The deputy, an obstinate bumpkin with a faint lisp, was not too keen on wrangling together a bunch of his guys on a Sunday to wander around the woods looking for a kid who’d probably run away from home and was currently holed up in some friend’s tree house. “That may very well be,” Ben assured him, “but on the slim chance that something else has happened to that kid—like maybe he fell out of some friend’s tree house and is lying with his leg or his neck broken somewhere—I think we should get out there and look for him.” The deputy grunted. “Where’s Harris, anyway?” “The chief’s on vacation.” “Leaves you holding the bag, huh?” Ben frowned at the phone. “We got a nice little diner in town,” Ben went on, unperturbed. “The Belly Barn. I wouldn’t mind treating your men to some good home-style dinner for giving us a hand. Bo makes a helluva meat loaf.” The deputy sighed. Ben could hear a radio or a television in the background. “Yeah, okay,” he said eventually, more bored than agitated.
