Three Boys and a Baby

“This time, what?” she all but shrieked. “Do you have a crystal ball? Have you also called in a psych—” A sob racked her body. Tears flowed and she looked away, but then Jackson pulled her against him, wrapping her in his strength. As if she’d known him a lifetime, because exhaustion and terror and a sense of unbearable helplessness had taken a toll, she clung to him. “I—I’m so afraid,” she cried. “W-what if you don’t find them? Or, w-worse—”

“Shh…” He held her tightly, cupping his hand to the back of her head, as if sheltering her from the harsh realities of what had become of their world. “We’ll bring them all back safe. If not in thirty minutes, then soon. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Because of the sureness of his tone, his powerful hold made her believe him. The worry gripping her insides refused to let her believe anything else.

Once her cheeks had dried and her labored breathing had returned to normal, Jackson released her with an awkward pat to her back, stepping away.

“I should rejoin the others,” he said, already edging toward the door.

She followed. “I want to go. I can’t stand just sitting here. I feel helpless.”

“Look…” He released a deep sigh. “On the off chance you’re needed, you should stay.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, gaze narrowed. “Needed? Why do I get the feeling you’re trying in a polite way to prepare me for one or more of our boys needing medical attention?”

“All I’m saying is just in case. There’s no sense in you being exhausted. Should the need for first aid—for anyone, be it the boys or the baby or one of the search party—arise.”

Despite knowing Jackson was right in his request for her to stay put, Ella wasn’t sure her heart could withstand one more moment of inactivity. “Please, Jackson, there must be something productive I can do.”

“I suppose making sandwiches is out?”

Shooting him a sarcastic smile, she said, “There are already enough sandwiches downstairs to feed every man, woman and child in the state.”

“Come on,” he said, gesturing for her to follow. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“IT STINKS IN HERE,” Owen said, looking up at the storm-drain tunnel’s cobwebbed ceiling, then clutching his backpack tighter. “I’m hungry. Let’s go home.”

“We can’t just go home,” Oliver pointed out. Truthfully, deep inside his belly where the hunger pangs were starting to hurt really bad, he kind of wanted to go home, too. Eat a big plate of his mom’s blueberry pancakes with one of those whipped cream smiley faces she drew on them. After that, he’d play video games, then crawl into his mom’s big bed. She had more pillows than him and Owen. She’d asked if he wanted more pillows, but he’d said no, seeing how having his bed covered in soft stuff wouldn’t be very manly. Since his dad had taken off and Oliver was oldest, that made him man of the house and in charge. He had to set a good example for his little brother, for Dillon and the baby. “If we go home, we’re gonna get grounded and Daffodil’s gonna get sent to jail.”

“I still think that’s a stupid name for a baby,” Owen said, “and they won’t take her to jail, but juvie.”

“You’re both wrong.” Dillon hugged the sleeping infant.

“She’ll go to the big house. I saw it on TV. It’s way worse than just jail or juvie. She’ll probably have to be in a gang and stuff.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “She’s a baby. How’s she gonna be in a gang?”

“Gangs are smart.” Dillon kissed the top of the baby’s head. “My teacher, Mrs. Henseford, says gang leaders like to get their new members young.”

“Please,” Owen whined, “let’s go home.”

“No.” Oliver pitched a rock at a tin can. “We have to get jobs—and a car.”

“Yeah,” Dillon said with a heavy sigh. “But before that, you guys ever come up with what we want to name her?”

“I already told you, Rapunzel,” Owen said.

“That’d be fine,” Dillon said, “only she doesn’t have any hair.”

“How ’bout Baldy?”

Dillon wrinkled his nose. “That’s not very pretty. We have to give her a girly name.”

“Fluffy? Kimmy? Cassie?”

“Nah,” Dillon said. “I’m not feeling any of those.”

“Okay, well if you don’t like Daffodil, what about calling her Rose? Roses are pretty, and they smell nice.”

“Yeah,” Dillon said, “but most times, this baby smells bad.”

“That’s just because she poops a lot,” Owen pointed out.

“But she’ll stop that when she’s old.”

“So you want to call her Rose?” Oliver asked.

Dillon gazed down at the baby girl and smiled. “Yeah. Rose…I think that sounds really pretty.”

“THANK YOU,” Ella said. The sincerity in her tone and warmth behind her eyes told Jackson he’d done the right thing in getting her a job manning the phone lines. “This has been good for me.” She sighed. “You know—getting my mind off things for a while.”

“Sure.” Given the gravity of their shared things, he wasn’t sure what else to say.

The police station’s dingy beige lobby hummed with activity.

Phones ringing.

Teletype grunting.

Hank barking orders.

Not since grizzled old Digger Mason had been found dead under the Forked River bridge had Jackson seen such a commotion. Deputies had been called in from three additional counties. Bullock County had just suffered major tornado damage from a sudden spring storm and couldn’t spare the manpower. With all available National Guard members also helping, using the station parking lot as a home base, Jackson had had to park half a block down the street.

A lot of the guys from the fire station had also come down to help with the search. Hank had mentioned that Jackson’s best bud, Vince Calivaris, currently led a crew at the abandoned rock quarry. While Jackson thought it was good of Calivaris to lend a hand, the thought of him finding the boys floating facedown in icy, deep-blue water filled his stomach with cold lead.

“Coffee, Mrs. Garvey?” Deputy Heidi Wesson offered Ella a steaming cup. “Fresh-brewed. Can I get you some cream or sugar?”

“No. But, thank you,” Ella said, accepting the cup, cautiously sipping, then groaning with apparent pleasure. Jackson had never seen a woman take her coffee black. He supposed, what with her being a pediatrician and all, that she’d probably never had time for frivolities like doctoring a cup of joe. He found himself liking that fact about her. Her no-nonsense attitude.

You despise that quality in your all-business ex.

Did he? Or was it the fact that she’d valued efficiency over love?

“How about you?” Heidi asked, offering Jackson a cup, as well.

He murmured his thanks.

“If you’re hungry, the PTA set up an amazing snack table in the break room. I heard it’s being manned by parents from the boys’ school, and that—”