Nicholas Sparks - The Rescue

Reminding himself not to lose faith, Taylor pressed forward, around trees, over the ever softening earth. Though he didn’t have any children himself, he was godfather to the children of his best friend, Mitch Johnson, and Taylor searched as though looking for one of them. Mitch was also a volunteer fireman, and Taylor wished fervently that he was out here searching as well. His main hunting partner for the past twenty years, Mitch knew the swamp almost as well as he did, and they could use his experience. But Mitch was out of town for a few days. Taylor hoped it wasn’t an omen.

As the distance from the highway lengthened, the swamp was becoming denser, darker, more remote and foreign with every few steps. Standing trees grew closer together, rotted trees lay strewn across the ground. Vines and branches tore at him as he moved, and he had to use his free hand to keep them away from his face. He pointed his flashlight at every clump of trees, at every stump, behind every bush, moving continually, looking for any sign of Kyle. Several minutes passed, then ten.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

Now, deeper in the swamp, the water had risen past his ankles, making movement even more difficult. Taylor checked his watch: 10:56. Kyle had been gone for an hour and a half, maybe more. Time, initially on their side, was rapidly becoming an enemy. How long would it take before he got too cold? Or . . .

He shook his head, not wanting to think beyond that.

Lightning and thunder were regular occurrences now, the rain hard and stinging. It seemed to be coming from all directions. Taylor wiped his face every few seconds to clear his vision. Despite his mother’s insistence that Kyle wouldn’t answer him, Taylor nonetheless kept calling his name. For some reason it made him feel as if he were doing more than he actually was.

Damn.

They hadn’t had a storm like this in, what, six years? Seven? Why tonight? Why now, when a boy was lost? They couldn’t even use Jimmie Hicks’s dogs on a night like tonight, and they were the best in the county. The storm made it impossible to track anything at all. And simply wandering out here blindly wasn’t going to be enough.

Where would a kid go? A kid afraid of storms but not afraid of the woods? A kid who’d seen his mother after the accident, seen her injured and unconscious.

Think.

Taylor knew the swamp as well as, if not better than, anyone he knew. It was here that he’d shot his first deer at the age of twelve; every autumn he ventured forth to hunt ducks as well. He had an instinctive ability to track nearly anything, seldom returning from a hunt without something. The people of Edenton often joked that he had a nose like a wolf. He did have an unusual talent; even he admitted that. Sure, he knew what all hunters knew-footprints, droppings, broken branches indicating a trail a deer might have followed-but those things didn’t fully explain his success. When asked to explain his secret skill, he simply replied that he tried to think like a deer. People laughed at that, but Taylor always said it with a straight face, and they quickly realized he wasn’t trying to be funny. Think like a deer? What the hell did that mean?

They shook their heads. Perhaps only Taylor knew.

And now he was trying to do the same thing, only this time with much higher stakes.

He closed his eyes. Where would a four-year-old go? Which way would he head?

His eyes snapped open at the burst of the signal flare in the evening sky, indicating the turn of the hour. Eleven o’clock.

Think.

The emergency room in Elizabeth City was crowded. Not only those with serious injuries had come, but people who simply weren’t feeling that well. No doubt they could have waited until the following day but like a full moon, storms seemed to bring out an irrational streak in people. The larger the storm, the more irrational people became. On a night like this, heartburn was suddenly a heart attack in the making; a fever that had come on early in the day was suddenly too serious to ignore; a cramp in the leg might be a blood clot. The doctors and nurses knew it; nights like these were as predictable as the sunrise. The wait was at least two hours long.

Due to her head wound, Denise Holton, however, was taken in immediately. She was still conscious, though only partially. Her eyes were closed, but she was speaking in gibberish, repeating the same word over and over. Immediately she was taken in for an X-ray. From there the doctor would determine whether a CAT scan was necessary.

The word she kept repeating was “Kyle.”

Another thirty minutes passed, and Taylor McAden had moved into the deeper recesses of the swamp. It was incredibly dark now, like spelunking in a cave. Even with a flashlight, he felt the beginnings of claustrophobia. Trees and vines grew even closer together, and moving in a straight line was impossible. It was easy to wander in circles, and he couldn’t imagine what it was like for Kyle.

Neither the wind nor rain had let up at all. Lightning, however, was slowly lessening in its frequency. The water was now halfway up his shin, and he hadn’t seen anything. He’d checked in on his walkie-talkie a few minutes earlier-everyone else said the same thing.

Nothing. Not a sign of him anywhere.

Kyle had been gone now for two and a half hours.

Think.

Would he have made it this far? Would someone his size be able to wade through water this deep?

No, he decided. Kyle wouldn’t have gone this far, not in a T-shirt and jeans.

And if he did, they probably wouldn’t find him alive.

Taylor McAden pulled the compass from his pocket and pointed the flashlight at it, figuring his bearings. He decided to go back to where they’d first found the blanket, back to square one. Kyle had been there . . . that’s all they knew.

But which way had he gone?

The wind gusted and trees swayed above him. Rain stung his cheek as lightning flashed in the eastern sky. The worst of the storm was finally passing them by.

Kyle was small and afraid of lightning . . . stinging rain . . .

Taylor stared up at the sky, concentrating, and felt the shape of something there . . . something in the recesses of his mind slowly beginning to emerge. An idea? No, not quite that strong . . . but a possibility?

Gusting wind . . . stinging rain . . . afraid of lightning . . .

Those things would have mattered to Kyle-wouldn’t they?

Taylor grabbed his walkie-talkie and spoke, directing everyone back to the highway as quickly as possible. He would meet them there.

“It has to be,” he said to no one in particular.

Like many of the volunteer firemen’s wives who called into the station that evening, concerned about their husbands on this dangerous night, Judy McAden couldn’t resist calling. Though Taylor was called to the station two or three times a month, as Taylor’s mother she nonetheless found herself worrying about him every time he went out. She hadn’t wanted him to be a fireman and told him so, though she finally stopped pleading with him about it once she realized he’d never change his mind. He was, as his father had been, stubborn.

Still, all evening long she’d felt instinctively that something bad had happened. It wasn’t anything dramatic, and at first she’d tried to dismiss it, but the nagging suspicion persisted, growing stronger as the hours passed. Finally, reluctantly, she’d made the call, almost expecting the worst; instead she’d learned about the little boy-“J. B. Anderson’s great-grandkid”-who was lost in the swamp. Taylor, she was told, was involved in the search. The mother, though, was on the way to the hospital in Elizabeth City.

After hanging up the phone, Judy sat back in her chair, relieved that Taylor was okay but suddenly worried about the child. Like everyone else in Edenton, she’d known the Andersons. But more than that, Judy had also known Denise’s mother when they were both young girls, before Denise’s mother had moved away and married Charles Holton. That had been a long time ago-forty years, at least-and she hadn’t thought about her in years. But now the memories of their youth came rushing back in a collage of images: walking to school together; lazy days by the river, where they talked about boys; cutting the latest fashion pictures out of magazines . . . She also remembered how sad she’d been when she’d learned of her death. She had no idea that her friend’s daughter had moved back to Edenton.

And now her son was lost.

What a homecoming.

Judy didn’t debate long-procrastination simply wasn’t in her nature. She had always been the take-charge type, and at sixty-three she hadn’t slowed down at all. Years earlier, after her husband had died, Judy had taken a job at the library and had raised Taylor by herself, vowing to make it on her own. Not only did she meet the financial obligations of her family, but she did what it usually took two parents to do. She volunteered at his school and acted as room mother every year, but she’d also taken Taylor to ball games and had gone camping with the Scouts. She’d taught him how to cook and clean, she’d taught him how to shoot baskets and hit baseballs. Though those days were behind her, she was busier than ever. For the past dozen years her attention had shifted from raising Taylor to helping the town of Edenton itself, and she participated in every aspect of the community’s life. She wrote her congressman and state legislators regularly and would walk from door to door collecting signatures for various petitions when she didn’t think her voice was being heard. She was a member of the Edenton Historical Society, which raised funds to preserve the old homes in town; she went to every meeting of the town council with an opinion on what should be done. She taught Sunday school at the Episcopal church, cooked for every bake sale, and still worked at the library thirty hours a week. Her schedule didn’t allow her to waste a lot of time, and once she made a decision, she followed it without turning back. Especially if she felt certain she was right.

Though she didn’t know Denise, she was a mother herself and understood fear when children were concerned. Taylor had been in precarious situations his entire life-indeed, he seemed to attract them, even at a young age. Judy knew the little boy must be absolutely terrified-and the mother . . . well, she was probably a basket case. Lord knows I was. She pulled on her raincoat, knowing with absolute certainty that the mother needed all the support she could get.

The prospect of driving in the storm didn’t frighten her; the thought didn’t even enter her mind. A mother and son were in trouble.

Even if Denise Holton didn’t want to see her-or couldn’t because of the injuries-Judy knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep if she didn’t let her know that people in the town cared about what was going on.

Kyle had been gone for nearly three hours.

Taylor, meanwhile, was nearing the highway and was struck by how bright it seemed compared with the murky recesses he’d just emerged from. He also heard voices for the first time since he’d split up with the others . . . lots of voices, people calling to one another.

Quickening his step, Taylor cleared the last of the trees and saw that more than a dozen extra vehicles had arrived-their headlights blazing with the originals. And there were more people as well. Not only had the other searchers returned, but they were now surrounded by those who’d heard about the search through the town grapevine and had come out to help. Even at a distance Taylor recognized most of them. Craig Sanborn, Rhett Little, Skip Hudson, Mike Cook, Bart Arthur, Mark Shelton . . . six or seven others as well. People who’d defied the storm, people who had to work the following day. People whom Denise had probably never met.

Good people, he couldn’t help but think.

The mood, however, was gloomy. Those who’d been searching were soaking wet, covered with mud and scrapes, exhausted, and dejected. Like Taylor, they’d seen how dark and impenetrable it was out there. As Taylor approached them, they quieted. So did the new arrivals.

Sergeant Huddle turned, his face illuminated by the flashlights. His cheek had a deep, fresh scratch, partially hidden by splattered mud. “So what’s the news? Did you find something?”

Taylor shook his head. “No, but I think I have an idea of which way he headed.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know for sure. It’s just a guess, but I think he was moving to the southeast.”

Like everyone else, Sergeant Huddle knew of Taylor’s reputation for tracking-they’d known each other since they were kids.

“Why?”