The Nowhere Child. Christian White

rolled above.

      ‘Goddamn it.’ I killed the engine, got out and walked back over to him. ‘Who’s Sample A?’

      ‘Kim, listen …’

      ‘It says I’m a sibling match with Sample A,’ I said. ‘Who is that?’

      ‘My wife warned me not to come on too strong. I didn’t want to scare you off.’

      ‘Who’s Sample A?’

      ‘I am,’ he said. ‘My real name is Stuart Went. I’m your brother.’

       MANSON, KENTUCKY

       Then

      Chester Ellis, Manson’s 64-year-old Sheriff, sat behind his desk reading the Manson Leader. His hometown’s local rag contained highlights from Tractor Day, photos taken at the groundbreaking of the new Christian history museum and a play-by-play recap of the Manson Warriors game – they suffered a demoralising defeat, as usual, at the hands of the Coleman Bears.

      It was set to be another quiet day in Manson. A quiet day in a month of quiet days in a year of quiet days.

      He turned each page slowly, scanning the headlines for anything of interest. Blitz on blackouts: new project to reduce peak energy use; Manson athletics club finds a home; A new take on old drugs: information sessions help seniors identify addiction.

      He arrived at the personals section and found his own ad at the bottom of the second column: Prof. & Athletic African American man with Christian values. Seeks woman for companionship &/or relationship.

      Ellis had lost his wife to brain cancer twenty-one years earlier, but with two sons to keep him busy, dating had been the last thing on his mind. Now his sons were adults now, with partners of their own, and Ellis needed … what? He wasn’t looking for a passionate love affair. He wasn’t even looking for love, although if love happened to come along that would be just fine. He was simply looking for someone to share his life with.

      Of course, the ad was largely bullshit. He might have been considered ‘athletic’ in his college days, but now all that muscle had settled into fat. The ‘Christian values’ part was a half-truth too. Amelia Turner, who took care of the personals and ran the front desk of the Leader on Fridays, had convinced him to add that part.

      Sure, Ellis believed in God and tried his darndest not to cuss too much or hate too much, but Christianity was a pretty wide spectrum in Manson. He sat comfortably and conservatively on the casual, love thy neighbour end. But on the other end sat the people he didn’t want to attract: folks from the Church of the Light Within.

      The Pentecostal group – he’d learned the hard way not to call them a sect or, God forbid, a cult – worshipped by handling venomous snakes and scorpions. If rumours were to be believed, they also drank strychnine, spoke in tongues and, according to Tom Kirker after a few too many belts of whiskey at Cubby’s Bar, drank blood and worshipped the Devil.

      One of Ellis’s deputies knocked on the door. ‘Sorry to bother you, Sheriff. You got a sec?’

      ‘Come on in, Beech. What’s up?’

      To call John Beecher a man felt premature. Ellis was sure he would be a man someday, but right now he was a pale, near-hairless nineteen-year-old with skin that glowed candy-apple red any time he felt nervous, which was often. ‘A call just came through from Jack Went. As in Went Drugs. His daughter is missing.’

      ‘His daughter?’ Ellis checked his watch. It was a little after four pm. ‘She’s probably just a little late getting home from school.’

      ‘No, the little one.’ Beecher consulted his notepad. ‘Sammy Went. Age two. Last seen approximately two hours ago.’

      ‘Jesus. Get Herm and Louis over there.’

      ‘Already on their way, Sheriff. Just thought you’d wanna know.’ He looked at the open newspaper. ‘Any takers on your ad yet?’

      Ellis tucked the Leader into the top drawer of his desk. ‘Do you remember where we put that book, Beech? That crime scene handbook? Herm and Louis might need it.’

      Beecher shook his head.

      ‘It’s called “crime scene” something. Dissecting a Crime Scene or Crime Scene Deduction … There’s a chapter in there about missing persons; questions to ask, instructions, suggestions, stuff like that.’

      ‘Oh yeah, like a how-to thing, right? I’m pretty sure I saw that in the bathroom, Sheriff.’

      That sounded about right.

      Though Ellis’s sons were grown men, he remembered how small and fragile they once were. Jack and Molly Went must be going out of their minds.

      ‘On second thought, forget the book. Just give me the Wents’ address. I’ll call over there myself.’

      Cromdale Street was wide and leafy. All but one of the buildings were big colonial-style homes. The exception was number nine: the Eckles’ house. Ellis eased off the gas as he passed. He remembered it all too well: the leaning mailbox, the NO TRESPASSING sign hung on the fence – which seemed laughably redundant. Who in their right mind would want to trespass on a property like that?

      The yard was well-kept – Travis, the youngest Eckles boy, took care of that. But the house was dilapidated and cheaply constructed. Say someone did decide to trespass on the Eckles’ yard, and they kicked in the rattling old screen-door – what then? The only things of value were the brass urn that housed Jeff Eckles’s ashes and the veteran pension cheques his death brought in once a month.

      Ellis drove on down the street.

      His deputies had arrived ahead of him and left their cruiser’s cherry lights flashing, so Jack and Molly Went’s house shimmered in red and blue against the fading afternoon sun. Ellis pulled in beside Jack’s convertible and started up the path toward the front door.

      ‘Sheriff,’ came a quiet voice from the porch. A slight figure emerged. It was Emma Went, wearing a grave expression. ‘She’s gone, Sheriff. The sun will be down in a few hours and it’ll be getting cold and Mom doesn’t even remember if she was wearing a sweater.’

      Her tone was heavier than any thirteen-year-old girl’s should be. There was something foggy and zombie-like in her movements. Shock, Ellis guessed.

      He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s talk inside.’

      Emma showed Ellis into the living room, where Molly Went was slumped on a big red sofa. She was a good-looking woman, even now, with her hair tied into a messy ponytail, and her eyes puffy and wet. A tubby child of eight or nine sat in her lap. Molly’s arms were laced through his, and every few seconds she’d squeeze him like a stress ball. The boy looked uncomfortable but had enough sense to let his mother keep on squeezing.

      Deputies Herm and Louis hovered awkwardly. The younger, more athletic Herm was pacing, while the older, calmer Louis rocked gently in place. Both men looked relieved to see the sheriff.

      ‘Herm, start canvassing the street,’ Ellis said, trying to make his voice sound commanding. ‘Ask if anyone saw or heard anything unusual. Anything at all. No detail too trivial. Check their yards if they’ll allow it, and let me know anyone who won’t. Louis, pull together a search party. We need to check the streets, the sewer drains, the woods—’

      ‘Jesus, the woods,’ Jack Went said. He was standing by the windows on the far side of the room, drawing back a white lace curtain to peer outside. ‘You don’t think she could have walked that far, do you?’

      ‘She didn’t walk anywhere, Jack,’