The Keepers of the Library by Glenn Cooper

mission—whatever that mission was.
    “This is not the picture of a child who’s been kidnapped or coerced,” Annie said. “He’s purposeful. No meandering or sightseeing. He uses his NetPen to buy notes after he clears customs, leaves Heathrow on the Piccadilly Line and goes directly to King’s Cross station, presumably purchases a ticket with cash, and disappears.”
    “You don’t know what train he caught?”
    “Afraid not. We couldn’t pick him up on CCTV.”
    “Where can someone go from King’s Cross?”
    “Points north. The Midlands, Cumbria, Yorkshire, Scotland.”
    “You couldn’t track him on his mobile?”
    “Seems he’s turned it off.”
    “Son of a …”
    “I expect he knows his parents have the wherewithal to locate him more easily than most parents.”
    “He’s a smart kid.”
    “Will Piper’s son. That’s what you’d expect, right? We had a case study on you in our training program, you know.”
    The remark made him feel like a fossil. “I’m flattered,” he lied, “but Phillip takes after his mother. She’s the one with the brains. So that’s it? He’s missing somewhere in the north?”
    “Not exactly. What do you know about this Hawkbit girl?”
    “Nothing. From their conversation, it looks like it was a fresh interaction.”
    “I agree. It’s also a new moniker. I haven’t completely exhausted the databases, but I haven’t found a single other SocMedia or NetMail instance of a Hawkbit.”
    “Apparently it’s a wildflower.”
    “So I understand. Not really into botany.”
    Will leaned into her desk. “So what do you have?”
    “The message to your son on Socco was sent from a NetPoint in a public library. Don’t look so shocked: we still have a few left! It’s in a small town, Kirkby Stephen, in Cumbria, the westernmost part of the Yorkshire Dales. It’s a point served by a rail line that originates at King’s Cross, so it all fits well enough.”
    Will snapped himself to a standing position. “So let’s go to Kirkby Stephen.”
    “I’ve already booked us train tickets,” she said. “We’ve got enough time to stop at the commissary for a bit of breakfast and a coffee.”
    “Trains? We’re not flying?” he asked.
    “You surely haven’t seen our budget. Don’t worry, we’ll get there in excellent time.”
    T he northbound train sliced through the middle of Britain: Peterborough, Doncaster, Leeds, Bradford. With the population of the country swelling to nearly 70 million, the concentric sprawls around each metropolitan area meant fewer expanses of green farmland and countryside than Will had remembered from his last English train ride years earlier. He sat by the window welcoming the periodic splashes of sun that worked through cloud breaks and made themorning seem less dismal. But north of Peterborough, the clouds formed a dense blanket; then there was no respite to the gloom.
    Annie sat opposite him nursing an orange soda, glued to her unfurled NetScreen, a pair of wireless earbuds firmly planted. He couldn’t tell whether she was doing work, chatting with friends, or playing a damn game. And he didn’t much care. This was a babysitting assignment for her—he understood that. If he got one or two useful things out of her a day, that would be good enough. Phillip was his son, and if you wanted to call this a case—it was his.
    He got up a couple of times, ambled down the aisle to the lavatory to splash his face. The bar car was open. He was sorely tempted.
    It was midafternoon, cool and misty when they pulled into Kirkby Stephen. There were few people on the platform and they had no competition at the taxi rank. The driver got out and unplugged the car from its power point. He climbed back in and dully asked with the look of a man who’d been napping, “Where to?”
    “Do you want to check in first?” Annie asked.
    “No,” Will answered abruptly. “The public library.”
    “No libraries down south, marra?” the driver asked.
    T he