bespoke a relationship with the woman named Lynch, wishful thinking, or simple connoisseurship. To Karen’s eye, both mother and daughter were beautiful.
“Hey, Peg,” Reese said shyly, looking at the woman, then quickly away, and Karen realized it was wishful thinking. This woman had far too much natural dignity for a local cop to contend with.
“Astrid saw him,” Peg said, indicating the little girl peeking around from behind her. She spoke directly to Karen, cutting Reese out of the communication loop immediately. “She was playing in the backyard, yesterday. She told me right away, but I’m afraid I didn’t give too much importance to it until I heard about the roadblock. Show them, honey.”
The little girl had been standing behind her mother’s skirt, but stepped forward now as if realizing it was her turn onstage. She possessed her mother’s coloring, the same bright eyes that twinkled with intelligence and barely restrained amusement. She led them directly to the back of the house and pointed toward the ditch that ran next to the railroad tracks.
“He came out of there.” the girl said. “He climbed out, then a hand cotched his leg and pulled him back in.”
Karen shuddered at the image of the hand emerging from the ditch and grabbing… She told herself it was not Jack. A boy playing with friends. Not her son. Someone else being caught and pulled into the ditch. Not Jack.
“Did you know the boy?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see him before?” Karen asked. The little girl shook her head.
“What did he look like? Can you describe him?” She thought she would have to drag a description out of the girl, helping her every step of the way. Children were notoriously bad witnesses. But Astrid had either been rehearsed or she had a good eye for boys.
“He had brown hair and cut-off jeans and a T-shirt,” she said. “He was maybe a year older than me… He was cute.”
“The shirt… ” Peg started, then deferred to her daughter.
“And he was scared,” Astrid continued. “He wasn’t crying, but he was scared.”
“Did you see who grabbed him?” Reese asked.
Astrid answered by speaking to Karen. She, too, seemed to know who was important.
“Just a hand,” she said. “I just saw a hand.”
“You can’t see into the ditch from her angle,” Peg said. She knelt to her daughter’s height to demonstrate.
“Did you see anything on the T-shirt?” Karen asked.
“I’ll show you,” Peg said and turned to the swing set. “It was right here,” she said, puzzled, then she muttered something and called “Erik!”
A second collie came around the corner of the house, a white cloth in his mouth.
“Come here,” Peg said briskly.
“He’s so dumb,” the girl said.
After a brief tussle, the woman got the cloth from the dog’s mouth. She stretched it out and displayed it to Karen. It was a plain white T-shirt, wet from saliva and torn from the dog’s teeth.
Karen looked inside the collar and felt her knees buckle. She clung to Reese for support.
The name written on the collar in laundry pencil was Jack’s.
Karen’s voice crackled over the radio as Becker began the long climb up Winkler Road, passing the string of stalled cars in the right lane.
“Anything yet?” she asked.
Becker took the radio microphone from Blocker’s hand. “I’ll be there in about two minutes. Where are you?”
“I’m with Officer Reese,” she said. Becker wondered if she were driving the other police car, too. If so, Reese was in for a more frightening ride than the one he was giving Blocker. “We found Jack’s T-shirt.” Her voice was strained, as if every word cost her an effort. “We’ve been studying the map. If Lamont was in Becket yesterday and on Winkler Road today, there’s only one area he was likely to be coming from. We think he had to be staying some place along Route 37 unless he was out yesterday just driving around, which isn’t likely. If whoever was driving the car on Winkler that he got out of turned around, chances are he’s heading back to where he came from. It’s probably the only safe spot he knows. We’re going to check out the motels on 37. Reese tells me there are only three.”
“How are you?” Becker asked.
Karen clicked off without answering, but Becker thought he heard the bark of a sardonic laugh before the radio went dead. As they pulled to a stop at the roadblock, Blocker said, “There are four,” but Becker was already out of the car and moving.
“Ronning?”
The man from the Subaru station wagon extended a hand uncertainly. “Odd Ronning,” he said.
Becker took the hand, using it to shake and simultaneously to pull the older man toward the police cruiser.
“Becker, FBI. Can you show me where the man went into the woods?”
“Of course,” Ronning said, already being eased into the backseat. He exchanged nods with Blocker.
There was no place to turn the car around without time-consuming maneuvers, so Becker put the car in reverse and went back down the mountain backwards.
“She was very charming,” Ronning said.
“She?”
“But manipulative, you know? I had the feeling she didn’t want me to see the man get out of the car.”
“There was a woman driver?”
“Of course. Very attractive. Blonde, you know. Lovely smile.”
“Christ,” said Becker.
Blocker watched with growing anxiety as Becker wheeled the car backwards down the hill, his head out the window, the engine screaming in protest at speeds for which reverse gear was never intended. Neither Becker nor Ronning seemed aware that anything unusual was taking place.
“The man?” Becker asked.
“I didn’t get much of a look. Nothing more than a glimpse, really. But he was very big. I’m sure of that.”
“And you said he was carrying something?”
“He carried something against his chest and there was a blanket. I saw the end of it flapping halfway down his leg”
A good man, Becker thought. He wished he could exchange him for Blocker.
“Right here,” said Ronning, and Becker squealed to a halt. “The man ran in right about there,” Ronning pointed.
“Could you tell which way he was headed?”
“Oh, up. Definitely up the mountain.”
“And the woman left the line in her car and went back down the hill?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Becker stood on the road and looked up the mountain. Visibility into the tree line was only a few feet and, from his angle, the top of the mountain could not be seen. Becker took Blocker by the arm.
An angry motorist leaned out of his car and yelled, “What the hell is going on?” Becker ignored him.
“Get on the radio and ask for help, get at least three more men, then start up the mountain.”
“What am I looking for?” Blocker demanded.
“What the hell are you guys doing?” the motorist called.
“Hey, shut up,” Blocker said, then, to Becker, “How do we know this guy didn’t just go into the woods to take a leak, waiting all this time in line…”
“He took a blanket with him, maybe he went in for a picnic,” Becker said. “Or maybe to take a nap. In that case it won’t take long to find him, will it? Listen, Blocker, if this is Lamont, he’s killed nearly a dozen people by
