Dead of Night

by Brendan DuBois

  He looked at me, smiled and said, ‘I’ll come along. Trust me, Samuel. I’m pretty good at what I do.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ I said. ‘But how much can you do with one arm?’

  ‘Plenty,’ he said.

  I turned around. ‘Sorry, not good enough.’

  I started into the woods, seeing an overgrown path ahead of me. Then Peter called out, ‘A week!’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Behind Peter the shadows along the roadway were lengthening. He said, ‘A week. The docs say in a week I’m rid of this sling. How about then?’

  I thought about that for a moment or two, listening to the sound of machinery at work a little distance away, cleaning up so much debris, so much death. ‘All right. A week. If I don’t find her by then, I’ll be back here in a week to pick you up. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ Peter said. ‘My, you must love her something awful.’

  ‘I do,’ I said.

  ‘I envy you,’ he said.

  I smiled and waved. ‘Peter, that’s the best thing you’ve ever said to me. Ever.’

  Peter waved back. ‘OK, I’ve taken enough of your time. You go in there and find her, you bastard.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘I will.’

  So I turned and walked into the darkness, and the little eight-year-old-boy was gone. Not once was I afraid.

  Not once.

  Miriam, I thought. Miriam.