Find The Good Ones-Episode 6 The Box

By Sabine Shepherd

After hours of looking for his son, Francis returned home that evening empty-handed. He had started out that morning sure the boy would turn up somewhere; he would find him at the fishing hole, in the Cranberry marsh, or hiding in his grandma’s barn. But The eight-year-old had disappeared a full day ago, and as dusk dropped over the small-town, Francis was feeling defeated. The boy had vanished; he was nowhere to be found.
As the dense shade of night was pulled down on the first day in the Black Ridge forest, Tony looked for a dry comfortable place to sleep. He found shelter under the immense branches of an old Red Oak. There was comfort there as the tree closed around him like a huge shroud and shielded him from the unknown darkness. Feeling safe at last, Tony’s biggest concerns were hunger and thirst. He tried to wet his mouth with his own spit, sucking on his cheeks to gather it in the hollow of his tongue and re-swallow it. But that did little more than occupy his mind.
Old Ben would befriend the boy, confiding in him about Mimi, his only family and how she had recently passed away leaving him all alone. In return, Tony told Ben why he was there, and Ben volunteered to help Tony get a turtle, one that would make Francis proud of him. Bens true intentions were not to help the boy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sabine Shepherd
• Release date: Aug 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463601129

Sabine Shepherd

Sabine Shepherd was born in Wisconsin and spent most of her life there. She first found her love for writing in middle school study halls, where she switched between artistic doodles, and dark poetry. As time passed, life took over and she forgot her many poems and short stories she had started in high school. Instead, there was college, and work, and children to take care of. Now with the children grown, she has moved to Georgia and re-kindled that love. She finds she enjoys it tremendously, and hopes you will too.

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Find the Good Ones

Prologue

MISSING-the end of day one.

After hours of looking for his son, Francis returned home that evening empty-handed. He had started out that morning sure the boy would turn up somewhere; he would find him at the fishing hole, in the Cranberry marsh, or hiding in his grandma’s barn. But the eight-year-old had disappeared a full day ago, and as dusk dropped over the small-town, Francis was feeling defeated. The boy had vanished; he was nowhere to be found.

As the Studebaker turned into the dusty driveway, Francis glimpsed the dark suit of Constable Clemstien from the corner of his eye. Ahhhh shit! he hissed to himself as he rolled his eyes, revolting at the thought of having to talk to the man. Francis couldn’t stand the way Clemstien looked down on people. Anyway, that’s how the smug bastard came across in his high starched collar and six-point gold plate badge; and not just to Francis, to everyone.

The constable was just twenty-five years old and had started his education at Berkeley Law School. Somehow, he ended up studying under the Harvard scholar; Henry M. Hart Jr., it was quite a feather in a young law student's cap. Having graduated magna cum laude in Law and Criminal Justice, he looked forward to a celebrated and illustrious career. Imagine his humiliation at a post-graduate assignment as a small-town constable. It was obviously a mistake, and everyone knew it.

Clemstien wasn’t fond of Francis either, and to spite his empathy for Henrietta and the kids, he wasn’t fond of them. The people in these backwoods, pieces of shit, little cow-towns were beneath him. It was an embarrassment to be there. He should be working on something big, like the unsolved murder of Elizabeth Short in Los Angeles, that blue or black Dahlia one. He shouldn’t be yanking guys fishing license and looking for kids that go off hiding.

At six feet seven inches tall, Clemstien was a tall drink of water as they say, and often the brunt of jokes. Francis especially, mocked his height saying things like, What’s the difference between Clemstien and a lamp-post? The lamp-post is useful. Or I didn’t know they could stack shit that high. It was good for a laugh for the folks but didn’t fall on death ears. Clemstien heard the taunts, and the disrespectful jeering infuriated him. This mutual hostility would prove critical to the family in the coming days.

Getting out of his vehicle, Francis started toward the house without even a word. Henrietta watched in annoyance as he let the door slam behind him. The boy will turn up before morning, said Clemstien abruptly, feeling the sting of the obvious snub. Then as he spun on his heel to walk away, he promised to get a search party together in the morning.

So that-was-that, she supposed. Now what was she to do? She nodded her head in reluctant agreement as Clemstien walked away. The mere action irritated her, it made her feel twitchy like she wanted to hop up and down and shake her arms out. Like she wanted to shout at him, Now what? You can’t just go! Am I supposed to give up? Her mind screamed at him as she went numb and turned toward the house in dismay.

One, single, tan, beaded moccasin dragged lazily through the dust under her. Then another came to its side and pushed