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, she thought. He hadn’t returned any of her calls about SAR business and the five times she had driven past his house, his pickup hadn’t been parked at the top of the driveway. Ralph was a building contractor for high-end homes. Maybe his absence was as simple as his business picking up.
    Worry and anxiety about Ralph pricked at Gracie. If he didn’t show up for this search, she decided, she would drive over to his cabin and camp out in front until she found out what was going on.
    Gracie jolted back to the present. If Ralph didn’t show up for this search, managing the operation would fall to her. She looked around at the people and vehicles in the parking lot, taking stock of who had responded, thinking ahead to which assignment could be given to whom. Most of the core group—the diehards who showed up for almost every search—were there: Carrie, Jon, Warren, and Lenny.
    â€œKinkaid!” Jon called as he walked across the parking lot, backpack over one shoulder. “You in the ICP?”
    â€œUnless you want it,” she called back.
    â€œHell, no!”
    Carrie emerged from the employee’s entrance of the SO followed by two new team members, a married couple about whom Gracie knew nothing. Carrie conferred with the man and woman for a moment, then walked across the parking lot to hand Gracie a Dispatch printout of the original missingperson call and a heavy Sheriff’s Department radio. “Gardner’s Watch Commander,” she said. “He basically said, ‘You’re on your own.’”
    â€œOf course he did,” Gracie said, snapping the radio into her chest pack, perfectly content to conduct her own briefing, especially if it meant not having to deal with her nemesis on the Sheriff’s Department, Sergeant Ron Gardner.
    Carrie held up a half-inch-thick sheaf of paper rubber-banded together. “MisPer flyers?”
    â€œHang on to ’em until we get on-scene, will you?” Then she looked up and yelled, “Okay, everybody, circle up for a briefing.”
    When everyone had gathered around and the small talk had dribbled away to silence, Gracie said, “To those of you for whom this is your first search, welcome and thanks.” She looked down at the Dispatch report in her hands. “Our MisPer is a missing juvenile. Baxter Edwards. Eleven years old. Blond over—”
    â€œHey, that’s—” Lenny interrupted.
    â€œâ€”the same kid,” Jon finished.
    â€œThat’s two times in two months.”
    â€œThree.”
    â€œMonths?”
    â€œTimes.”
    â€œKid’s a runaway,” Warren offered.
    â€œI thought we weren’t supposed to be called out for runaways,” Lenny said.
    Gracie frowned. “I’m not familiar with him because I was—”
    â€œSitting at home eating bonbons,” Jon interjected.
    â€œLoafing,” Warren added.
    â€œUm, recuperating from a broken ankle?” Gracie said.
    â€œWimp.”
    â€œSlacker.”
    Gracie acknowledged the good-natured ribbing with a smile, and continued. “We’re not usually called in for runaways, especially chronic ones. My guess is it’s because ofthe boy’s age and the fact that he’s been missing for over twenty-four hours.” Her eyes moved over the printout. “Anyway . . . physical description. Blond over brown. Four foot seven. Sixty-six pounds. Black glasses.”
    â€œHe looks like Mr. Peabody,” Lenny said.
    â€œMr. Peabody’s the dog,” Carrie said. “The kid’s Sherman.”
    â€œOh, yeah.”
    â€œOkay,” Gracie said, forging ahead. “Last seen wearing woodland camouflage pants and jacket. Carrying a black backpack. Went missing from his home in Pine Knot sometime yesterday afternoon. Family’s been out searching for him.”
    â€œAin’t that just peachy,” Warren said.
    â€œThey’ll have trampled all