The screen is still here. It rises up at the end of the massive field, still stretched on its frame like at any moment the projector will kick on, and a film will play. Part of me waits for that to happen, for this whole thing to turn into a horror movie and the screen to start showing the gruesome final moments of one of the missing children. But the screen stays still and blank, and I can turn my attention to the sea of cars spread across the field.
The clamshell ramps of the original design of the drive-in are still evident; only now, the cars filling them are in various stages of damage, decay, and neglect. In some spots, several cars are stacked on top of each other, in a tenuous, tipping balance that threatens to topple at any second. In others, adrenaline-fueled teenage sprees have left windshields smashed in and pieces of trim scattered on the ground. My breath rattles in my chest.
“How are we supposed to know which car it is?” I ask. “There are thousands.”
“We just have to start looking,” Sam says. “That’s all we can do.”
He turns to the cars of search party members and officers who heeded his call to come to the old drive-In. People spill out, armed with bottles of water, flashlights, and long sticks. Some put on rugged work gloves and secure them around their wrists with Velcro straps. They’re preparing to dismantle the tangled carcasses of the vehicles to search for whatever was left for us by hand.
Another car skids into place, diagonally blocking the way of one of the squad cars. Before the engine is completely silent, the door opens, and Caleb’s mother jumps out. Her feet touch the ground in a full run as she descends the small hill toward Sam and me.
“Where is he?” she screams. “Where’s my baby?”
“Kendra, you need to calm down,” Sam says, holding up his hands to stop her progress.
“Don’t tell me to calm down. I heard you were out here searching. You’re searching for Caleb. You’re searching for my baby.”
“We don’t know what we’re searching for right now,” I try to tell her. “The tip we got didn’t provide any information. We don’t even know for sure anything is out here.”
“You don’t really believe that. You found that little girl. Did you get a tip about that, too?” Kendra demands.
Her lips tremble, but she stiffens her jaw against the anger. Tears slide down her cheeks unchecked, and her dark eyes look fierce and wild.
“Please. We need to get the search started. Go home where you’ll be comfortable out of this heat, and we will get in touch with you if there are any developments,” Sam says.
“I’m not going anywhere. If my baby boy is out there somewhere in one of those cars, he’s hot, too. I’m going to be right here.”
“Fine. But you need to stay up here. I’ll have an officer stay with you. I’m serious now, Kendra. Listen to me on this. You can’t come down there and interfere. You need to stay here and be patient. This area is officially an active investigation.”
She nods, relenting to the tenuous compromise, and Sam asks an officer named Samantha to stay with her. Someone in the search party has already set up a portable canopy and two large coolers full of ice and bottled water to create a makeshift cooling station. With the late afternoon sunlight radiating off the acres of metal and glass, I have a feeling we’re going to need it.
Sam organizes all those available as a search and sends them in small groups up and down the rows of cars. Letting everyone wander into the rows without some sort of plan would waste time and energy, and risk missing the one car we’re looking for. The methodical search of every car seems to crawl, but the slow pace means not worrying about missing something. But after almost an hour, a more intense worry starts to creep up inside me. I take Sam to the side.
“We can’t keep moving this slowly,” I tell him.
“If we move any faster, we might miss something,” he says.
“I know. But if we keep moving this slowly, there’s not going to be a single shred of a chance Caleb will survive.”
“You really think this guy has Caleb out here?”
“I think it’s the only thing that makes sense. He took them according to the alphabet; now he’s eliminating them in the same way. And even if you discount the possibility of him still being alive, we can’t just leave him out here. It’s too hot, and the sun is too intense for these people to stay out here for long. We need to hurry.”
“How? What are we supposed to do to move any faster?” he asks. “The video on the flash drive didn’t tell us anything, not even the color of the paint.”
I think about it for a second; then my eyes snap back to him.
“Maybe it did. Just not the way you’re thinking. Did you bring it with us? With the envelope and everything?” I ask.
“It’s in the car.”
“Do you have a pen?”
“There should be one in the glove compartment. What are you doing?”
“Maybe nothing. But let’s see just how tricky this guy can be,” I say.
Going back to Sam’s car, I get inside and pick up the envelope. I pull the paper out of it and reach into the glove compartment for a pen. Spreading the paper out on my lap, I look it over.
“The newspaper the flash drive was wrapped in?” Sam asks.
I shake my head. “No. Well, yes, but not exactly. This is newsprint, but the crossword isn’t from a newspaper. It was printed on there separately with a regular printer. See where the edge of the puzzle smeared slightly? That’s why there aren’t any articles or anything else. Those don’t matter. This puzzle is what he wanted us to see. If we were able to find it. We just have to figure out what it’s hiding.”
“One across. Home of Hawthorne. House of the blank Gables,” Sam reads.
“Seven,” I say, filling out the blocks. “Sixteen down, Biblical prophet and kingmaker. Six letters.” My eyes lift sharply to his.
“Samuel,” he frowns.
“What do you think the chances are that that’s a coincidence?” I ask.
“Nothing. Keep going.”
“Three across. Topic of the first book published in the American colonies.”
We look at each other, and he pulls out his phone.
“Psalms.”
We keep working, filling in the blocks. We’re moving through the puzzle as fast as we can, but it feels like every second is longer than the last. Around us, I hear the sounds of metal grinding against metal and car doors slamming. Red-faced people come to the cooling shelter to drain bottles of water and slide ice down their shirts. They’re fading, but I can’t let them stop. Not yet.
“Eleven across. Spy sent to find the land of Canaan,” I murmur. I gasp and jump to my feet. “Caleb. Eleven across. It’s eleven across. Find the eleventh row.”
Sam and I look out over the cars and start running toward the eleventh row.
“Which one?” he asks. “There are hundreds of cars in this row.”
Searchers from around us have heard the commotion and run up to the row. They’re scrambling over the cars, tearing open doors and popping trunks. Caleb’s name reverberates through the air, louder than the sound of the metal. I look back at the puzzle and the blocks where his name fills the clue. It borrows the ‘C’ from another answer, and I check the number of that clue.
“Twenty-seven,” I say. “The ‘C’ of his name is in twenty-seven down.”
Sam starts counting off the cars as we run down the row. My eyes hit the car before he gets to it. I recognize the bumper from the video. A tell-tale dent in the back corner sets it apart. The first place I go is the trunk. I brace myself as it pops open, but there’s nothing inside but a tire iron and an empty oil bottle. Sam gets to the car and opens the back seats. He tears out a blanket and starts pulling up the cushions.