CHAPTER 39
GAIL BAILEY FOLLOWS BREE down the trail and comes back holding Damon’s bicycle in her gloved hands. She places it carefully on a sheet of plastic in the trunk of her Interceptor as Alex and the others stand by.
“It looks clean to me,” says Bailey. “I don’t see any blood. But we’ll have the lab take a look and I’ll let you know what they find.”
“We owe you, Gail,” says Alex.
She lowers the trunk gently until it latches, then nods toward to the waiting crowd of searchers. “Go find your boy.”
As she drives off, Alex calls to the crowd of students and cadets, “If I can have your attention please!” Everybody turns in his direction. “Bree and I can’t thank you enough for coming out here today.”
“Damon thanks you too,” adds Melissa. She holds up a flyer and points to his picture. “For those who don’t know, this is what he looks like. And I love him very much.”
Alex’s throat tightens. He coughs to clear it. “Okay, let’s get started.” He surveys the crowd. “Does anyone here have experience reading topographical maps or orienteering?”
Four hands go up—two cadets, two civilians.
“Great. Step forward. You four are team leaders.”
He brings the four over to the Camry and unfolds his topo map. They all lean over and study the trails and natural formations.
“Sorry I don’t have maps for everybody,” says Alex. “You’ll have to orient yourselves with your phone compasses and landmarks. Chief Stone and I have already checked both of the main trails. I’d like you guys to concentrate on the woods.”
“No problem, sir,” says one of the cadets, running his finger over the map. “I’ll take grid one.” He looks over and points to the other three team leaders, left to right. “You guys take grids two, three, and four in that order. Everybody clear?”
The others nod.
Bree addresses the rest of the volunteers. She points to the open hatch of Melissa’s car. “There’s plenty of water and snacks over here. Stock up, stay hydrated, and, above all, be careful. Look out for snares, gullies, exposed tree roots, snakes, and anything else that can hurt you. We don’t want to have any injuries while we’re out here.”
The searchers crowd around the Kia, stuffing supplies into their pockets and backpacks. After some milling around, four separate groups of searchers stand at the edge of the parking area, ready to go. Alex gives them his cell phone number and waits for the searchers to enter it into their contacts. Then he offers some final advice.
“The best way to proceed is to line up not much more than an arm’s length from the person to your left and to your right. Moveslowly, stay in a straight line as best you can. If you see anything out of the ordinary—drops of blood, a torn piece of clothing, broken branches—don’t touch it! Just stay put, take pictures, and call me.”
The searchers shuffle into rows and get into position.
Alex checks his watch. “It’s two o’clock. Head out and search until four p.m., then turn around and come back.” The four groups are at the edge of the parking area now.
He can tell they’re eager to get going. But he’s not done.
“Listen! This is important! The way you return is not the way you went out. I need the farthest searcher on the left and the right to stand still and turn around in place. Then half of the searchers will rotate on him or her, keeping the same distance. Then you’ll have two wings of searchers on the way back, covering new ground. Any questions?”
Silence.
“Be safe, be careful,” says Alex. “And don’t ignore anything you find, no matter how small it may seem.”
“Godspeed, all of you!” adds Bree.
Godspeed to us all,Alex thinks.Where are you, Damon?
CHAPTER 40
Sampson
THE U.S. AIR FORCE generously flew us down to Georgia, but Rizzo and I are on our own getting back, so we’re flying commercial out of Atlanta. Chief Grace said she’d look through her department’s files on the bombing, but she’s pretty sure they turned everything over to the GBI.
I’m sitting next to Rizzo in our rented Corolla, seat belt tight, as she speeds along I-85 toward the Atlanta airport. We flipped a coin for who got to drive, and she won the toss. Occasionally my right foot thumps down on an imaginary brake pedal. Can’t help myself.
Rizzo glances over the third time I do it. “You don’t like my driving?”
