Peter’s phone went off. “For fuck’s sake, can’t get a moment of peace around here.” He pressed the intercom button with one gnarled, ugly finger. “Yes, Marge.”

“Peter, I’ve got a Harold Paquette in to see you.”  Peter leaned back in his chair, rubbed his beard and his eyes. “Peter?” The phone asked.

“Yeah, Marge, send him in.”

He took a swing of the cold coffee sitting on his desk, blew his nose into the trash can, and hoped Harold wouldn’t be too much trouble. Peter drank too much last night and his eyes still felt blurry.

Just before his office door opened, Peter sat up and straightened his shirt. Ought to at least look like a Sheriff if he was going to be one.

The man who walked in was old and hunched over. His ill-fitting flannel sat comfortably on a prodigious belly. Two suspenders held on for dear life and Peter suspected they were all that was keeping those nasty manure covered jeans on.

“Peter,” Harold said as he sat down with a small, exhausted exhale.

“Knees not what they were, eh?” Peter said, trying his hardest to add an edge of friendliness he didn’t have in him.

“Nothin’ is what it was, Pete.” Harold’s eyes were bloodshot and his five o’clock shadow had become closer to a beard.

“Ain’t that the truth, Harold, what can I do for ya today?”

Harold slouched deeper into his chair, took his hat off and rubbed his balding head. “I need ya to help me find my boys, Peter. State Police ain’t doin’ nothin’. Sergeant down there stopped takin’ my calls. Ain’t no one can tell me what happened to my boys, Pete.”  

Peter held back a resigned sigh and reached into his desk to fetch his notepad. “Ok, Harold, I don’t like stepping on the Trooper’s toes, but for you I’ll see what I can do.”

Harold’s face turned cherry red, “Pete, not ta put too fine a point on it, but I gave ya five grand for your campaign. I held a fundraiser for ya at my farm. You best do better than see what ya can do.”

Peter furrowed his brows and folded the corners of his mouth in concern. “Look I understand, I want to find your boys too, but ya gotta understand. Tim, he was talkin’ about leavin’ the farm and goin down to South Carolina. Said he got a job an’ everything. And James, hell Harold, when was the last time you talked to James? When you socked him in the face for trespassin’ on your farm? Two days just aren’t that concernin’ around here, ‘specially when we’re talkin’ about two guys fresh out of their father’s house AND when both of ‘em have been arrested for domestic violence against the guy tryin’ to find ‘em.”

Harold’s eyes filled with tears and he flopped his farm crafted thick forearms on the chair, squeezing again and again against the arm rests. “I know I ain’t the best father. I know they ain’t the best kids, but goddammit they always came back. I always knew where they were, Pete. They’re just kids tryna find their way through life. They were paintin’ barns for cryin’ out loud. Ain’t no farmer wants to see some random kids pull up in a truck, Pete. Even if the barn did need paint, ain’t nobody wanna see them. They were just tryna find their way after I went and fucked it all up for ‘em Pete. Please, I just need ya to go lookin, even if just once, I just need ya to go lookin.” Harold held back sobs, but Peter had been here before. It was the worst part of the job, watching grown men cry.

Peter took off his glasses, sighed, and leaned back in his chair. He drew a small smiley face in the corner of his notes, “Alright, Harold, tell me where you think they were headed and what they were driving. I can’t put any a my guys on this, so I gotta go myself.” Peter smiled to himself, there was no way he was going to find these kids, but it always looked good if the Sheriff himself went looking.

Harold told Peter they took Harold’s dark green ford ranger with a custom-made rear bumper and that they were driving around the valley the day they went missing.  It took a while, but Peter spent at least thirty minutes giving him reassurances. Of course, Peter wouldn’t actually talk to the State Police. Instead of talking to those kool-aid drinking douchebags he’d just open the case and see what’d they done.

Once Harold left Peter checked his watch, “Well, its past noon, too late to do anything now.” He said to himself as he put on his coat and left his office. He’d do something first thing in the morning. Or maybe the next day, honestly, it just depended on when he’d next be in the valley.