Cloister tilted his head to catch her gaze and hold it. “He’s a little boy,” he said. “Good or bad, a little boy needs to be found.”
Her face crumpled for a second, and tears welled to tremble on her thick lashes. Then she lifted her chin, visibly pulled herself together, and pressed her lips into an uncompromising line.
“You’ll, umm, need something that belongs to Drew? A toy or some of his clothes?”
Cloister nodded. “Something he’s worn recently, unwashed,” he said.
She nodded and stood up. Her husband reached for her hand, but her fingers slid out of his as she walked away. Once she’d left the room, he turned to Cloister.
“We were late,” he said. “There was an accident at the workshop. Someone cut themselves quite badly, and we’re doctors. It didn’t seem urgent to get back. This place is like home, really. We know everyone.”
What he wanted to hear was “It’s not your fault.” Even the families where itwastheir fault still wanted to hear that.
“It’s not your fault, Ken,” Merlo said. “I’m sure Drew’s fine.”
Cloister noticed he said “Ken” like an acquaintance, not a cop. It was just a name, not a power play.
“The last time you saw Drew, it was here?” he checked.
Ken nodded and then hesitated. He turned to look at his son. “Bill? You stayed here, right? Like we told you?”
Billy hunched his shoulders, bony with a growth spurt under hisStar TrekT-shirt. “’Course.”
So that was up in the air. If the boys had left the cabin, no way Bill would admit it in answer to that loaded question.
Lara came back in, absently folding a crumpled Captain America T-shirt into a neat square. She hesitated but then handed it over. “It’s his favorite.”
“I’ll bring it back,” Cloister promised.
Merlo followed him outside and caught him before he could get started. He caught his hand in the sweaty bend of Cloister’s elbow. The touch prickled down his arm like electricity and made the fine hair on his arms stand on end and his muscles tighten. He cursed himself for being easily led. Right then he didn’t need the distraction.
“Something happened here,” Merlo said. His eyes squinted against the thrown-up dust as he frowned at Cloister. “I know the family. Lara Hartley’s father was an FBI agent and a friend of mine. They’re happy. They’re careful. There’s no risk factors. I want to find this boy.”
“I always want to find them,” Cloister told him. “It’s my job to bring them home, not care how they got lost.”
He pulled his arm free, dropped into a crouch, and offered the handful of T-shirt to Bourneville. She sniffed and snorted and burrowed her nose into the folds to get to the sweat-soaked seams. Once she was sure she had the scent, she looked up at Cloister expectantly.
“Such.”He snapped out the track command.
She dropped her nose to the dirt as she cast around. She sneezed when the dry earth went up her nose, and then she made a beeline down into a gully. In better, wetter weather, it might have been a stream. In the middle of a drought, it was just damp. Bourneville pulled against the lead as she headed east, away from the Retreat, and Cloister broke into a jog.
The lackluster moonlight was enough for the dog to see, but as the lit-up glow of the Retreat faded behind them, Cloister unclipped the flashlight from his vest. He flicked it on with his thumb and played the beam of light over the ground in front of Bourneville.
A startled lizard mad-legged out of the unexpected light and scuttled over the rocks. Its loose-limbed run made it look as though the wind were going to pick it up and send it tumbling.
The gully petered out as its high sides collapsed into rattling scrub and thorns. Worked into the sand and roots, a suggestion of a foot-worn path wound between the mesquite. Bourneville followed it faithfully for yards and then suddenly veered off to the side. She trotted forward, stopped, and tried again. Eventually she found what she was sniffing for. She stopped, growled quietly, and pawed at the dirt.
Cloister whistled her off. She backed up reluctantly, paw over paw, so he could get in and see what it was. Caught in the roots of the tree, a crumpled bottle lay in a sticky, muddle puddle. He put the flashlight in his mouth, his teeth digging into their usual spots in the rubber coating, and poked the bottle curiously. There was a dribble of liquid left inside, and it looked gritty.
Could just be more sand.
Unwilling to leave the bottle to the elements, he snapped a picture and quickly bagged it up. He stuffed it into his vest pocket as he stood up, but the crinkle of it against his ribs as he breathed was distracting.
Bourneville waited until he stood up and then pulled again. There was no path this time, just roots and stones and the wire-strung boundary of the Retreat’s property line. Between two trees there was a body-sized depression in the dirt that probably marked the escape route of a few dozen kids over the years. Bourneville made it under easily, but whatever teen had made the gap was a lot narrower through the chest than Cloister was. It caught at his hair and shirt as he squirmed through, and it hooked into the straps of his vest.
On the other side, there was an old dirt road. The ruts were worn ankle deep and rock hard. It didn’t look like they’d been disturbed for a while. Probably one of the old farm access roads, he guessed, although he couldn’t swear to what one. After five years he knew Plenty pretty well, but not as well as someone who grew up there.
Bourneville scratched the dirt again and whined anxiously for Cloister to see what she’d found.
