Page 8 of Snow Creek

“Right there,” she says, pointing. “See those two firs?”

I do. They have low-hanging branches that sweep against the gravel of the roadway.

“Drive between them.”

Between what? I think.

“There isn’t a road,” I say.

“Yes, Detective. There is. Once you push through, you’ll be on it.”

I’m glad my car is old. I’d get out and check out the wisdom of plowing through, but the rain keeps me inside where it is warm, dry, and very wintergreen.

I turn on my headlights, though it doesn’t help much, and tentatively move toward the trees. As I nudge the hood of my car closer, the branches move. It is almost like Dutch doors, opening to swallow us whole. In a second, we’re through. The road beyond the firs is barely rutted, a faint wagon wheel driveway. It snakes along a creek and then opens to a clearing. Surprising, fenced. Beyond that, a farmhouse. It’s lovely. Picturesque. Kind of like one of those calendar paintings of a whitewashed farmhouse with the cheerful, amber glow of a candle or kerosene lamp in the window.

I had half-expected a trio of mobile homes stacked together with a pilgrim-style stock out front ever-ready to punish the kids whenever they didn’t toe the line. It was far from that. Pretty. Bucolic even. Doomsday preppers or whatever they were aside, the Wheatons had somehow managed to carve out a world of their own.

“Remember, you’re to stay put,” I remind Ruth.

She agrees. “You’ll come and get me. You’ll let me know what you find.”

“No promises,” I say. “Hang tight.”

I get out and I hear a voice.

“Mom? Dad? Is that you?”

It’s a girl’s voice.

Next, I hear another.

This time a male voice.

“Sarah, be careful. It isn’t them!”

Three

“I’m Detective Carpenter,” I say. “I’m with Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office. I’m here for a welfare check on you and your parents.” I motion to Ruth by rotating my shoulder in her direction. “Your Aunt Ruth is worried about you… I’m here to help…”

“Sarah! Joshua! It’s me!” Ruth calls out from the car.

Sarah Wheaton is lovely, as young people almost always are. Her skin is pale, freckled a little. Her hair is wet, blond and long, hanging nearly to her waist in a twisted braid. She wears jeans and a T-shirt.

Joshua is lanky and tall with long dark hair parted neatly in the middle. His features are angular and his eyes a piercing blue. His chin is shadowed by a light stubble, and he wears blue jeans, a jean jacket over a Miller High Life Graphic T. I think back to my days being homeschooled, and neither he nor his sister appear clueless about young people’s fashion. They are wholesome, yes. But normal-looking. Not the wholesome that sends creepy, geeky vibes.

“Sorry,” he says. “We are just scared, I guess. Don’t know if something has happened to our parents. Or who you are.”

“I’m your family,” Ruth says, pausing to take them in before rushing to embrace them. “I was worried sick about you. You’ve gotten so big. I barely recognize you.” Her faint smile of recognition fades. “I’m very concerned about your folks. It’s not like your mother to not reach out when I send her a message.”

I step back a little, allowing for the teenagers and their aunt to process their reunion before moving to reason why we are here.

Ruth beats me to it.

“Where are they?” she asks, pulling back to get a better look at their faces.

Sarah answers. “They went on a trip three weeks ago. Going down the coast. Taking their time. Then ending up at an orphanage we support in Tijuana.”

Ruth’s reaction, an exhale, reveals a level of comfort in the news. “That’s wonderful. Our whole family did that when we were kids. It was a grand time. Working together to help those children. It was a gift from God. How come you two didn’t go?”

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