Free Morning Light by Catherine Anderson Page A

“If that boy is out there, every second counts. It’s rugged, harsh terrain, and crawlin’ with predators.”

    Clint went directly home and tried to find Loni MacEwen in the phone book. There were several MacEwens, but when Clint dialed the numbers and asked for Loni, people either hung up or told him no one by that name lived there. Mentally kicking himself for refusing to take the woman’s business card, Clint tried calling Information next. The operator was no help. Loni MacEwen’s number was unlisted, and the operator wasn’t allowed to give it out.
    Frustrated beyond bearing, Clint finally resorted to calling his uncle Hugh, a state trooper who usually worked the evening shift. After explaining his dilemma, Clint asked, “Is there any way you can feed her name into your computer network and get me her address?”
    â€œI’m a patrolman, Clint. I don’t normally use the computers, and even if I did, we’re not supposed to give out that kind of information to the general public.”
    â€œI see.” Clint sighed. “Well, it was worth a shot.”
    â€œA psychic, you say?”
    â€œI know it sounds far-fetched, Uncle Hugh, but on the off chance that she’s for real, she may be able to help me find the Stiles boy.”
    Hugh sighed. “If she has an Oregon driver’s license, maybe I can get her address. Bess, one of our dispatchers, is a nice lady and a whiz on the computer. If she’s at the station I’m pretty sure she’ll do a search for me on the sly.”
    â€œI really appreciate this, Uncle Hugh.”
    â€œHaven’t done anything yet. Just keep your fingers crossed that Bess is working today. The other dispatchers are so gung ho and by-the-book, they spit-shine their name badges.”
    Five minutes later Hugh called Clint back. “Bad news. Bess is working swing. Won’t be at the station until four. Can you wait that long?”
    Clint couldn’t see that he had a choice. “Yeah, sure. Let me give you my cell phone number, just in case I’m not at the house.”
    While Clint waited for his uncle to get back to him, he worked with the horses—bathing, grooming, lunging, riding, and cleaning stalls. At five he still hadn’t gotten a call from his uncle, and hunger from not eating all day sent him back to the house. After making a sandwich he settled on the recliner to watch the evening news. A chunk of meat lodged in his throat when a special news bulletin interrupted the usual programming.
    Scott Holmes, reporting live from Shale Gorge, announced that the bodies of Senator Stiles and his wife, Sandra, had just been recovered. The camera zoomed in on two body bags being carried away from the river on stretchers to a waiting helicopter. Then Scott Holmes returned to the screen.
    â€œRescue teams are still in search of the child’s remains,” he said solemnly, “but so far the boy and dog haven’t been found. A helicopter equipped with heat sensors has also covered the surrounding areas and turned up nothing.”
    The regular evening news team, a man and woman, took it from there, debating Trevor Stiles’s chances of survival, if by some miracle he was still alive.
    â€œThe Shoshone Wilderness Area has a large cougar population. Doesn’t it, Peter?” the blond anchorwoman asked her colleague.
    â€œI’m afraid so, Grace. There are also a lot of black bears in that area. They don’t normally feed on humans, but they can be very dangerous all the same.”
    The newswoman shook her head. “At that elevation the June temperatures are still dropping to below freezing at night. I also understand that the Stiles family was on a day trip, making it unlikely they took very much food.”
    Peter agreed. “Even if they went prepared for every eventuality, which rafters sometimes do, the supplies are probably at the bottom of the river. If little Trevor