“Alice Cranbrook, volunteer warden. There are fifty bird boxes out there scattered across several thousand acres of forest. They’re part of a program to encourage blue-headed vireos, which have been seen nesting in the area. It’s uncommon in eastern Massachusetts and is a rare nesting species in Essex County.”
“And the boxes are numbered?” Gunnar asked.
“Yes and I have a map showing their locations on my cell.”
“We need the locations for the ones numbered between thirty and thirty-nine.”
After a few minutes, Gunnar had marked the positions of the boxes on a map. “We can rule out thirty and thirty-seven because they’re close to wide tracks. Thirty-four is near water. That still leaves seven locations.”
“How about you and I take the most remote?” Bryn said. “Then you guys can radio the others out to the search teams.”
“Deal.” Kaminski got to work and Gunnar pored over the map.
“The bike will get us within about a half mile. Then we’ll have to walk. Hey, Kaminski, is there any cell coverage out there?”
“No, you’ll need to take a radio.” Kaminski tossed one over. “Channel three. I have a guy on this end.”
“Okay, let us know if anyone else gets lucky first.”
Bryn scrambled back into his leathers. “You think we’ll find him?”
“I think we’re lucky you’re here. We have a good chance thanks to you.” Gunnar fired up the bike and Bryn clambered on behind him. “Hold tight.”
Gunnar rode fast. The lack of roads into the forest meant that they had to take a circuitous route to get as close as possible to their search spot. Bryn held on and hoped they didn’t crash. They arrived without incident but Bryn was a little shaky when he climbed off the powerful machine.
“You okay?” Gunnar asked.
“Sure,” Bryn lied. He stashed his leathers in the pannier, replacing the suit with a rain jacket. There was a chill in the air and a misty drizzle swirled through the towering conifers.
“You rode well. You moved with me.” Gunnar sniffed the air. “Heavy rain’s coming. Let’s go.”
Gunnar took the lead into the trees, moving at a steady jog. Bryn followed, keeping pace. There was a semblance of a track but it was narrow and they had to go one behind the other. Undergrowth clawed at Bryn’s pants and the ground was squelching underfoot. Every now and again, Gunnar would pause to examine a broken twig or scrape in the ground. “Two peopledefinitely came this way. Most traces are gone so it was a few days ago.”
“That’s good.”
They kept going. Bryn was fit but he had nothing like Gunnar’s stamina. He hoped he wasn’t slowing him down, though Gunnar gave no indication of impatience. After fifteen minutes of steady running, they found the bird box. Bryn bent over, hands on knees, taking deep breaths while Gunnar explored the area. There was no obvious path from that point onward but in one direction the trees were more spaced. In the other it would be much harder going.
“What do you think?” Gunnar asked.
“You’re asking me?”
“What does your gut say?”
Bryn thought for a minute. “They have to have built a shelter of some kind, or knew about one that was already built. A birdwatching hide maybe, or a tramp’s hideout. I’d say that would be well hidden, so…”
“Yeah, I agree. Wait here while I look for a path.” Gunnar pushed through hip-high undergrowth then disappeared from view. Bryn heard him cursing as he searched. “Here!” Bryn followed his voice and found him in a small clearing. “There’s another path over there. I think someone deliberately disguised it. There’s so much loose foliage that it’s hard to tell.” Gunnar moved toward the trail, sniffing. “I can smell something that isn’t forest.” He loped off and Bryn followed as best he could. Gunnar was soon out of view but the path was clear enough. The sounds of shouting reached Bryn and he increased his speed. Through the trees a tent came into view, a camouflage net thrown over it. Gunnar was struggling with another man.
“Get the kid, Bryn!”
Bryn ran across to the tent then dropped to his knees to crawl inside. Behind discarded food wrappers and other waste, a small boy stared at him, eyes wide. He was filthy, and tear streaks channeled the dirt on his cheeks. A muddy sleeping bag covered his legs.
“Hey, kid,” Bryn kept his voice low and calm. “I’m Bryn and you’re Edwin, aren’t you?”
The child nodded. “I’m cold, mister.”
“I’ll bet you are.” Bryn stripped off his jacket and sweater. “Come here and we’ll get you warm.” Edwin scrambled over and Bryn soon had him wrapped up.
“I want my papa.” Edwin wrapped thin arms around Bryn’s chest. He stank of sweat, fear and worse.
