Charley Stevens lived just a few townships away. Despite being officially retired from the Warden Service, he was constantly volunteering his aerial assistance on search-and-rescue missions and other details requiring eyes in the sky. Knowing Stacey’s dad the way I did, I expected the old bird already had his Cessna gassed up and ready to go. All he needed was a formal invitation from the lieutenant. I understood that Rivard needed to formulate a plan, but the sun was lobbing itself across the sky, and we weren’t any closer to finding the shooters. And where had Stacey disappeared to? I hadn’t seen her drive off with anyone. Cody Devoe’s dog sniffed my knee. I bent over and scratched the panting K-9 behind her velveteen ears. “How are you doing, Tomahawk?” “She doesn’t like the heat,” Devoe said. “She’s not the only one.” He waved absently at a yellow jacket that was noisily circling his head. “So everyone is saying you were the first one on the scene here.”
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