Last Seen. Rick Mofina

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      Yellow plastic police tape had gone up around the Chambers of Dread.

      America’s flag of tragedy, Cal thought, his mind pulling him back to crimes he’d known as a reporter. Like when he’d watched a grieving husband look through closets and drawers for a photo of his wife, killed in a hit-and-run—“I’m sorry, she was shy about having her picture taken.”

      Or the time an inconsolable mother had shown him her murdered son’s bedroom, his towel still damp from his shower that morning. He’d been shot in gang-war cross fire the day he’d received his acceptance letter from Loyola.

      Cal never forgot interviewing a chain-smoking priest who’d given last rites to a great-grandmother stabbed and robbed on the street after buying groceries, his hand shaking with each pull.

      In writing their stories, and so many others like them, Cal had accepted what he was: an invader.

      Intruding on people’s torment at the most horrible time of their lives was what he did for a living. Sure, he could always justify and rationalize it as his job—the champion of a free press. But he hid the creeping fear that one day there’d be a reckoning, a price to be paid for these and his other sins—including the one that haunted him to the point where he questioned his worth as a reporter. As a person.

      But over time, as his professional armor had hardened, he’d grown smug, thinking he was immune to being touched by crime. It couldn’t happen to him. It just couldn’t. He was a middle-class family man, a decent guy, living in a good West Side neighborhood.

      But here he was, grappling with a terrifying reality.

      His son was missing.

      A fact so chilling it numbed him.

      It was now more than two hours since Cal and Faith had seen Gage.

      Cal was waiting at the Chambers while Faith took a turn searching the immediate midway again. Gage had to be out there somewhere. If he’d run off to play some kind of game intent on popping up and saying, “Guess I really scared you guys!” Cal swore he would kill him. But Gage wouldn’t ever play a joke like that. He’s a good kid.

      Checking his phone Cal saw that the Chicago Star-News had posted Gage’s picture and details about him online. He called the newsroom.

      “Stu, it’s Cal. Anyone contact the paper with anything on Gage?”

      “Sorry, Cal, nothing yet but nutbars. Wish I had better news.”

      Cal dragged both hands over his stubbled face as he hung up. He was a smart reporter, skilled at his craft; there had to be something more he could do. He racked his brain, then texted Stu with an idea. The moment after he sent it, his phone rang. It was Faith.

      “On my way back—anything?”

      “Nothing.”

      The police alert on Gage’s disappearance had triggered several actions. One was the swift response of the River Ridge Neighborhood Patrol. A dozen volunteers, with more on the way, had arrived at the fairgrounds wearing lime green vests. They were equipped with radios, cell phones, maps, experience in searches and a “can-do” attitude.

      “We have always found who we’re looking for,” the patrol leader, who was a retired cop, assured the Hudsons. “Little kids, Alzheimer’s patients who’ve wandered off...sooner or later, we find ’em.”

      With the blessing of Herb Dulka and Vaughn King, the patrol had set up, near to the Chambers, a temporary Gage Hudson Search Center, consisting of tent canopies and several folding tables, all provided by the fairgrounds and midway. In quickly organized operations, the patrol fanned out to search the fair and neighborhoods surrounding the grounds.

      Cal and Faith had taken turns scouring the midway with searchers, going up and down the avenues, looking behind rides, behind games of chance, in restrooms, picnic areas, all while Gage stared down on them from his picture on the giant screens.

      Back at the search center Cal and Faith saw firefighters probing the underbelly and the roof of the Chambers. Others had gone inside to examine the interior. So far, they’d found nothing. A dog barked and the Hudsons turned to a police officer and a panting German shepherd.

      “Folks, Officer Peddet. This is my partner, Champ. We’re here to help. Do you have anything belonging to Gage that he would have worn?”

      Faith reached into her bag. “I’ve got his hoodie. I’d brought it in case it got chilly, or rained.”

      “Good, don’t take it out yet.” Peddet, who wore large glasses, making him look like Clark Kent, led Champ and the Hudsons closer to the chutes of the Chambers and the exit stairs near the back. “This is the area where you last saw your son?”

      “Actually, inside on the spinner,” Cal said.

      “Okay, we’ll go inside. I’ll take the hoodie with me now.”

      Faith withdrew the soft blue hoodie. Champ yipped as Peddet let the dog sniff the fabric.

      “We’ll try to pick up Gage’s scent,” Peddet said, “but we’ve got a lot of smells in the air. It’ll be challenging and may take some time.”

      Cal and Faith watched as Peddet and Champ left to search for a trail, Champ’s leash jingling as he tugged at it.

      At that moment, Cal’s phone rang. It was the Star-News.

      “Cal, its Bannon. Do you have a second?”

      He repositioned his grip on his phone. “Yeah.”

      “Stu just assigned me to call you for comment on the story we’re doing, but if there are more ways we can help, you let us know.”

      Cal was grateful Stu had taken his suggestion earlier, that the Star-News do a quick story.

      “Good, what do you need, Rich?”

      “Just tell me what happened—what’s going through your mind?”

      Cal hesitated, thinking how Bannon had asked exactly what he would’ve asked a parent if he were doing a story. Cal exhaled, quickly related the history of events, ending with: “We’re deeply concerned but hopeful we’ll locate him.”

      “Thanks for talking to me and good luck. I’ll get a story up fast as I can. You should know that Stu’s sent Lori Kowski and Franco to the fair.”

      Cal knew that the case of a missing child would draw media attention. And it did. A TV news crew from Channel 9 was the first to arrive, followed by reporters from the Chicago Tribune, the River Ridge Review, Chicago Sun-Times, Channel 77, WBTN Radio News, Channel WT2 and, as expected, Lori Kowski, a reporter, and Franco Ginnetti, a photographer, from his own paper.

      Security staff had helped keep Cal and Faith out of view, taking them to a trailer for privacy to prepare to speak to the press.

      “This can’t be real,” Faith sobbed.

      “Maybe he wandered off,” Cal said.

      “Why СКАЧАТЬ