“Ma’am, I don’t think—”
I was already running.
Deputy Hollis swore under his breath and came after me. So did two of the search-and-rescue volunteers who’d been standing by the truck, a young man and an older woman, both with big yellow flashlights.
Edgar flew from post to post ahead of us. Fence post, mailbox, streetlight, fence post. Every time we got close, he flew to the next one. Every time, he turned around and looked back to make sure we were following. Every time, he called. That same low, fast, urgent sound.
“He’s leading us,” the young volunteer said, breathing hard behind me. “I swear to God, Deputy, he’s leading us.”
“I see it,” Hollis said. He didn’t sound like he was humoring me anymore.
Edgar led us out past the end of Larkspur Lane, onto the canal path. He flew straight past the spot where Duchess had lost the scent. Past the place where the divers were suiting up. A quarter mile further down the gravel trail, then another quarter mile, way past where the searchers had walked.
Then he turned off the path.
He flew down a steep embankment on the far side of the trail, away from the canal, into a gully choked with Russian olive trees and blackberry brambles and tall wet weeds. There was no trail down there. It was outside the walking paths. Nobody had searched it, because there was no reason for a six-year-old to go down there.
I went down that embankment half sliding, half falling. Mud up to my knees. Blackberry thorns tearing at my jeans and my hands. I didn’t feel any of it.
At the bottom of the gully, there was a big concrete drainage pipe. A culvert. It ran under the road above, carrying runoff from the subdivision. The opening was round and dark and taller than a child. Taller than me, almost, if I bent over.
Water was trickling out of it. Brown water. Getting faster.
Edgar landed on top of the concrete, right over the opening.
He cawed and cawed and wouldn’t stop.
I dropped to my knees in the mud at the mouth of the pipe and shined my phone’s flashlight inside. Nothing but darkness and wet concrete and the sound of running water echoing back at me.
“Birdie? BIRDIE!”
Nothing.
Then, from somewhere deep inside the pipe, a tiny voice.
“Mommy?”
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
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