"Are you going to take it?" Kay asked, staring at me over the brim of her cappuccino cup. Her dark Asian eyes, always the best part of her face, narrowed and cut across mine.

    "The pill or the case?" I held the little blue tablet between thumb and forefinger, showing my wife that I was still taking the antidepressant.

    "The case," she answered, her eyes staring down at the perfectly sculpted pill.

    I’d already taken the case, but I hadn’t told Kay yet. There had been a tense meeting with a tearful mother and an angry father who didn’t want to hire me. Mom didn’t think the police were doing enough. She suspected kidnapping. Dad thought he’d run away, happened before.

    "I’m not sure," I lied. I try not to lie too often, especially to my wife, but in this situation a slight deflection of the truth was probably the wisest course. Besides, in my profession the truth can cause all kinds of problems. I squeezed the handle of my coffee cup, but I couldn’t drink from it. My stomach was tied in knots.

    "Have you seen him?" she asked, this time not looking at me.

    His name was Peter, a wallet-sized picture in my pocket. I touched my pant’s leg where the photo hid. "The missing boy?" I asked, but I knew she meant someone else.

    "No, Michael. Have you seen him again?"

    Michael, my younger brother, boy long gone, who had vanished before my eyes. "No. I think about him. You know, memories. Wonder what he’d look like now. I don’t see his face in the crowd, if that’s what you mean?" I could hear the edge in my voice. Why was I feeling angry? My face was warm. Kay always did this. Take a breath, I told myself. "There was just that short period when he seemed to come back."

    "Dream about him?" She put her cup down and leaned forward on the table. Her long black hair fell off her bare shoulders. The summer dress she wore was pink and complemented her complexion. The smell of her filled my nose and mind, a lilac perfume and musky body odor intermingled. I’d missed the scent of her since the separation. Why was she bringing up Michael? I’d dreamt about him the night before. Not a nightmare, just a reminder. My little brother walking away with the elderly Korean man dressed in white, wearing a black stovepipe hat, as the snow swirled and swallowed them like a cloud.

    Did I dream about him? "No, not in a long time."

    "This case could bring back painful memories. Young boy, same age as Michael."

    "Michael was six, this boy’s eight." As soon as I’d corrected her, I knew the distinction was silly, argumentative.

    Her brow knitted and she struggled with a small smile, but she wasn’t amused. "You know what I mean. What if you don’t find this boy? Or if you find him...?"

    She didn’t finish the question. Dead? What if I found him dead? Would I blame myself again? Like I always did. Always searching for Michael.

    "Are you really taking the medication?" she asked in a whisper so that the nearby diners in the small restaurant overlooking the bay wouldn’t hear her.

    I’d planned to slip it into my shirt pocket, but now I was trapped so I popped the pill and washed it down with a slug of caffeine.

    "Sometimes, I forget," I answered truthfully, not able to complete the deceit. Taking it regularly put my mind in maple syrup, but I couldn’t tell her that. She’d bring up all the alternatives that I didn’t want to consider. I didn’t like where this conversation was headed, didn’t want to review my rather fragile mental condition over coffee. I was taking it one day at a time. "It makes me sweat," I added.

    Kay rolled her eyes. "If it helps you cope, helps you not think of your brother or other things." We both knew what those other things were. "A little perspiration won’t hurt you." She wrinkled her nose. "For God sakes, let him go, Ben."

    I was going to say she sounded like my mother, but she didn’t. My mother had blocked it all out after Michael had disappeared, saying little, withdrawing from the world and eventually hiding as a recluse in Pt. Reyes.

    Instead, we didn’t say anything for a few seconds, seemed longer.

    Finally, I answered, "We need the money. They’re willing to pay my day rate." Big deal, three hundred dollars. Actually, it was a big deal and Kay knew that I’d give most of it to her. Even though I wasn’t sleeping at home, we still shared a mortgage and the expense of raising two teenagers.

    "Not worth your sanity. I’ll take you poor and mentally sound." She shook her head and pushed out her jaw as she stared through the window. The Larkspur ferry terminal gleamed white across the road with the blue slice of the bay lapping along San Quentin Point and the Marin Coast behind it. "I’d better get back to work. Polly’s probably going crazy. God, listen to the two of us. Casualties of two dying industries, trying to earn an extra buck wherever we can."

    Kay owns a small travel agency, and I’m a private investigator, two businesses being devoured by the new technologies and the hunger of giant global players. Like everyone else, we were struggling to survive and pay for the California Dream.

    "I’m all right. I won’t take the case if I think it will bring back bad memories."

    Another lie. It’d already triggered last night’s dream. Strange case. Young boy goes missing while playing in park across from his house. Mother looks out their front window and sees him frolicking with a neighbor’s dog. Throwing a stick for it to retrieve. Twenty minutes later, the dog is still there, peeing on a tree with the stick in its mouth, and the kid is gone. No one saw anything.

    "Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind. What does Campanile say?"

    I smiled. She knew. "I’ll talk to him later today."

***

    "Hey, Ricky, look who the cat dragged in. It’s the angel." Joe Campanile sat at his light gray metal desk peering into the terminal of his computer. His glasses were pushed up on his forehead. Army brown folders were strewn on the desk, case numbers stenciled on the covers along with Post-it notes with scribbled reminders.

    Ricky looked up for a millisecond and said, "Hey Ben," then returned to his telephone call, the receiver tucked into the crook of his neck. Joe and Ricky. An Italian-American grizzly with a big heart and big fist. A trim Mexican-American dandy who looked like a rock and roll crooner from the 60’s. Partners for over ten years. Missing Persons Inspectors for the San Francisco PD. I was calling unannounced at their offices in the Mission District. Joe and I had been friends since he’d been a rookie cop and I a fledgling gumshoe. We’d had the misfortune of finding a month-old infant dead in a dumpster. The tragic discovery led to two confused teenagers and marked the beginning of a life-long friendship.

    I pointed at Joe’s glasses, resting above his eyebrows. "You know those work better when they’re in front of your peepers."

    "Paula says I need bifocals. I ain’t getting no old man’s glasses."

    "That’s the right attitude. Stay young by denying the tell-tale signs of middle age."

    "Watch your mouth, Gabriel," answered Joe, completing a keystroke and looking up from the terminal. "What brings you to our humble abode?"

    "Eight-year-old boy missing in the Marina."

    "Peter Corcoran."

    "That’s him. Parents hired me to help out. Another pair of eyes and ears."

    Campanile studied me for a second and I could tell he’d swallowed his first rush of words. "We welcome the professional assistance, as long as you follow the rules."

    "Have you ever known otherwise?"

    "Hah, don’t get me started." He raised his eyebrows for emphasis, stood up, dwarfing me, and walked to a metal filing cabinet nearby. He opened a drawer and pulled out a thin file. Joe returned, handing me the folder. "Not much here. Boy’s playing outside with neighbor’s dog, then disappears. We talked to parents and neighbors. No one saw anything. No strangers. No suspicious cars."

    "Any recent kidnappings in the City or sightings of unfamiliar adults at local schools?" I read quickly through the file, noting the names of the people interviewed.

    "Nothing in this neighborhood or anywhere nearby. Got a little black girl missing in Hunter’s Point, but we think a relative took her."

    "Father says the boy ran away before."

    Campanile made a skeptical face. "Not really. One time he didn’t come home from school right away. Another time stayed out late one Saturday. Never anything overnight. Kind of a dreamy little kid according to the neighbors, but never in any trouble."

    "What do you think?" I asked.

    Joe’s jaw firmed up and he squinted, his glasses still topside. "Don’t know. Somebody could’ve made a quick grab without being spotted, but it was in the middle of the day. You’d think somebody would’ve seen something."

    "Any creeps living nearby?"

    "In this city there are known sex offenders everywhere, but no one who appears active in the general vicinity."

    "What’s your take on the parents?"

    Joe looked into my eyes without saying anything for a few beats, behind the humor ever the careful cop. "Mother was near hysterical. Father’s kind of a cold fish; he was at work, software company in Redwood City, at the time it happened."

    "So what now?" I asked.

    Joe ran his hand through his thick brown hair, slight traces of gray at the temples. "We’re stumped. It’s been forty-eight hours, and that’s worrisome. Channels 5 and 7 are going to run a story with picture at 6 and 11 pm. You know, have you seen this cute little kid hanging around your block or screaming from the back seat of a late model sedan? The Chronicle’s supposed to run a similar story with same picture tomorrow."

    I pulled out the photo I had of Peter Corcoran, a school picture, face shot in color, blue-eyed tow head with freckles, not smiling, serious expression for an eight-year-old.

    Campanile looked at the snapshot. "Yeah, that’s the one. Kid doesn’t look too happy, does he?" I agreed, returning the MP file.

    I spent a few more minutes catching up on family. Ricky joined the conversation and we chewed on the fortunes of the Niners and the Giants. Wondered if Bonds could keep hitting them out of the park and into the bay at Mc Covey Cove. When their phones started ringing, I thanked them and slipped out of their offices.

    Not much to go on. I decided I wanted to know more about the little boy with the somber expression.

***

    Once I’d convinced the principal I was harmless and working with Inspector Campanile, he walked me back to Ms. Martinez’s empty, third-grade classroom and introduced me to the young woman with smooth olive skin and deep, black eyes. She wore a white blouse with three-quarter length sleeves, opened at the neck. How could a teacher be this young and beautiful? I didn’t want to answer the question.

    "He’s a good little boy," she said, fastening a long strand of her shiny black hair behind one ear. I sat in the visitor’s chair I’d pulled over to her desk. She sat in her usual spot behind the desk, looking teacherly. "What do you think happened?" she asked, her voice now barely audible, not really wanting to know all the unthinkable things that could have happened to him.

    "We don’t know." I used the editorial we, made me sound official, like I was part of the force. "That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Try to get an idea of what he was like. See if he’d said anything lately that might help us."

    Her eyes opened wider. She folded her hands in the prayer pose and leaned forward in her chair. "Like what?"

    "Did he have any new friends? Was he happy or sad this past week? Anything out of the ordinary." I studied her eyes as she thought about Peter Corcoran and his recent behavior. It’s amazing what we see and hear in the course of a normal day that gets dumped into the not-important-forget-about-it file, especially if the job involves the education and management of five sets of twenty-five active eight-year-olds.

    "I don’t know. Peter’s not real demonstrative. Keeps things to himself."

    "A loner?" I asked.

    "No, I wouldn’t characterize him that way. He gets along with most of the students and plays with some of the boys." She looked out the window at the play yard as if it would help her remember more. "He’s just not very vocal. Spends time thinking about things. Doesn’t tell you what he’s feeling." She studied her hands, pressed together.

    Sounded like someone I knew. Little kid who kept secrets, didn’t say much. What would I have told my classmates? I’d been watching my younger brother in an old park in Seoul, Korea when my father had been stationed there. Snowing non-stop, a thick blanket of the white stuff covered everything. We were having a snowball fight while my Dad met with an officer nearby. Then Michael in the distance, walking away with an old Korean man. My heart beating like a drum. Then just gone. My fault. Never found.

    "Detective?" she asked, bringing me back.

    Our eyes met. "Sorry, I was just trying to visualize him. Wondering what was going on inside that blond head."

    She smiled, nice white teeth and deep dimples. "Boys this age are filled with fantasies. If they aren’t Shaq or Kobe Bryant winning the NBA championship, they’re the local policemen busting criminals or firemen putting out dangerous fires. Anyone in uniform carrying a weapon or driving a powerful vehicle. They are real, live-action heroes bent on saving the day or dominating their enemies."

    I smiled back. "Reminds me of some older boys I know."

    She shrugged. "Some men never outgrow their boyhood fantasies."

    "Was he an unhappy kid? Any distress at home that you could detect." I was reaching, but I didn’t know where else to look.

    "You mean abuse?"

    "Any reason the kid may want to run away."

    "No, I never saw a mark on him. Even though he wasn’t the type to complain, I didn’t hear a peep out of him about an abusive home life. And there are noticeable signs. Bruises. Mood swings. Withdrawal. I can usually tell."

    Another dead-end. I looked around the room at the miniature wooden desks built to imprison little, squirming bodies. The letters of the alphabet marched on different colored squares above the blackboard in front. Samples of their writing and artwork crowded a large corkboard on one wall. "Where does he sit?"

    "Over there, middle row, second from the back. I couldn’t get him to move closer to the front of the room. He’s a watcher. Won’t participate unless he feels sure of himself."

    Good lord, I’d forgotten how terrifying and restricted grade school had been. Every day worried about saying the wrong thing, making a fool out of myself. What was Peter Corcoran afraid to reveal to his peer group?

    "This one here?" I asked.

    She remained at her desk, gathering up papers, I assumed, to take home for grading and inscribing with helpful hints for improvement. I pegged her as a good, thorough teacher, but a little too softhearted. "Yes, that’s it. Take a look through it if you like. The top lifts up."

    It was jammed with the flotsam and jetsam of a third-grade existence: pencils, plastic sharpener, worn-down erasers, loose leaf paper, a flattened bubble gum still in the wrapper, a blue binder, school books, a half-eaten Snicker’s bar, a compass, and a collection of smooth stones in an open half of a small white box. .

    "Compass and the rock collection, what were those for?"

    "Our field trips, earth sciences." Her light tone of voice suggested that the trips were fun even for her.

    "Where’d you go?" I remembered field trips to local museums and Golden Gate Park.

    "In the City. The Park. Baker Beach. The boys liked the Presidio the best, all those bunkers and reminders of the military."

    The Presidio, now a National Park, had been a military settlement since the time of the Revolutionary War. Built to protect the bay from enemy attacks during the Civil War, old Fort Point at the post’s northern-most tip sat below the San Francisco side of the Golden Gate Bridge. The Presidio covers almost 1500 acres and our family had lived there in the non-com housing before going to Korea. Michael and I had played in the battery embankments overlooking Baker Beach and the Pacific. My father rested there in the National Cemetery. I seldom visited.

    "Which place did Michael like?" I asked.

    "Do you mean Peter?"

    "Yes, I’m sorry. Peter, which spot did he want to visit the most?"

    "Definitely, the Presidio. He was fascinated, not with military stuff, but with the past. He wanted to know where all the people had gone, why they were no longer living there. I kidded him about it, told him he had the instincts of an historian." She smiled, but she looked sad.

    "What did he say?"

    "He said maybe he could find them."

    Ms. Martinez and I talked for a few more minutes, and I could see that she was getting ready to leave. I thanked her for her time and left the school grounds.

***

    I decided to go back to the scene of the crime or, at least, where the boy was last seen, in the park across from the Corcoran home. I eased the Taurus against the curb, studied the neighborhood for a few minutes, upper class San Francisco in the Marina District, outrageously expensive homes, mostly a white bread world. Peter’s photo, now blown up, stared at me from a telephone pole. I slid out of my car and traipsed through the grassy enclosure. There wasn’t much to the playground—a small baseball field with backstop on one side and next to it, sharing the truncated outfield, was a soccer rectangle with goal posts on each end; the netting was missing. On the far side was a small grove of trees, a picnic table, a few benches and a playground for toddlers. It was your basic urban greenery, usually found in the better parts of town. Seemed to me it would be easy to spot a stranger in this environment, but you never knew for sure, creeps came in all colors, shapes and sizes.

    As I ambled around, a young woman pushing a stroller with a big kid who could hardly fit in the seat, sucking on a formula bottle, a Golden Retriever trailing behind them, headed toward me on the walkway traversing the grounds. I instinctively reached into my pocket for Peter’s photo. It couldn’t hurt.

    "Mr. Gabriel! Have you found out anything?" The voice came from behind me.

    I turned to see Claire Corcoran hurrying in my direction. She carried a sheaf of paper in one hand. I figured it was Peter’s enlarged school picture. Her long black coat wasn’t buttoned and it blew open in the wind. Damn, I probably should have stopped at her place first, but I wanted to sniff around the park again before telling the anxious mother I didn’t know anything yet that would help find her son. "Mrs. Corcoran, I was just on my way to see you."

    "I’m sorry." She sounded out of breath when she reached me. "I just couldn’t wait. Have you heard anything?"

    "No ma’am, nothing new, but I’ve talked to the police and Peter’s teacher." Her face fell and her body sagged at the non-news.

    "When I saw you over here, I thought maybe you’d heard something."

    Her eyes were jumping from her face. I had to give her something. "There is good news about the media. The local TV stations are running stories about Peter tonight, and the Chron will have a human interest piece tomorrow, asking readers if they’ve seen him." It was a cheap trick, but I didn’t know what else to say. I assumed Joe and Ricky hadn’t got around to telling her.

    "Really!" she gasped, her eyes welling with tears. I thought I could also see the slight tremor of fright ripple her face, as she realized that the whole Bay Area was about to find out her little boy was missing and maybe she’d done something wrong, or in some way had contributed to his disappearance or hadn’t kept a watchful vigilance while he played outside. I’d seen it before, what the hot lights of a full media exposure did to the families of crime victims. "I’m sure that will help." But by the way she looked down at the grass, I could tell she wasn’t sure if it would.

    Time to change the subject. "Peter’s teacher said he was fond of the Presidio. Did you and your husband spend time with him there?" The National Park was about a half-mile hike from where we stood.

    She looked up at me, squinting. "Yes, we did. We took bike rides through part of the Presidio and drove a couple of times to Baker Beach." She half-smiled. "Do you think he might be there?" Her voice rose an octave with the question.

    "I don’t know, Mrs. Corcoran. I’m just trying to eliminate possibilities. He was either taken or he ran away." Our eyes met. Hers were larger, pleading for help of any kind. "Mrs. Corcoran, don’t take this the wrong way. I’ve got two teenagers of my own so I know raising kids is not easy, but did Peter have any reason to want to leave home?"

    Her face flushed. "What are you saying? You mean did we abuse him?"

    "No, nothing physical. But did you or your husband yell at him or discipline him for anything recently?" I was having trouble meeting her murderous gaze.

    Her expression and voice softened. "No, we love our son. Russell could be more attentive to Peter’s emotional needs than he is, but he loves him in his own way."

    Sounded like Peter wasn’t getting any hugs or atta’ boys from dad, but it was still hardly a good reason to take off. I decided to pursue a different tack. "Did Peter have a sleeping bag or a camping pack that he used for field trips?"

    She frowned. "Yes, but I’m not sure where they might be." She turned quickly away from me, then turned back. "Come with me. We can look together."

    I followed her as she quick-marched, without checking both ways for traffic, across the street to her house. I was almost sorry I’d brought it up. I didn’t want to create false hopes in someone who was already so desperate. I climbed the front steps behind her.

    Inside, I stood in the doorway as she tore through her son’s relatively neat room. She pitched all the camping gear she could find in the closet and under his bed out into the middle of the room. There was the sleeping bag, rolled and bound with an elastic fastener, his name printed on the manufacturer’s tag. She also found a small bedroll he’d used on camping trips, a metal dish that folded up and held silverware and a cup, and a dark green rubber canteen. By her expression, I could tell she was sorry she’d found anything.

    "Wait a minute," she said. "I don’t see his school backpack here."

    The determined mother hurried from the room with me in tow. She searched two closets in the hallway; then we rushed to the garage that held her Ford Explorer. Digging around in the back of the vehicle, she didn’t find the pack. "Oh God, I don’t know. It could be at school." She trembled, looking like she might lose it all together.

    "Mrs. Corcoran," I said.

    "What?" She looked up, her face contorted, her eyes wild and brimming with tears.

    "It’s going to be all right." I didn’t know what else to say. "I’ll call the school and find out about his backpack, and I’ll drive over to the Presidio. See if anyone has spotted him there." I wanted to hold her to comfort her, but I could tell she didn’t want to be held, afraid she’d lose it completely, break down and open up to the fear and hysteria that gripped her inside. Instead, I held her hand for a few minutes while she collected herself. I told her I’d call later and report on what I’d discovered.

***

    I didn’t want to go there—too many memories. It was a long shot, but I didn’t have a better idea. I covered the outlying areas of the Presidio first, then hiked the entire length of Crissy Field, strolling on the promenade, asking walkers and picnickers if they had seen a little blond boy. They squinted at the snapshot cupped in my hand, but no one recognized him.

    I parked near Lombard Gate and checked the coffee shops and restaurants clustered near the entrance. If he was camping out in the park, he still had to find a place to buy or scavenge for food. The doughnut shop was my first stop. A large woman with big brown freckles, flaxen hair and pendulous breasts beneath a flowered apron greeted me from the other side of a glass display case. I held the photo up, explained what I was doing, then handed it to her so she could get a closer look.

    She studied the tiny portrait. "Gosh, I don’t know. We get lots of little guys in here in the morning." She made a face and then shook her head. She returned the snap, and I ordered a cinnamon twist and a cup of coffee. So far I was batting zero. I fed myself the pastry and coffee, flecks of sugar sticking to my face, while I canvassed the other shops without getting a hit.

    It was late afternoon and turning gray; the fog had pushed its way through the Golden Gate, making the air chilly. Fog horns began to bleat like lost sheep.

    I took Lombard to Letterman, driving around the deserted hospital, then picked up Lincoln to the Main Post. I drove past the brick buildings where the Visitor’s Center was located and parked the car near Pershing Square. A class of Asian-American school children straddled the giant cannons; their black hair and whoops of delight flew in the air around them. Cannonballs bigger than bowling balls were stacked next to the artillery pieces and welded together so the kids could climb them like steps. Across from the square was the Officer’s Club, now closed, off to one side was a bowling alley, used almost exclusively by groups of school children or the elderly who could still heft and propel the shiny, marbled balls.

    The wind had picked up off the bay, swaying the branches of the tall cedars, pines and eucalyptus flanking the grassy area. A row of palm trees down the center of the parade grounds waved their fronds in slow motion. The cream-colored wooden barracks with the red shingles lined one side of the square. Many of the other structures were done in the adobe style of the original Presidio with orange ceramic tiles on top. I climbed the steps of the bowling center and looked back at the bay before entering the building. I could see Alcatraz, empty and spectral, imprisoned by the choppy, white-capped waves roiling around her.

    Inside the alley, I heard the distinctive sounds of shoes squeaking, heavy balls rolling on the hardwood and then smacking the pins. I surveyed the small bowling emporium, a bar and deli on one side, twelve lanes on the other. A flock of gray-haired women nursed coffees and soft drinks in the lounge area waiting for a pack of pre-teens to finish their last games.

    "Can I help you?" asked a young Asian man who rented the shoes and sold the game cards. He stood behind a dark wooden counter.

    "No, thanks, I’m just browsing, looking for someone."

    He smiled, but you could tell that he was suspicious of anyone in the building who wasn’t eating, drinking or bowling.

    I was carefully examining the place when I spotted the small figure in the hooded sweatshirt, wearing a backpack and playing video games in the darkened alcove near the restrooms. His little body pushed and pulled at the controls of an Intergalactic Space Marauder. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. The sound effects of the machine whirred and whizzed, tiny explosions bursting from the tinny speakers in the side of the contraption. He turned and looked out toward the alleys; his hood pulled back slightly, and I could see part of his face in profile. My feet became heavy and my body turned cold. How could it be?

    The boy suddenly twisted his torso more, looking back at me. My vision blurred.

    I felt dizzy. "Michael," I called. My feet had turned to cement. I could barely move.

    The boy jumped from the seat of the video player and fled from the small arcade, dashing out the front door of the bowling center. The Asian man came out from behind the counter. "What’s going on? Why’d you scare the boy?" He grabbed my shoulder, but I pushed his hand away. My face was moist, my head felt like it had been inflated to the size of a pumpkin, and I could hear myself breathing heavily. I worried that I’d faint. The counter man reached out for me again.

    "Don’t touch me," I yelled. I forced myself to move, recovering my legs as I pushed the glass door open. On the raised platform outside the building, I could see him running away. He turned the corner at Sheridan, moving away from the main drag of the post. He had a good head start, but I was determined to catch him. This time Michael wouldn’t disappear. I couldn’t let that happen again. The strength had returned to my legs as I hurried down the steps and broke into full stride.

    For a moment I couldn’t see the tiny shape, but when I rounded the corner he was up the road, still fleeing. I maintained a strong pace, knowing he couldn’t outrun me. When I saw him pass through the stone gate, I had to momentarily slow down to catch my breath. Michael had entered the National Cemetery where our father, Joseph Benjamin Gabriel, Sgt. Major, like thousands of other veterans, lying under a white, three foot high, curved tombstone, had found his final rest. Took his life after he’d lost his heart.

    When I entered the gate, I could see him scaling the steep rise of the hill, headstones and grave markers spread out in every direction. "Michael, stop! Come back," I called, but he didn’t stop and the small dark figure disappeared over the top of the hill to the rear of the burial grounds. I could feel my thighs and calves burn as I hustled up the same embankment. It was now early evening and because of the fog and overcast skies, the cemetery was growing dark. The wind coming off the bay whistled up the hillside.

    When I reached the top of the rise, I stopped and knelt on one knee, resting my arms on the other, slowly scanning the back part of the hallowed enclosure. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was there, hiding behind one of the larger monuments.

    From a crouched position, I crab-walked to a small tree on the crest of the rise that provided cover and an unobstructed view down the backside of the hill. I stood leaning against the trunk shaded by the low, dense canopy of leaves. This was one of those times when I knew it made more sense to wait for my brother to find me, rather than scrambling down the hill looking for him. I slowly studied the grounds, the headstones, bent and worn, stuck out of the earth like the teeth of an old man. Then movement, and there he was, peeking around a granite monument resembling a tiny church.

    I waited a few more minutes until it had grown darker, but not yet without light, and then began my slow, stooped descent, down one side of the prominence. I stopped occasionally to check if he was still there, trying desperately to spot me.

    When I was twenty yards away from the miniature cathedral, on the far side of him, and could see he’d removed his backpack and was pressed against the back of the stone structure, I rose up and made a mad dash in his direction. By the time he saw me I was almost on top of him. He tried to run again, but tripped on a headstone and fell to the ground. I hovered over him, grabbing him hard so he couldn’t get away.

    "Ouch! Leave me alone," he cried out.

    "Michael, where have you been?" I shook him and the hood fell from his face.

    "I’m not Michael. I’m Peter. Let go of me."

    The ground seemed to tilt and a wave of nausea swept through me. Blond hair, not brown. Blue-eyed, not hazel. The boy was right; he wasn’t Michael. It was Peter Corcoran, hiding out in the Presidio, having an eight-year-old adventure. I hugged him close, feeling the supple shape of his shoulders and back. I could smell damp grass in his hair. He twisted in my embrace. After a few seconds, I stood, holding firmly to his arm.

    "All right, Peter. I’m taking you home."

    "I don’t want to go home," he protested. "I’ve found all the people."

    "Everyone wants to go home," I answered.

    He squirmed and pulled against my grasp like a young puppy on its first leashed walk.

    I held on tight as I dragged him up the hill, then down the front of the cemetery. I could hear the siren in the distance and figured the Asian guy at the bowling alley called the cops after I chased the boy out of the building. Near the bottom of the rise we passed my father’s grave, but I couldn’t stop. I still hadn’t found Michael.