Theresa Monsour Read Online Free PDF

The bus lurched to a halt and the dust ghost disappeared into the gravel. Thirty-three people in jeans and sweatshirts filed out, calling out the number each had been assigned before boarding the bus.
    â€œOne.”
    â€œTwo.”
    â€œThree.”
    â€œFour.”
    â€œFive.”
    Men. Women. Seniors. Middle-aged folks. A couple of teenagers. A few had water bottles strapped to their waists and candy bars shoved in their pockets; they were the ones who’d done this before and knew they’d get thirsty and hungry out in the field. They squinted in the fall light and wrinkled their noses. The air smelled of skunk. All wore coats or down vests over their sweatshirts and some donned mittens and stocking caps. The sunshine was deceptive; it was raw outside. Gusts of wind bent the tallgrasses and blew the remaining leaves off the trees. It could have been December instead of October. Last off the bus was a sheriff’s deputy, a short, husky woman. “Number One takes the ditch along the road and the rest of you follow him in order,” she said.
    The civilians lined up in firing-squad formation at one end of the meadow. They stretched their arms out so they’d be spaced apart evenly. Number One was the tallest in the crowd by two heads. The ditch was knee-deep, but when he stepped into it he still towered over the deputy and half the others in the group. The deputy studied his feet. “Hope those are decent boots,” she said. The ditch was swampy.
    â€œSorels,” he said. “I know how to d . . . dress, ma’am.”
    â€œGuess you do,” she said. She noticed his baseball cap. A suede brim and E.P. embroidered on the front. “Those your initials?”
    â€œElvis Presley,” he mumbled. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and averted his eyes.
    He’s a weird one, she thought. She turned her attention to the rest of the group, eyed the row of volunteers. She wished she had someone as tall as Number One anchoring the other end, and the middle for that matter. The middle man kept the line straight. No matter, she thought. It was the second day. Missing people cases go bad after two days. Same as fresh fish in the fridge. After two days, the missing become the dead and clues turn cold. It would be a miracle if they found anything useful out here.
    â€œReady?” They all nodded. “Let’s go,” she said. The line started moving. The deputy walked behind them, surveying the evenness of the line. The speed. “Slow down, people,” she hollered. “This ain’t a race. Wait for the middle to catch up while they go through that brush. Take your time.” No one talked. They kept their eyes down as they walked, searching for something. Anything. A strand of thread from her dress. Footprints. Bobby pin from her hair.
    A crow landed on a tree stump ahead of the line, eyed the humans heading toward it and cawed. A woman—Number Fourteen—looked up. “No bird-watching,” saidthe deputy, and a few in the line laughed. Then another stretch of walking and no talking in the line. The sound of boots crunching down dried grass and leaves. A menacing noise. The sound of an invading army. Halfway across the field, Number Seventeen caught the toe of his boot on a rock and fell on his face. He stood up and spit out dirt and weeds. The line stopped while he brushed off.
    â€œYou okay?” asked the deputy.
    â€œYeah, yeah,” he said, red-faced.
    The line continued moving. They’d nearly reached the end of the meadow when a yell went up.
    â€œFound something!”
    â€œEveryone stop. Now,” said the deputy. She ran to Number One. He had his right hand raised like a kid at school and with his left pointed to the ground. Her eyes followed to where he was pointing. She squatted down. Couldn’t believe what she saw.
    â€œShit,” she breathed. A finger. Peach polish on the