Dust (3 page)

He studied the Mountie. He looked as though he had been carved from solid stone, then had life breathed into him by a cruel-mouthed god. But his eyes were kind.

"My name is Sergeant Ramsden, and this is Officer Davies. I ..." It was strange that this man would hesitate. His every word should have been forceful and confident. And yet, he had paused. "... I ... your parents phoned and asked us to bring you into town."

"Why?"

"Because something has happened, and you should be with your mom and dad," the sergeant answered. He surveyed the farmyard, then his piercing gaze returned to Robert. "Are you ready to go? Is there anything you need?"

What did he need? The question seemed odd. It wasn't going to be a long trip, was it?

"I don't need anything. I guess I'll come along. I have to, don't I?"

Ramsden nodded and started back toward the car. Robert followed, his eyes drawn to the holster on the sergeant's hip. That's a .455-caliber Colt revolver, Robert thought. He knew the cops used .455s because Jonathan Fawkes, an older kid, had bragged that he'd once fired one and hit a tin can.

Officer Davies opened the door and Robert slipped into the backseat. Both Mounties removed their hats and sat in front. The silent one drove. They headed west.

Sergeant Ramsden faced Robert, looking over the seat. "Did anyone stop while your parents were gone?"

"No." Robert thought for a second. He knew that the Mounties needed to know all the details. It was their job. "The chickens seemed scared," he added

The sergeant furrowed his heavy brow. "What do you mean?"

"They were all huddled together like they thought there was a fox outside, but there wasn't."

"Do you know why they were like that?"

Robert shook his head.

"Did you see any strange vehicles?"

"No. But I did hear one—a truck passed while I was reading."

Ramsden leaned closer. He had a scar that drew a white line from his bottom lip to his chin. Robert wondered if it had been sliced by a knife; maybe the sergeant had fought with a bank robber. Robert imagined two, bandanna-wearing men robbing the Broadfoot Trust Company in Gull Lake, then stopping outside to rub their hands in glee and count their loot. The sergeant and his partner would have swept down on them, revolvers blazing, bullets pinging off the car. The bad guys would have surrendered, only to pull a knife when the Mounties holstered their guns.

"Do you know what time you heard the truck?" the sergeant barked.

Robert blinked and shook his head. "After my brother went to town and before my parents left. I was in my room ..." A sadness flickered in the sergeant's eyes at the mention of Matthew. "Is my brother all right?"

"What makes you ask that?"

There it was again, a softness behind the eyes and then stone. "I ... I just wondered. It seems ..." It was obvious something
had
happened. "Is that why you're here?"

"Your parents will answer all your questions." The sergeant cleared his throat. "So you didn't see this truck?"

"No. I was ... lying down."

"How do you know it was a truck?"

Robert paused. How
did
he know? The sound had been deep and rumbling, and as it passed he had pictured an old truck, dust trailing behind it. He lifted his eyes to the officer. "It was just a feeling I had ..." His voice trailed off.

Sergeant Ramsden stared hard at him, then turned to face forward, rubbing a thick hand across his closely cropped hair.

That hand knows jiu-jitsu, Robert thought. He'd once read a flyer that said:
"Join the Mounties, live the adventure."
It listed all the things trainees would learn: musketry, revolver fire, fingerprinting, photography, horseback riding, boxing, map reading, and post-mortem examinations. All that information and training was jammed inside these two men. They could handle any situation.

They were halfway to Horshoe already, passing field after field. The hot sun seared the top of the car, so Officer Davies pulled the visor down to block the light. Robert gawked around the interior but couldn't see any bullet holes. He decided that police cars were probably bullet-proof.

Both Mounties spent a lot of time searching the prairie. What were they looking for? The world through the window was bleached to whiteness.

Robert was suddenly gripped with a need to look at the ditch, though he wasn't sure what he expected to see. A lump rose in his throat. They went by a place where the grass was partly trampled down. A bad thing had happened there. He was sure of it. He wondered if he should open his mouth to tell them. But what would he say?

The apprehension grew in his stomach. Sweat trickled down his forehead. The air seemed stuffy, even though the driver's window was open. He felt trapped.

He thought of Barsoom. John Carter had flown through the Martian air in a one-man aircraft. Robert sat farther back in his seat, so he could see only sky out the window. It made it easier to believe they were flying through the air in a Mountie scout ship.

Horshoe's grain elevators rose up like the citadel towers on Barsoom. He wished they'd been made of stone. Soon the "Pioneer" and "Ogilvie" emblems became clear.

The car didn't slow down. Robert swallowed. They seemed to be going past town. A second later the Mountie jammed his foot on the brake and cranked the wheel.

The doubt wouldn't go away; it got darker, bigger. There was something Robert should be afraid of right now, but he wasn't sure what.

Finally, it came to him. He cleared his throat and said, "Seven is too young to walk to town by yourself."

Neither Mountie answered Robert, though the sergeant glanced his way. They drove around the corner onto Main Street. On one side was Harper's Hotel, a two-story building with a false front. A laundry had been attached to the wall facing the alley. The grocery store and the pool parlor were across the street. The Royal Theatre stood alone at the end of the block, its doors nailed shut.

A crowd had gathered in front of the hotel. Robert spotted his family's wagon but not his mom and dad. The Mountie parked the car, and the people were magnetically drawn toward it. The sergeant got out, opened the back door for Robert, and helped him down.

"Where is Mr. Steelgate?" the sergeant asked.

The crowd parted and there stood Robert's parents, unmoving, as though they'd been turned to stone. His father was a slim, wiry man with his sleeves rolled up, his face prematurely wrinkled by the sun and from squinting to keep out the dust. His eyes were red-rimmed, tired. Robert's mother was also tall, her body a frail vessel for her spirit, her clothing plain gray. They looked to be in a trance.

The sergeant spoke their names, breaking the spell. They shuffled like zombies toward Robert. He was frightened by their slowness.

He spotted Uncle Alden standing behind them, thin as a post, one hand lifted up as though he was about to wave hello. Then Robert's mother wrapped her long arms around her son, squeezing him against her bony chest, slender fingers clutching his head. "You stupid, stupid boy." He had never heard her voice so soft. "You're safe. Dear God, you're safe."

Robert was confused. Why was he stupid, and what did she mean by
safe?
He didn't feel safe. He felt as though there were invisible strings pulling at him, and soon one would drag him away.

His mother loosened her grip and moved her hands to his cheeks. Her fingers were cool. She shook as if a chill had run through her. "I was so frightened ... so frightened."

Robert's dad put his hand on her shoulder, dwarfing it. He said, "Your brother is missing."

Robert nodded. "I know."

"How did you know? Did the Mounties tell you?" his father asked.

"No." Robert wanted to close his eyes, to get away from all this, because he didn't understand what was happening. But somewhere inside he had known about this disappearance the moment the blood egg had broken. Maybe even when he'd heard the truck passing his house. "I ... I think I guessed."

His mom let go and they stared at him quizzically. Robert had the sick, guilty feeling that he had given the wrong answer.

Uncle Alden squeezed Robert's arm. "Don't worry. It's all gonna work out. We'll find your brother. That's why the Mounties and all these people are here."

His uncle looked very serious—grave, in fact. Robert wished this were a different day. If it was he could ask Uncle Alden about Barsoom. About the warlord and the battles with the Tharks. Instead of feeling frightened.

"Your son said he heard a truck go by your house before you left for town," the sergeant said.

"Truck?" said Robert's dad. "I didn't hear a truck go by. Are you sure, son?"

Was he sure? Every question spun webs of doubt around him.

"Are you sure?" his dad repeated, quietly.

Robert nodded.

His mother stepped back so she could look down at him. "Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell us?"

Robert blinked. "It was just a truck going by. That's all."

Sergeant Ramsden cleared his throat. "Look, there might have been a truck, there might not. The point is, your boy's probably wandering around somewhere daydreaming."

"It's not in Matthew to daydream," Robert's mom said, defensively.

The sergeant frowned. He moved toward the sidewalk and spoke to the crowd, who were waiting a respectful distance from the family.

"Listen up. Anyone who's got a truck or a wagon, I need help finding this boy, Matthew. You all know what he looks like. He may have been picked up by someone, so if you see anything odd, then wait for us. Don't go getting into any hysterics or heroics—I don't want neither. If you find the boy, bring him right back here."

The crowd slowly dispersed, except for Mrs. Juskin and Mrs. Torence, the two plump war widows who lived in the house next to the school. They had wormed into place beside Robert's mother, intoning quietly that "everything—every single thing" would be all right. The shape of their bodies reminded Robert of a spider's abdomen. Mrs. Torence set her hand on his head. It felt heavy and hot and sweaty like an African toad.

The sergeant asked Robert's uncle, "Do you mind if Officer Davies rides in your truck?"

"I'll go get it," Uncle Alden replied. "Anything to help." He squeezed Robert's arm again, then jogged to his truck. Robert's mom and dad stared silently. They'd become statues again.

The Mounties stepped away to talk privately. Robert watched Sergeant Ramsden's lips move. Officer Davies stood straight, leaning slightly ahead. Occasionally he nodded or said something that could have been
Yes, sir.
The words of his superior officer flowed out and the younger Mountie received them as though he were a receptacle—there was another good word—to be filled with orders. Maybe the sergeant had given a
special
command. A royal one.

Uncle Alden's old Ford truck rattled and hummed up the street and stopped near the sidewalk. Then Davies got in and spoke a few words. Robert wanted to slip in the open door and go with them, but the moment he had the thought, the door closed and the truck sped off.

Sergeant Ramsden returned. "You three will ride with me."

"You're not taking the boy, are you?" Mrs. Torence asked. "We'll watch over him until you get back." Her hand squirmed on his head and pushed him down as if he were a potato she was trying to plant. "The sandhills and the sage are no place for him."

"The boy comes." Sergeant Ramsden didn't even look at them. "He's got good eyes and ears. And intuition."

Mrs. Torence reluctantly removed her hand, and Robert felt lighter.

"You take care, now, Robbie," one whispered.

Robert followed his mother, climbing into the backseat of the Mounties' car. His father and the sergeant sat in the front.

He tried hard to remember exactly what
intuition
meant.

They drove down Main Street. Three Chinese women stood outside the laundry wiping their hands on aprons, staring into the Mounties' car. Their long black hair was braided and tied back. A wisp of steam drifted out the door behind them. Somewhere inside the men were boiling water, turning handles on the pressing machine, squeezing the stains from clothes. The women seemed sad, Robert thought. They came from an old country, didn't they? A land of emperors and dragons. People disappeared there all the time, stolen by sinister men like Dr. Fu Manchu. These women would know what it was like to lose someone dear.

"Did your son have any special hiding places?" the sergeant asked as they stopped at the edge of the grid road. "The kind of place he might run to if he was afraid?"

Robert thought the question wasn't very useful. If Matthew had a hiding place, he wouldn't have told anyone; hiding places were secret.

"Can't say I ever saw Matthew frightened," Robert's dad said.

"Is there anywhere else he would have gone? An old granary? A potato cellar? If someone had scared him, that is."

"Who would scare him?" Robert's father asked, angrily. "Is there something we should know? I'd appreciate the truth."

"Yesterday, a girl went missing in Moose Jaw," the sergeant said slowly. "She was four years old."

Robert's mom moaned in the back of her throat, a trapped sound from deep in a tunnel.

"The detachment there doesn't have any leads," the sergeant continued, "other than someone who says he saw a truck ..." He paused. "Look, whoever took that girl—if anyone did—probably wouldn't come this way. They'd go south and cross the border, not west, where every stranger sticks out like a sore thumb. It wouldn't make sense."

"A fellow who steals kids probably isn't in the habit of making sense," said Robert's dad.

A long silence followed. Robert's father cleared his throat, seemed about to ask a question, but didn't.

The sergeant turned to the backseat. Robert was mesmerized by the movement of the muscles on the Mountie's neck, the little bumps of the spine, right below his hairline.

"Do you have any idea where your brother might have gone?"