DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING.
A/N: Came up with this story idea after a Twitter discussion about possible plotlines for a Longmire Christmas special. Hope everyone has a safe, warm holiday season. Merry Christmas!
"Come in, Ferg," the voice of Absaroka County's longtime dispatcher/secretary, Ruby, crackled over the radio.
Ferg picked up the microphone hooked to the dashboard of his blue Firebird Trans Am. "This is Ferg, go ahead."
"What's your location?"
"I'm in the Baptist church parking lot," Ferg told her. He'd been dispatched there after some animals had escaped from the live nativity scene and blocked traffic. "I just got the last sheep tied down."
"I'm holding a priority call," said Ruby. "Matthew Scarlett called. His son's been missing for several hours."
Ferg's heart dropped. Missing persons cases were never easy to deal with, given how rare it was for them to have a good outcome. Besides that, today was Christmas Eve.
"On it, Ruby," he said into the the microphone. "Ferg out."
Ferg drove to a semi-rural area in between Durant and Powder Junction. He located the Scarlett residence with ease: a sprawling custom log cabin with light-up candy canes lining the recently-salted driveway and the path to the front porch. He could just make out the glimmer of Christmas tree lights through the window as he pulled into the driveway. A woman's face peeked out at him from behind the living room curtains. Ferg climbed the stairs to the porch and knocked firmly but politely.
"Sheriff's department!" he called.
Almost immediately, the door was flung open. The woman facing him was in her mid-forties with curly brown hair, her brown eyes rimmed red. She was dressed festively in a white turtleneck, gray wrap sweater with white reindeer on it, and dark jeans. Standing close behind her was Matthew Scarlett. Also in his mid-forties, he was tall with dark blond hair and piercing gray eyes. He was wearing a crisp pair of khakis and a plaid LL Bean shirt. Scarlett motioned for Ferg to come step into the living room.
The inside of the house was as dressed up for Christmas as the outside. A live Douglas fir took up almost a whole corner, a pile of wrapped gifts already under it. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace. Three stockings hung on the mantel, each embroidered with it's owner's name: MATT SR., MATT JR., and ALEXANDRA. Through the kitchen doorway, Ferg could see the makings of a small feast on the countertops. Subtle cooking aromas wafted past his nose. While fishing his pen and notepad out of his coat, Ferg scanned what he could see of the house for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Something, maybe a plate, had shattered on the kitchen floor. Innocent household accident or something more sinister?
"All right, Mr. Scarlett," said Ferg, ready to get down to business. "My dispatcher said your son is missing. How long has he been gone?"
"About four hours," Scarlett replied. "I've been calling his phone, but it just goes to voicemail. He isn't answering my texts either. He's taken off before-"
"Never for this long," the woman, Alexandra, cut in.
"Have there been any problems at home recently?" Ferg asked.
"Things haven't been easy for either of us," Scarlett said. "Early this year, my wife..." He bit his lip, looking upset. "...She died unexpectedly from an aneurysm. Like any kid, Matty took it hard. He started acting out, fighting at school and that kind of thing. I thought...I thought a change of scenery would do him good, so I sent him to a boarding school for gifted kids out in Nevada. What I didn't expect while he was gone was that I'd fall in love again." He put his arm around Alexandra. "We met in a grief group. We plan on getting married in the spring."
"Matty got so upset when we told him," Alexandra said. "We both lost our tempers with him because he already broke a plate on purpose. There was a lot of screaming and next thing I knew, Matty was gone." She started to cry.
"I gave him time to cool off," Scarlett went on. "Like I said, he's walked off on his own a few times since Christmas break started. Never for more than an hour. All his friends are in California and we don't have family around here. I didn't know what else to do but call you when I couldn't reach him."
"We're gonna do everything we can to find your son," Ferg promised. "How old is he?"
"Thirteen," said Scarlett. He handed Ferg a photo from his wallet. "That's the most recent one I have."
"Any idea how tall he is? How much he weighs?" Ferg asked.
"About 5'1", maybe a little over 100 pounds," Scarlett guessed.
"Do either of you remember what he was wearing when you saw him last?"
Alexandra nodded. "Jeans. A white T-shirt. Gray sweater, the kind that zips halfway."
Ferg glanced at the coat rack by the door and noticed that one of the pegs was bare. "What kind of jacket?"
"I don't remember," Alexandra whimpered.
"It's okay, it's okay," Scarlett said soothingly.
Ferg took out his phone and dialed the office. "Ruby, it's me. This is definitely a missing persons case. I could use some backup to help start the search."
"Walt's in Powder Junction on a domestic dispute, Vic's responding to another domestic near the county line," Ruby reported. "Branch still on modified duty."
A few months prior, Branch had been shot and had a feather laced with peyote jammed into the wound. The drug had lingered in Branch's system, causing hallucinations and occasional violent outbursts. He was getting better by the day but was still in no condition to be out on the streets.
"Have Branch notify the fire department and the rescue squad," Ferg requested. "Tell them we need as many people as we can to come to the Scarlett place for a search party. Tell Walt and Vic to join the search when they can." He read her the description of Matt so she could give it to them.
Within twenty minutes, the driveway was packed with pickups, cars, and SUVs sporting everything from cherry-drops to full light bars. The volunteer firefighters huddled together on the lawn, turnout coats thrown over whatever they happened to be wearing; the rescue squad members had donned their florescent green vests. Each person had a county-issue radio.
Ferg stood on the porch and shouted to the crowd, "We're looking for a thirteen-year-old white male, blond hair gray eyes, 5'1". Last seen wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a gray zip-up sweater. May be wearing an unknown jacket. His name is Matty. He left home on foot roughly four-and-a-half hours ago. If you find him, contact me immediately. Stick together. It's gonna be dark soon, so make sure every group has a flashlight. Any questions?"
Hearing none, Ferg broke the rescuers into groups and assigned search quadrants. Some people would be patrolling the streets in vehicles, the rest would be on foot. The Scarlett house would serve as the command post. Ferg gave the fire chief the list of search parties and told him to take over his post. He told Scarlett and Alexandra to stay home in case Matty came back. Ferg checked the batteries of his own flashlight. He tugged his hat further over his ears; it was bitterly cold and he could only hope the kid had grabbed a thick jacket. Just in case he hadn't, Ferg retrieved a blanket that he kept in the Trans Am's trunk for emergencies. He hooked his portable radio to his belt and clipped the microphone to the front of his Carhartt.
Ferg walked around the edge of the house, eyes on the ground for anything that might help. He soon spotted a set of boot prints in the snow, small enough that he doubted they'd been made by an adult. He followed them into the nearby woods. There, the prints lead to the road; a second set was in the ditch along side the road and a third led deeper into the woods. Ferg let his tracking instincts take over. All of the prints were fresh, but the first and second sets were adult-sized, perhaps one of the search crews or a stranded motorist. Ferg chose to stay with the third set. The trees soon became thick enough that nobody would be able to see through them from the road.
"Matty!" Ferg shouted, his breath hanging in the air. "Matty!"
As Ferg hiked, he periodically called Matty's name. There was no reply; the only sound he could hear was the crunching of snow under his feet. He saw small pine branches near a set of tracks that were slightly blurred; the kid had tried to cover his trail and not done a very good job of it. The wind was threatening to sweep what remained of the prints away. Ferg grew increasingly concerned for the boy's safety. The National Weather Service was predicting more snow. The temperature had dropped to the point that his own hands and feet were starting to feel numb in spite of all the layers he was wearing.
"Ferg, how are things in your quadrant?" said the familiar gravelly voice of Sheriff Walt Longmire over the radio.
"I see what look like the kid's footprints, but he tried to obscure them," Ferg told him. "Something's not right here, Walt."
Ferg was not a man who liked to think the worst of people, but he had a sinking feeling deep within him that the argument between Scarlett Junior and Senior had gotten physical. There had to be a reason beyond Matty simply disliking his future stepmother that going into the woods by himself on a snowy evening (Christmas Eve, of all nights) was a better option than staying at home.
"Trust your gut," Walt advised. "I'm at the cabin with the family and Vic hasn't seen a thing. You're probably a lot closer to him than anyone else."
Ferg thought that was probably a good thing. If this turned out to be a simple case of a teenager being melodramatic about his father's new romantic partner, Vic would cuss the kid up one side and down the other about wasting valuable community resources. Ferg shuddered at the thought of being on the receiving end of Vic's wrath. By now, he was perhaps a mile and a half off the main road. He began to smell smoke.
"Walt, something's burning out here," he said.
"Let us know if we need to call in the volunteers," said Walt. "Be careful."
"Matty!" Ferg yelled again as he got closer to the smoke.
It appeared to be drifting from an anemic campfire. A hunched figure sat at the base of a tree. In the dim glow, Ferg could just make out the collar of a gray sweater.
"Matty?"
"Don't call me that," the kid said fiercely, his gray eyes just as intense as his father's, blond hair sticking up in the front. "It's just Matt."
"Walt," Ferg said urgently into the radio.
"Go ahead, Ferg."
"I found Matty. He's alive."
"Copy that, Ferg. Attention all units, Matty has been located. He's alive and with a deputy."
Ferg introduced himself to the teen and asked, "You aren't hurt, are you?"
Matt hesitated before answering, "No."
Ferg took half a step forward. Matt's hands were stuffed in the pockets of his black Carhartt jacket. His cheeks and ears were red from exposure and he was shivering pretty violently. Ferg offered the blanket. Matt pulled it around himself and sniffled in a vain effort to stop his nose from running. The kid looked like he'd been crying.
"Come on," Ferg said gently. "Let's get you home. Your dad's worried about you."
Matt made no move to stand up. He just rolled his eyes. "The skank too, right?" A worried look crossed the teen's face. "Am I in trouble for making you guys come out here?"
"No, you're not," Ferg assured him. "But you still have to go back home. Unless there's something that you're not telling me."
Matt shook his head. "I told you before, I'm fine. Except for freezing my ass off."
Vic would've told him that wasn't a surprise considering that he was sitting on a pile of snow. Since appealing to the teenager's love of his family hadn't worked, Ferg tried another tactic. "You know, when I was at your house, I saw you guys were making dinner. Should be ready by the time we get back." Even the heavy blanket couldn't disguise the way Matt's arms wrapped tighter around his middle. Matt stood up and kicked some snow over the fire. They started back through the woods, Ferg in the lead.
"Where'd you learn to start a fire without matches?" the deputy wanted to know.
"Boy Scouts."
Ferg grinned. "I was a Scout too. Started as a Cub and made it all the way to Eagle."
"I quit," said Matt. He sighed. "Nothing's been the same since Mom..."
"I know," said Ferg, patting his shoulder.
"No, you don't." Matt's tone was even icier than the wind whipping around them.
"Yeah, I do." Ferg argued. "I lost my mom when I was young too. I remember how much it hurt, how I felt when my dad had a new girlfriend. I hated them all because I thought he was trying to replace her. When I got older, I knew he wasn't, but that didn't change me not wanting some stranger living in our house. It was like an insult to her memory."
"That skank shouldn't even be here," said Matt. "Mom should. She loved Christmas and I don't wanna open presents and sing stupid carols with someone else."
Tears began to course down his face. Ferg hesitantly put a comforting arm around the boy. Soon, Matt was sobbing into the collar of the deputy's jacket. Ferg knew there was nothing he could say or do to make this kid's world right again. His chest tightened, remembering his first Christmas without his mom. After Matt calmed down, Ferg asked something else that had been on his mind. "Is there someplace you were trying to run to?"
Matt nodded. "Omar's. Me and my dad used to hang out there sometimes. He started teaching me to shoot last year. I was gonna sit there until I cooled off enough to go home."
"Well, buddy, I have some bad news," said Ferg. He let go and pointed west in roughly the direction of the road. "Omar's is about two more miles that way."
"Dammit," the kid muttered.
"Orienteering was hard for me at first too," Ferg admitted.
Not much else was said on the long walk back to the Scarletts' house. Walt was waiting for them in the driveway. Scarlett practically jumped off his porch and ran to embrace his son, relieved to see him.
"There's something you should know," said the sheriff, pulling his deputy aside. "While you were gone, I talked to him and the stepmother separately about the fight. Scarlett went to throw more wood on the fire and didn't see the end of it. Matt tried to sneak something or another out of the pan before it was done. She slapped him in the face. He dropped the plate and she slapped him again for breaking it."
"Sometimes I hate being right," Ferg said heavily. "So what's gonna happen?"
"Well, she's gonna spend tonight as my guest." That was Walt's code word for "inmate." "Mr. Scarlett doesn't want her back in the house."
"Good. Matt doesn't need that." Ferg's tone was harsher than he intended.
Walt clapped him on the back. "Nice work today, Ferg."
"Sheriff!" called Scarlett. "Thanks for everything."
"It's really Deputy Ferguson you oughta thank," said Walt. "He's the one who found your boy."
Scarlett came over to shake Ferg's hand. "Thank you, Deputy. I owe you one. And if neither of you have plans tonight, you're more than welcome to stay for dinner."
"I appreciate it, but I'm supposed to go to my daughter's," Walt declined politely. "Ferg, you can take the rest of the night off. Get yourself warmed up." He wished them all good night and Merry Christmas, climbed into the Bullet, and pulled away from the cabin.
Ferg wasn't expected at his father's until the next day, so he smiled and said, "I'd be glad to, Mr. Scarlett."
"Please, call me Senior," the older man requested. "Hope you're hungry."
They all stopped for a moment on the porch to stomp the snow off their shoes before entering the cabin's living room. Ferg and the elder Scarlett hung up their coats and winter hats; the teenager made a beeline to thaw out in front of the still-roaring fire. Scarlett invited Ferg to the kitchen, where the deputy was now able to identify the odors from earlier: beef and something sugary. Ferg's stomach growled in anticipation.
"You're off the clock, so how'd you feel about some hot buttered rum, Deputy?" asked Scarlett.
"Oh, you can call me Ferg, everybody else does. And yeah, that'd be great."
A mug that looked like Santa Claus was placed in front of him. He took a long sip; the liquid soothed his throat, which was raw from calling Matt's name over and over. Scarlett started placing dishes on the table: roasted potatoes, beef tenderloin, a cocktail shrimp platter, and a batch of Christmas cookies.
"There was supposed to be more," Scarlett said almost apologetically. "But, well, I guess you know why there isn't."
Ferg bit his tongue to keep from saying a word about Alexandra. Honestly, he wouldn't have cared if they only had sandwiches. The only thing that really mattered tonight was that father and son were reunited. Scarlett made a mug of hot chocolate for Matt, who came into the kitchen moments later without his coat or Ferg's blanket. Once he was seated at the table, Scarlett carved the tenderloin. As Ferg ate, he felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fireplace or the buttered rum. His gift for tracking had allowed him to make sure a family was together on one of the most important nights of the year. He could hardly wait to tell his dad about it over their Christmas dinner. This story wasn't half as exciting as the long-ago Christmas Eve that Lucien Connally flew a decommissioned WWII plane through a blizzard to get a badly burned little girl to the children's hospital. Nevertheless, helping people in big or small ways was what Christmastime (and law enforcement) were all about.
THE END