3

      “I can’t believe this,” Cal said as he and Faith walked the perimeter of the chutes, searching the slides and the clusters of people shuffling along the exit barricades for Gage.

      He wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere.

      “Maybe he got out ahead of us and ran to another ride?” Faith said. “Maybe he went to a food stand?”

      “I doubt it, but wait here for him and I’ll check.”

      Cal shouldered his way through the exit lines, battling frustration and unease while searching the rivers of people that were flowing into the midway crowds. Gage wouldn’t have left the chutes without us, he thought. He knows better. Unless he was confused and figured we’d got out first and left without him? Maybe he rushed to the next ride. No. No way. He’d wait. He’s a good kid—he’s sharp, like his mother. No matter how tempting the midway would be he’d wait for us.

      Come on, Gage, come on. Where is he?

      Cal continued, turning full circle, bumping into people, scanning faces of boys Gage’s age until they began blurring. Cal scoured the Polar Express—nothing there. Then he stopped in front of the Zipper where Bob Seger’s Hollywood Nights was throbbing amid the grind of the thrill ride’s diesel and roaring crowds.

      No sign of Gage.

      Quickly, he circled food stands that were selling burgers and fries, pizza, ice cream, nuts, pretzels and cotton candy, scanning the people ordering, waiting or those eating at the small tables nearby.

      No sign of Gage.

      Cal thought it unlikely Gage would travel down this way alone in such a short amount of time, and trotted back to Faith at the Chambers of Dread.

      Her hope that he’d have Gage with him died on her face as they exchanged sobering looks.

      “He hasn’t come out here,” Faith said, turning to the chutes. “Do something, Cal!”

      Near them, they saw a man in his thirties wearing a work shirt with an embroidered Ultra-Fun Amusement Corp roller-coaster logo above his left pocket, a ball cap and Ray-Ban sunglasses. Obviously a midway worker, he was helping women recover at the slides, his rolled sleeves displaying tattoo-laced biceps.

      “Our son hasn’t come out yet,” Cal said. “Can you help us?”

      The man was unshaven; his long hair curled from his cap, the toothpick in the corner of his mouth punctuated an expression that told Cal he’d been everywhere, seen everything, heard it all and was bored.

      “People get hung up in there. Take it easy, pal, he’ll be out.”

      “He’s only nine!” Faith interjected. “He was right at the exit curtains with us and he’s not here. It’s been more than five minutes!”

      Cal saw Faith’s body reflected in the man’s mirrored glasses as he assessed her summer top and shorts. His toothpick shifted and he nodded to the Chambers.

      “Did you see him on the spinner?”

      “Yes, if that’s what you call the last thing before these slides, yes,” she said.

      “Hang on.” The man unclipped a walkie-talkie from his studded belt, turned and spoke into it. “Alma, it’s Sid. We got a straggler in the spinner.” He turned to Faith. “What’s he wearing?”

      “A Cubs T-shirt, ball cap and sand-colored shorts, khakis,” Faith said.

      “Got a lotta kids wearing that same stuff,” he said.

      “A blue Cubs shirt and ball cap,” Cal added. “And he’s wearing sneakers, blue SkySlyders.”

      “How old did you say?”

      “Nine,” Faith said.

      After Sid relayed Gage’s description into the walkie-talkie, it crackled and a woman’s bored-sounding voice said, “Roger. Stand by.”

      “Your people can see in the dark?” Cal asked.

      “We got infrared cameras everywhere in the Chambers and Alma watches from a control desk.”

      Several moments passed with Sid’s silent calm countering Cal and Faith’s anxiety, projecting an attitude that this sort of thing happened all the time. He scratched his whiskered jaw, then raised his walkie-talkie again.

      “Check the graveyard and the crusher.”

      “Stand by. I think...” the radio said. “Yup! Got him. He’s coming your way.”

      “Oh, good!” Faith said, relief washing through her.

      “He should be at the chutes about...now,” the radio said.

      A middle-aged woman with glasses whooshed down one slide, then two teenage girls shot down another, then a big-bellied man followed by a boy in shorts and a Cubs T-shirt—a red one. The kid looked more like twelve.

      “That’s not Gage! That boy’s not our son!” Faith said.

      “We need to do something now, Sid!” Cal said.

      Sid held up a hand to stem their rising concern and he spoke into his radio.

      “Alma, that’s not him. Go back farther—the witch, the clown, the butcher—and double-check. Shorts and Cubs T-shirt. Nine years old.”

      “A blue T-shirt!” Faith said.

      Sid shook his head. “The cameras don’t pick up colors, just shades, black, white and in between.”

      A few more tense moments passed, then Faith said, “Sid, we’re losing time and this is getting serious. Gage could’ve fallen. He could be hurt or unconscious in there! You’ve got to shut it down, turn on the lights and let us search for him now!”

      “Relax, ma’am. We have procedures for these situations.”

      “Then use them, dammit!” Faith said.

      “Hang on.” Sid pulled the walkie-talkie to his mouth and took a few steps away, but even with the noise Faith and Cal could hear him.

      “Still nothing, Alma?”

      “Still looking.”

      “Call a Code 99.”

      “Vaughn won’t like it.”

      “Call it.” Sid turned back to the Hudsons. “What’s your son’s name?”

      “Gage Hudson,” Faith said.

      Sid nodded and relayed it to Alma, setting in motion Ultra-Fun Amusement Corp’s procedure for a serious incident at an attraction. Within minutes, more staff emerged amid radio dispatches and workers talking on cell phones. Some went to various points to help visitors leave the Chambers of Dread through emergency exit doors and down stairs, apologizing and handing them vouchers for a free return. Other staff converged at the chutes. One of them, a man in his early sixties with a white cowboy hat and aviator glasses, had a private huddle with Sid before he came directly to Faith and Cal. He was wearing a navy golf shirt with the Ultra-Fun logo.

      “Vaughn King—I run the midway attractions.” He nodded. “We’ll find your son, folks.” King, face tanned with neat, trimmed white stubble, presented an air of authority as he turned and spoke softly into his phone.

      Cal and Faith heard