“Of course,” he said. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just been such a shock that this happened here. The Hartleys are in my office, Agent Merlo, if you want to come with me?”
Javi hesitated and glanced back at the road. He would have preferred to let Cloister take point with talking to the Hartleys, use that sincerity of his to undercut the family’s resentment. There was no sign of him, though.
Apparently he was telling the truth when he said he had a problem with authority. Javi would have to deal with that. He swallowed to work the dry mix of frustration and lust out of his mouth and nodded to Reed.
“Of course.”
Chapter Sixteen
FOR ONCEit wasn’t Bourneville who found the missing boy. Cloister would give her the credit, though.
He hunched down, tilted his head to the side, and looked under the cabin. The thick stilts driven into the rocky hill to hold up the porch created a shaded slice of pseudobasement. The rocks had slid down the hill, leaving a bed of fine dirt. It smelled of beer and teenage sweat. It was just the sort of place two boys would turn into a den away from their parents, and the last place a parent convinced a predator had snatched their son—or convinced their sonwasa predator—would look for a missing child.
Billy Hartley was hunched as far back into the space as he could get, sneakered feet wedged against one of the struts.
“I’m not leaving,” he said when he saw Cloister. His voice cracked with defiance. “You can’t make me.Theycan’t make me.”
He was wrong about that. Cloister supposed he should try diplomacy first, even though the strategic application of force would be easier.
“We know you didn’t hurt your brother,” he said. “If you come out….”
Billy curled his lip in a sneer. “I alreadyknewthat,” he said. “They’re the ones you should be telling.”
“Your parents?”
The sneer stayed. Billy hunched down farther, shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, and folded them across his chest.
“They want to send me to some sort of special therapist,” he said. “They think I did something to Drew and that I have to go and getfixedbefore I start burying little kids in the backyard. Butthey’rethe ones that want to leave. Just leave him behind and go back home.”
Billy’s voice wobbled and cracked with a sour mix of adrenaline and fear. He didn’t look much like Cloister had at that age—not even if someone stretched Billy out a few inches and packed on a few pounds of resentment muscle—but the hurt and antipathy had a sharp and unwelcome familiarity.
The sun was beating down on the back of Cloister’s neck, stinging the prickle rash from where he’d clipped his hair short, and the backs of his thighs ached.
“What good will staying here do?” he asked.
Billy looked up, his dark eyes red rimmed and puffy. He swiped his sleeve over his face and gave Cloister a glare that challenged him to notice the tears.
“You said you’d bring him home,” he said.
“I said I’d try,” Cloister said. “I haven’t given up. You?”
“I’m not the one trying to leave.”
“Come on out, kid,” Cloister tried. “Your parents are worried sick.”
It would have worked on a little kid. They looked at Cloister and saw someone trustworthy. Cloister didn’t know what Billy saw, but apparently it merited another sneer and a snarled “Fuck off.” So much for kids and teenagers being basically the same thing.
Cloister pushed himself up, brushed the sand off his hands, and looked up. On the cabin’s narrow porch, Bourneville looked down with pricked ears and head-tilted interest. Her tail swished over the wood and stirred up a small cloud of dust. Her ears tilted forward, and their tufted tips trembled.
He snapped his fingers—the crack of callus on callus was loud in the still air—and pointed under the cabin. “Bourneville, bring.”
She scrambled over the edge of the wood, squeezed her lean frame between the slats, and leaped down. Long black fur floated as the wind caught it, and for a second, she looked elegant. Then she hit the ground hard, her clawed toes dug ruts into the dirt, and she went scrambling into the dark, restricted space.
Billy started to swear before the dog even reached him. He kicked up divots of dirt as he worked his way farther back into the space. That only worked as long as there was space to go back into, though. His back hit the wall, and Bourneville latched on to the leg of his jeans. She dragged him back out, and the reinforced denim cuff held as it caught between her teeth. Billy spat out curses and grabbed at the struts. His knuckles showed white as he tried to hang on, but that was just another game of tug-of-war for Bourneville. Her head went down, and the heavy muscles in her shoulders bunched under the thick ruff of fur.
It was a short war. Billy’s fingers slipped, a yelp escaped him as he probably picked up a few splinters, and she triumphantly hauled him out at Cloister’s feet. Sobbing in frustration and probably grief, Billy pulled his leg back and aimed his sneaker at Bourneville’s head.
“Don’t kick my dog,” Cloister warned him and caught his foot. The rubber sole smacked against the palm of his hand. A terse whistle between his teeth called Bourneville off, and she let Billy’s leg drop as she backed up to behind Cloister. “She won’t like it. Neither will I.”
