I somehow find myself in my own bed tucked under a heated blanket with my leg propped up in a splint. Pain reverberates through my skull and my leg pierces like I've been stabbed. Light filters lazily through the window, promising a good day. Uncle Vic walks in and perks up a half-smile when he sees me awake. "Casey, my sweet girl. How are you feeling?"
"My head hurts. And my leg--"
"You broke it in two places. Do you remember anything? It looked like you took a nasty fall."
I think only of one thing: "Is Daniel okay?"
"Casey," Uncle Vic says slowly, "Daniel never came back last night."
Uncle Victor wraps his arms comfortingly around me as I fall prey to vicious sobs, racking my entire body with cold grief. I sit numbly on the couch for several more hours until the sun's rays drip into the living room. Uncle Vic was called away for a few minutes, so I take the opportunity to call up the new taxi service in town.
I thank the driver and pass him the transportation fare.
I burst through the police office's front doors, limping so unevenly that I look like I am about to topple over, and swing my cast-clad leg up to the desk, arms moving awkwardly with the shining stainless steel crutches. I feel the bruises under my arms deepen as I hop with more enthusiasm than usual. Angry enthusiasm, but enthusiasm nonetheless. It's the same intern as before, and his face pales when he sees me. He winces, looking sheepish, and hesitates before making eye contact. When he does, his hazel eyes remain unfocused and flash around my different facial features as well as objects behind me.
He should be concerned. I'm upset. Anger seethes out of me in roiling waves, casting a dark mood over the entire room.
"You know what happened last night?" I ask him, not really waiting for an answer. "My best friend disappeared. While searching for the other missing boys. I was there with him the entire time. I promise you he wasn't drunk, and I know for a fact that it's not drugs. So whatever stupid excuse you're about to come up with you can keep to yourself. My leg is broken in two places, my head hurts like a son of a motherless goat, and my best friend is missing!"
Some of the officers grow uneasy and lean forward in their chairs, ready to jump up at any sign of violence. Officer Benson, who knows me from teaching safety at my elementary school and various conventions I volunteered at as I matured, tries to stifle his laughter. Tears form in his friendly, blue eyes, and his rosy cheeks grow redder around his wide smile. He's a man with bushy, grey eyebrows that stick up raggedly like horns, and a similarly-colored handlebar mustache. He takes great pride in his mustache, the ends of which he curls up everyday with a good lathering of product. Even to his waist, he's a jolly man, with a hefty stomach and a heftier laugh.
Officer Benson knows me quite well, so naturally he laughs at the prospect of me as threat. He may just be wrong today.
It's hard to tell if the intern is more frightened or humiliated at this point, for his eyes are wide yet his cheeks are flushed. "I..." he begins slowly, "appreciate your predicament. Mr. and Mrs. Oswald came in earlier to report their son missing. I'm assuming that's who you're talking about?"
My eyes narrow at his nonchalant choice of words. I jab a finger at him, face scrunched up in fury, and growl, "You insensitive--!" I take a breath, close my eyes, and try to turn off the burner before the pot boils over too much. "You're not worth my time. Because even though this is beyond your small range of understanding, someone I love is missing, and I'm concerned his time is scarce." I march--a very loose interpretation of the action--to the back of the office, passing dumbfounded officers and the fretful intern, and bang my clenched fist on the sheriff's closed office door.
The sheriff, a small, squirrely sort of man with no beard to conceal his wrinkles, opens the door with a frown on his droopy face. His squinty eyes look past me and he yells, "What am I paying you for, Jake? You're supposed to deal with upset citizens!" He grumbles something under his breath. "I'll deal with'er."
The front desk intern looks perfectly nauseated by this, and slumps back down in his chair with his jaw set.
"Whattaya need, girl?" The sheriff asks, turning his attention back to me.
His lack of social skills is absolutely revolting, but I keep that to myself because I want his help. I draw myself up to my tallest height--not exactly a huge accomplishment--straightening my spine. I say to him with the most respect-commanding tone I can muster, forcing my words out with a distinct resonance, "Sir, I require your help finding three of my classmates who went missing over the past month."
"Didn't I just authorize a search party for two missing boys?"
"Yes. You did. But now my best friend is missing, too."
"I'm sure she just got confused. Or was searching for attention, so she faked her disappearance." He frowns down at me. "Girls tend to be a bit off like that sometimes, and I'm sure you are no different. Don't you be stirring up trouble, now."
"He was not confused. And he did not fake his disappearance!" I cry out. "Why are all of you so heartless and useless around here? There are three accounts of missing persons, and all you want to do is make an excuse to not look into them! I am fed up with you and your laziness and sexist assumptions!" I storm out, lopsided and infuriated, with crescent-shaped cuts in my palms and aching sides from leaning so desperately into my crutches.
"Casey, wait!" Officer Benson calls from behind me. He hurries down toward the parking lot suited for no more than ten cars, large stomach flopping as eagerly as his stubby legs move. "The sheriff has been in a bad mood lately. His wife left him and he was declined a raise by the state again."
Why am I not surprised about either? "What are you getting at, Officer Benson?"
"I want to help in some way..." he snaps, grinning fully now, and says, "I know! How about I drive you to the state police station?"
My head tilts to the side, pondering the offer. I think with a wry frown on my thin lips about the tracasserie of my now dysfunctional smartphone. Hand palm up and slightly cupped, I ask, "Do you mind if I borrow your phone? I need to ask Uncle Vic."
Benson pulls his old, grey flip phone out of his uniform pocket and smacks the warm object into my open hand, causing it to sting a bit because the cold had gotten to my fingers first. "Of course you may, Casey."
My numbed fingers fumble around the keys, dialing the number with rote memory before my brain even thinks about it. Uncle Vic picks up by the second ring, as always. "Hello?"
"Hey, Uncle Vic. It's Casey. I just wanted to let you know I'll probably be late for dinner. Officer Benson offered to drive me to the state police."
I hear his hesitation. "I don't know, Casey. I would feel more comfortable if you wait until you have a working phone."
"I trust Officer Benson," I reply pointedly, nostrils flaring.
He doesn't hesitate at the bite in my voice. "As do I, of course, but with everything going on, I don't think you should get yourself wrapped up in this too much. Let me call the state police, and you can come safely home."
A beat passes before I muster up a half-hearted, "Okay. If that would make you feel better."
"Thank you. Now, have him drop you off if he's willing. I know you can't drive with that cast, and I don't want you walking another five miles back home."
"I took a cab."
"Either way, get home safely. I'll see you in ten minutes, correct?"
"Correct. Bye." I get in the car with Benson and the block of plastic back to him, noticing a vexed look behind his mustache. "What?" I ask as we pull out of the parking lot and start weaving our way down secondary roads.
"When did your town get a taxi?"
"It's around the entire county. He started advertising earlier this year."
"Huh." Benson's eyes lose focus somewhere off in the distance. He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. "Come on, Casey, let's get you home."
In the passenger seat of his squad car, I turn to him. "Were you out sick yesterday? I could've used your backup putting together that search party."
"From what I heard, you got what you wanted, alright, and now Jake wets himself at the very mention of you." He chuckles. "But, uh, no. I wasn't out sick. Sheriff Waterson and I had to go up to the state office."
"What for?"
His expression grows grave. "They want help finding a serial killer. They think he moved out this way."
I feel sick. My stomach churns until I feel on the verge of heaving the breakfast I couldn't bring myself to touch this morning. "And the victims...?"
"Four boys. Just about seventeen years old."
"That have gone missing?" I feel my throat begin to close as my body prepares to eject the terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"No. There have been a dozen disappearances, including the three you've reported. Those are just the four bodies that have been found."
"Stop!" I shout. He squeals to a halt, and I throw my door open and push aside my crutches just as vomit launches itself out of my throat.
He hands me a bottle of water before I settle back into the car.
"I changed my mind," I say after swishing the aftertaste of bile from my mouth. "Take me to the state police. I want to speak to the detective leading the investigation."
He hesitates, looking uncertain. "Didn't Victor just tell you to come home?"
"He did, but he'll understand."
"Do you want to call him again?"
I shake my head, gulping the water until the vile taste is gone. "Sometimes it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. So unless you're going to arrest me for running away, it's very important that I speak to this detective soon."
***
The sun sinks low on the horizon by the time we pull to a gentle stop at the state police head quarters. I lift my head from the cool glass of the window, opening my eyes. I regret that I had fallen asleep along the multiple-hour journey. The lull of Bensons's choice of classical music and my lack of sleep last night had me drifting off as soon as my mind could no longer handle the sickening worry and painstaking sifting of all that I know about Daniel's disappearance. I remember dreaming, and it felt odd; too vivid to be entirely imaginative. Everything was dark, and I could hear the soft suction of boots in mud. It was Daniel's voice that spoke. "Are you part of the search party?" Then there was an audible gasp. "Sir, you're bleeding. Wait--" And then I think the dream faded as I fell deeper into sleep.
FBI vans sit around the area as well, and Benson takes in a sharp breath--in an almost irritable way.
"So now they show up, eh? Yesterday those FBI dolts said there was no reason for them to come; that the state boys should have it handled soon. Something must've happened..." he grumbles solemnly.
Chills shudder along my spine. I pick up my pace, throwing the crutches ahead of myself and swinging my broken leg farther forward. We walk silently through the doors and up to the desk nestled off to the side of the waiting room beyond the front doors.
"Hey, Lila." Officer Benson says to the woman behind the desk.
"Officer Benson," she says with a smile, despite how frantically she types into the computer and scans its screen. She doesn't look like a lady to be disturbed, but for Benson she pulls her nimble fingers from the keyboard and gives us her full attention. "What can I do for you? Is it about the..." her deep brown eyes slide to my face. I can't help but search them for her pupils, as her irises are so dark they blend in.
"It's alright, Lila. That's why we're here."
She glances back at her computer. "I was just checking the missing person's files for Detective Hussler. He wants to see if there are more that fit the pattern."
"And are there?" I ask before Benson can stop me or ask himself.
"I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to disclose that information to the public yet. Detective Hussler needs to review my findings first."
"Is Daniel Oswald on your list?" I press.
She looks impulsively back at this list and pauses.
I nod. "I need to speak with Detective Hussler."
"He's a very busy man at the moment."
The dream, having been perched at the back of my mind since I woke, flies up front. "I was there when Daniel was taken. I guess you could say I witnessed it."
Her thin lips press into a line. She stands. "Come on back." She leads us to Detective Hussler's desk, where a man with dark hair graying at the temples resides, head resting on one hand bent over thick folders of reports. He doesn't seem to notice us at first.
"Detective," Lila says softly, easing him out of his determined focus. "This girl is a friend of Daniel Oswald."
"Daniel Oswald?" The man says, looking perplexed with squinting blue eyes.
My eyes narrow at the lack of recognition, but I stop myself from getting mad. I am too personally attached, I feel as though everyone should know who Daniel is. But Detective Hussler will know soon enough.
"Uh, yes. He was the most recent disappearance that fits the victim profile."
Red-rimmed eyes land half-heartedly on me, flicking quickly to the leg I drag around awkwardly. "And you are?"
"Casey Casperly."
"And, Miss Casperly, do you have anything to aid my investigation or are you here to add pressure?"
"I was there when my friend was taken."
He rubs his temples, but I see his eyes brighten hopefully. "Please, have a seat." He gestures to the chair across from him. Lila and Officer Benson take the moment to leave.
I explain quickly the details I could remember hearing. I know now that that's where it came from. I remember it distinctly; not as a dream but a memory.
He rubs his goateed chin. "So it is for sure a man. The FBI profilers that just showed up have been speaking to the chief, and they said they believe the perpetrator is a man. So he is. And he's either injured or had just injured someone else." He spins in his chair to grab something from a drawer behind him. A notebook. "Tell me this: when is your friend Daniel's seventeenth birthday?"
"Four days from now."
"Excellent," he says, scribbling Daniel's name and birthday, but his voice does not match the word. He sounds stressed and concerned. "That means we need to find your friend in less than four days."
"Or what?" I know the answer, but I need it to be said out loud for it to be less surreal.
"Or he may no longer be with us."