Page 117

We came around the bend and found both sheriff’s vehicles blocking the road.

The black truck waited twenty yards ahead of them.

Its driver’s door was open.

No one was inside.

“Stay behind me,” Mace said.

“Don’t start that again.”

“You can be angry or alive.”

“I can be both.”

“That seems likely.”

He stepped out with his weapon drawn.

I followed him.

Sheriff Tate and his deputies approached the black truck from opposite sides. One deputy covered the trees while the other moved toward the open passenger window.

The truck’s engine was still running.

The right taillight was broken.

Mud covered the license plate.

“Clear,” Sheriff Tate called.

Mace moved toward the tree line.

I stopped near the driver’s door and pulled on gloves.

The seat was empty.

A half-full bottle of water rested in the cupholder. A dark baseball cap lay on the passenger floor. The cab smelled like cigarette smoke and wet dirt.

“Don’t touch anything,” I said.

Sheriff Tate looked at me.

“I know how evidence works.”

“You’re related to Trigger.”

“That isn’t contagious. Besides, he’s my son-in-law. We are not blood-related.

Mace returned from the trees.

“Boot prints lead toward the river.”

“Same tread as the print on the roof?” I asked.

“Can’t tell without Will.”

“Call him.”