Page 10 of The Souls of Lost Lake
He looked up from his zeroed-in focus on the lodge and swerved to head in her direction. When he approached her, he wasted no time in wrapping his arms around her and drawing her close. The outlook on little Jasmine was bad. She could tell by the way he breathed, the way his entire countenance put off an aura of failed efforts.
“We didn’t find her,” Troy mumbled into her hair, which was pulled up in a messy bun.
Wren drew back a bit to look up into his sky-blue eyes. “I know. But that’s good, though—I mean, she’s not ... dead.” There was no way to tiptoe around the darkest fear of the searchers.
Troy grimaced. “Who knows? At least it didn’t get too cold last night, but still. A six-year-old kid lost in these woods? It’s like a needle in a haystack.” He released Wren and wrestled his way out of the well-used backpack on his back. His role at Deer Lake Bible Camp was as their wilderness guide, planning excursions for the campers plus other trips for families, men, and even including a seniors’ summer canoe trip. Troy was at home in the woods and on the lakes and rivers that stretched into ancient tribal lands and into the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and Lake Superior. It was ominous that, after one solid night of searching, Troy was already so pessimistic.
“They’ll find her. Theywill.” Wren opted for optimism, however misguided it might be. She ignored her dream. She refused to remember its eerie premonition. “There are more search parties out today, right?”
Troy yawned, and as he did, he dragged his hat off his head. Black hair stuck out in multiple directions and flopped into his eyes. Heraked it back with his fingers. “Yeah. The search-and-rescue teams have about five hundred acres divided up into grids.”
“That’s good!” Wren nodded affirmatively.
Troy sniffed. “Yeah. Only leaves two hundred and twenty-four thousand, five hundred acres left.”
“You really think a six-year-old would have the stamina to go farther?”
“I don’t know.” It was obvious Troy was tired. Defeated. He yawned again, rubbing his face with his hand, the stubble of whiskers making a scratching sound against his callused palm. “Listen, I need to check in with the camp’s director. Search and Rescue is going to need more help setting up a larger base camp than they currently have. I want to get as many camp staff as are available to pitch in. I also want to see if we can open up the kitchens and make meals for the searchers. It’s been over twenty-four hours since Jasmine went missing. There’s going to be a need for food.”
“I’ll call Eddie. I’m sure he’ll help coordinate that.” She didn’t miss the hesitation before Troy nodded. She knew he wasn’t always comfortable with her and Eddie’s camaraderie. But he also understood that they’d been playmates and cohorts at the camp since her family first moved here when she was just a kid.
“Yeah. Do that.” Troy squeezed her hand. “Thanks.”
By noon, Search and Rescue had set up headquarters in the Rec Barn, a large metal structure in the maintenance section of the camp. Wren had assisted some summer camp staff volunteers in setting up folding tables and chairs. They ran orange extension cords to bring in electricity to power the ham radios. They set up a few laptops by the Search and Rescue team, along with a massive map stretched along the wall and adhered there with duct tape. Sticker flags marred the grid work that stretched over the plat map, outlining different search teams by color, completion, in progress, or searched.
Wren listened to the SAR manager brief them on how to search. There were more inexperienced searchers than there were trained SAR volunteers. Each search party was assigned a SAR leader, and they’d be taken to their allotted grid by truck or ATV, depending on the condition of any adjacent logging trails that may still be maneuverable.
An arm brushed hers, and she glanced to her right side. “Pippin!” Her brother stood beside her. Blue jeans, hiking boots, a baseball cap. He had the same green eyes she did, and the same coppery head of hair. That he was here and not working on his vlog channel and gaming development surprised her. Pippin was the opposite of Troy and far nerdier than Eddie. A Comic-Con junkie, a whiz at programming, and someone who stayed up into the wee hours of the morning playing video games. He might be her senior by twelve years, but unlike her, he hadn’t moved out of their parents’ basement. He was the proverbial adult child who never left home. He was also company for Dad. They got along well—in their mutual quirkiness.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
Pippin looked sideways at her with an expression that said the answer to her question should be obvious. “I’m here to help.”
Wren smirked in spite of the circumstances. “And you’re aware it requires physical exertion and potential encounters with trees and rocks?”
Pippin glowered at her from beneath the rim of his cap. “I’m not a moron.”
“No, you’re a thirty-eight-year-old teenage boy with daddy issues.”
“Knock it off,” he gritted between clenched teeth, trying to avoid a scene. Their banter since childhood had been a brutal mix of insult and affection.
Wren bit her lip to stifle a chuckle. She loved getting under Pippin’s skin. He always took everything so seriously, so intensely. It made him good as a gaming app developer. It was also what made him difficult to get along with.
The SAR leader was finishing up. “Head over to the table in the corner there and grab your sack lunch, thanks to the camp here. I want you to work in pairs, so be sure you have a partner.”
“You and me?” Wren tossed over her shoulder to Pippin, who was on her heels.
“Sure.”
Wren snagged a white paper bag lunch Eddie had whipped together. Probably off-brand granola bars and PB and Js, if she knew him. He could get an assembly line of teenage summer staff organized for that menial task in a split second. She snatched one for Pippin and tossed it to him.
“Heads up!”
Pippin’s hands smacked around the paper, and he jammed it into his pack with all the finesse of a man. The jelly would squish out before he even ate it. “This really isn’t a laughing matter, Arwen.” He scolded with the bossiness of an older brother and the wisdom of someone whose ability to deal with trauma was perpetually more advanced than her own. Wren laughed at funerals, not because she found them funny but because her nervous energy or grief was dealt with through humor—her coping mechanism.
“I know.” She was gentler as she packed her sack lunch.
Pippin zipped his pack. “Let’s hope the poor kid has avoided wolves.”
