The librarian checked.
"Yes."
"I need it."
"For what?"
Margaret thought.
"To say thank you."
She reserved it.
Then she went to Franklin's Market and taped one sheet of paper near the entrance.
THANK YOU GATHERING
SATURDAY, 2:00 P.M.
EVERYONE WELCOME.
BRING A CHAIR.
By two o'clock, three hundred people were in the park.
Families brought folding chairs.
Teenagers sat on blankets.
The high school band director brought speakers and played instrumental music.
Franklin's Hardware provided two ten-gallon coolers of lemonade.
Ruthie's Diner brought trays of sandwiches.
Children ran around the playground.
Among the crowd were riders from Iron Ridge and several visiting clubs.
Some had delayed their trips home.
Others had returned specifically for the gathering.
Cole almost did not attend.
For two days after the rescue, he stayed mostly inside his apartment.
The search was over.
The urgent phone calls had stopped.
The motorcycles had dispersed.
News trucks left.
Police tape disappeared.
And when the crisis ended, the silence returned.
Cole had learned years earlier that purpose was a dangerous medicine.
While you had it, you could forget pain.
When it disappeared, everything waiting beneath it returned.
At one-thirty Saturday afternoon, someone knocked on Cole's door.
He ignored it.
Another knock.
Then Ray's voice.
"I know you're in there."
Cole remained seated.
"Go away."
"No."
"Ray."
"I've got coffee."
Silence.
"Good coffee."
"No such thing."
"Then open the door and tell me that to my face."
Cole finally opened it.
Ray held two paper cups.
"You don't get to disappear today."
Cole stared at him.
"Who made that rule?"
"Me."
"Convenient."
"Get dressed."
"I am dressed."
Ray looked at Cole's old T-shirt and sweatpants.
"Get dressed like somebody who's leaving the building."
Twenty minutes later they were riding toward the library.
The park smelled of barbecue smoke and fresh-cut grass.
Cole immediately looked for an empty bench near the edge of the crowd.
Frank stood near a lemonade cooler speaking with Sheriff Douglas Barrett.
Cole watched them shake hands.
The handshake lasted longer than necessary.
Three nights earlier they had been a sheriff and a motorcycle club president watching each other carefully.
Now something had changed.
Neither man had changed professions.
Neither had suddenly become naive.
The distance had simply become smaller.
Detective Patricia Welden found Cole several minutes later.
Without the urgent posture of the investigation, she seemed different.
Younger.
More exhausted.
More human.
"Mind if I sit?"
Cole moved slightly.
"Free country."
Welden sat.
For a minute they watched children running near the playground.
"The two suspects were formally charged," she said.
Cole nodded.
"Multiple counts. Federal involvement because of interstate activity connected to evidence we found. Case is strong."
"Good."
Welden rubbed both hands over her knees.
"I owe you an apology."
Cole looked toward her.
She continued.
"When I arrived at the gas station and saw you, I made assumptions."