he belongs to.”

  “I hope we’re having a lucky night.”

  “You and me both, my friend.”

  In that dark moment it struck August as strangely right to be referred to as Emory’s friend. That was really how he felt. All things being what they were.

  Emory pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a paper match. August caught a whiff of the smell of its smoke as it wafted past him. It woke things up in him that he would have preferred to leave sleeping.

  “I haven’t smoked in sixteen years,” August said, “but you have no idea how tempting that smells.”

  “Want one?”

  “Yes. But no. Don’t give me one. I couldn’t bear to have to quit all over again. I quit smoking more times than anybody I know. Twenty times maybe. Maybe twenty-five. I think the reason it finally stuck is because I just couldn’t bear to do it all over again. Just, when you lit that, it hit me all at once how it would feel to smoke a cigarette and drink about three glasses of bourbon. That would take the edge off these feelings all right.”

  Emory smoked in silence for a few moments. Then he said, “Boy needs you to keep your head together.”

  “I know. I wasn’t really going to do it. It’s just one of those things that goes through your head. No, not even your head, really. It bypasses your head and goes through your gut. I wasn’t going to act on it, but . . . I don’t know. I sure felt it. You think that’s a bad sign?”

  “I do,” Emory said.

  “Really?”

  “Very bad sign. I think it means you’re an alcoholic.”

  Both men laughed briefly, and then the silence came back to stay.

  While it was sitting on them August thought, Maybe I really was that bad. Maybe I am a real alcoholic. Maybe all that stuff about how I didn’t drink quite the way the other people in the meeting did is just one of those things you tell yourself when you don’t want to know.

  Emory spoke again, startling him.

  “Think he ran away because he doesn’t want to go home to his dad?”

  “That’s a possibility. Yeah.”

  “I feel bad for those kids.”

  “Me too. I feel like I should be doing more for them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like not making them go back.”

  “Not sure you even have that option.”

  “That’s what my sponsor says.”

  “Well, it’s the second time your sponsor and I agree, so I’m thinking he’s a very wise man and you should listen to him. Don’t answer this question off the top of your head, August, and don’t answer it out of your emotions. Think like a lawyer for a second. Has their father done enough bad that somebody should go to court and try to strip custody?”

  August sat on the question for a moment. Then he said, “Probably not.”

  “You have any kind of standing to fight him on custody? Are you blood to those kids?”

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t see much point in considering something that’s well out of your reach anyway.”

  They sat quietly in the pale moonlight for a moment more. August was surprised by how much his eyes had adjusted. He wondered if they were going back anytime soon. He wondered what their next move was from here.

  “It’s not so much what’s happened so far,” August said. “It’s more what could happen.”

  “Never heard of somebody losing custody of their kids for what they might be about to do. Or, then again, might not. Look. August. I grew up with an alcoholic dad, too.”

  “You did?”

  Emory didn’t answer. Just waited. As though August would get it on his own in time.

  “Oh. Your father. Right. Duh. He was in the meeting.”

  “There were some tough times. But, you know what? I grew up. Kids are pretty sturdy. Even when times are tough, mostly they grow up. So maybe something’ll happen if they’re with their dad. Then again, maybe it won’t. I mean, they made it this far. And, not to make you feel bad, but . . . you’re sober, and something bad happened tonight. Sometimes stuff just happens, you know? There’s not always some simple thing to point to, like if you just don’t do this, nothing can go wrong. Something can always go wrong. But we don’t like to think that way, so we point a lot.”

  They sat silent a moment more.

  Then Emory said, “My advice is give ’em back. Not like you have much choice. And try to trust they’ll keep growing up. Just like they did before they met you.” He smashed out his cigarette under the heel of his big boot. “We’d best be getting back. No point just sitting here.”

  “Please tell me you know the way.”

  “Sure I do. We’re on the road now. Way led us right back to the road. All we got to do is walk right down it a few miles.”

  They set off on foot without the help of the flashlight. With his eyes adjusted, August could just see the white stripe marking the center divider of the paved road, and they walked on it right down the middle of that little highway. They never saw a car.

  August let Woody walk alongside them for a few minutes, but when the dog stopped to sniff by the side of the road, August thought about coyotes again and scooped him up and carried him.

  “If it turns out that boy was ever at Walt and Velma’s,” Emory said, “that’s one real good dog you got there.”

  When August saw the rig off in the distance, the lights were on inside. Not surprisingly, Seth was awake and waiting up. There were no police cars.

  “Where do you think all the police cars went?” he asked Emory.

  “Hmm. Not sure. Could be good. Maybe they got a tip or something.”

  A hard knot began to form in August’s stomach. The pain and fear of not knowing had seemed so overwhelming. This was the first moment it dawned on him that the pain and fear of finding out could be far worse.

  When they were no more than twenty or thirty steps from the motor home, Woody jumped down and ran to the back door of the rig. And a police SUV appeared over the rise
, headed in their direction, red lights silently spinning.

  August stopped in the road, and Emory stopped to see why August stopped. August clutched at the man’s arm, because in a distant and numb way he felt like he might tumble.

  “Oh God. They know something.”

  It surprised August when words came out of him, because he felt completely immobile. As if made of stone. Emory put one hand on August’s shoulder, clearly understanding how much support was needed.

  “Maybe they know something good.”

  “It’s my fault, Emory. If something happened to that boy, I have to live with it forever.”

  “There’s no real negligence here, August. Kids run away. Been doing it since the beginning of time.”

  “But this one did it on my watch. How am I going to tell his father?”

  “Hold yourself together. Don’t write your own ending here before we know. Let’s go see what’s what.”

  They began to put one foot in front of the other again just as a brown-uniformed policeman stepped out of his SUV and opened its back door. That broke through the cold stone and concrete of August and struck him as a possible good sign.

  The policeman turned around to face them in the thin moonlight, clearly holding the shape of a child on his hip.

  “Well, well,” Emory said. “Looks like we get our lucky night after all.”

  August ran to them.

  “This the young man you lost, sir?” the policeman asked.

  Henry reached out for August, and August grabbed him into his arms. Held him so tightly that it must have been hard for the boy to breathe fully. But he didn’t loosen his grip, and Henry didn’t complain.

  “I have no idea how to thank you enough,” August said to the policeman when he could finally breathe and speak.

  “These things happen.”

  “Where’d you find him?”

  “We didn’t. Actually. A couple of our local folks found the boy walking and took him home with them. Then they ran him down to the police station to see who might be looking for him. They said to tell you sorry about the dog. They tried to get the dog, but he was worried about them taking the boy, and he wouldn’t come. They couldn’t catch him.”