Murder on the Horizon (4 page)

“I most certainly will.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“Mind the begonias on your way out.”

Gracie stepped off the porch and fast-walked back up the flagstone walkway to the street.

Ten minutes later, Gracie was halfway up Blue Jay when Ralph's voice came over the radio microphone at her shoulder. “Ground Three. Command Post.”

Here it comes.
Without stopping, she thumbed the microphone button. “Ground Three. Go ahead.”

“Ground Three. Return to base.”

“Command Post,” Gracie said into the radio. “Go to TAC.” She tugged the HT out of its pouch on her pack and turned the little knob at the top to the TAC talk group in order to communicate with Ralph without the whole world listening in. She thumbed the radio mic. “Ground Three on TAC.”

“I want you out of the field.”

“Why?”

“You know damn . . . Standby one.” Gracie knew that Ralph was counting to ten in order to not curse over the air, even if they were on a private channel. “Ground Three,” Ralph said again, voice calmer, more even. “No one out in the field alone.”

Gracie could just hear him say,
As you very well know.
She took in a deep breath to steady her voice and thumbed the mic. “It's door-to-door in a residential neighborhood. Nothing is going to happen.”

“I want you out of the field.”

“I'm already halfway through the assignment,” she lied. “We need to find this boy.”

Radio silence. From blocks away, Gracie could feel the
heat of Ralph's blood pressure inching upward toward nuclear meltdown.

Finally, Ralph's voice again. “Finish the assignment. Then back to base.” Gracie couldn't imagine how his voice could get any colder. “Back to Primary.”

“Copy,” Gracie said. She dialed the radio back to the MAC10 channel, vision blurry with sudden tears. “I hate this, Ralphie,” she whispered, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt.

For the next forty-five minutes, Gracie covered the remainder of her search area, walking up and down both sides of each street, checking in to the Command Post by radio at the half hour.

Several houses in her segment looked barely visited, much less lived in, vacation homes belonging to people who lived down the hill or out of state. Most were occupied though, the owners friendly, concerned, eager and willing to help in any way they could. Only one man refused to open the door, yelling at her from behind drawn shades to get her goddamned ass off his goddamned property.

At the edge of the man's yard, Gracie squinted down at the map, then up the street to where the Ranger was parked at the corner. Only four more houses and she would be finished with her assignment. And there had been no report from the other teams about the missing boy. The idea that, this time, Baxter Edwards wasn't missing by choice morphed into dread.

Gracie walked up to the next house, an Arts and Crafts bungalow peeking out from beyond a stand of tall pines, and up the front sidewalk, thick with pine needles, stepping over flat, yellowed newspapers with faded rubber bands.

Clearly it had been some time since the owners or anyone else had been there.

To be certain, Gracie walked up the steps, across the porch, and rapped on the screen door. “Sheriff's Department, Search and Rescue.” No response. She knocked again.
Nothing. Pulled the screen door open and tried the front doorknob. Locked.

Cupping her hands around her face, she peered through the front windows. The blinds were drawn.

She walked to the end of the porch and peered around the corner, up the weed-choked gravel drive, which was blocked by a six-foot-high, gated wooden fence.

She squinted against the afternoon sun. Couldn't be certain. She walked back down the steps, around the porch, and back alongside the house.

The gate was closed, the latch open, the padlock unlocked.

Would owners meticulous enough about securing the house in other ways have left their padlock open? Probably not.

Sergeant Gardner had made the blanket decision that, unless specific permission was granted, searchers were never to enter property, unlocked buildings or vehicles if the owners weren't home. If she didn't have permission and entered the yard, she could be charged with trespassing.

Gracie trotted down to the end of the block, rounded the corner, and stood looking along the backs of the row of houses. From where she stood, she could see that, on the bungalow's property, a section of the high wooden fence had been replaced by a shorter chain-link, revealing the back of a carport and what looked like a motorboat on a trailer.

Gracie dithered only a moment before trotting back around the corner, up the block, and up the driveway of the bungalow. She pulled the gate open and slipped through into the backyard.

Just inside the fence, she stopped and looked around.

Most of the yard was enclosed by the wooden fence with a shorter, chain-link section along the back. On the left stood a storage shed. Next to it stood a gas grill covered with a green tarp. The driveway ended at a wide carport along the back, sheltering two trailers, one holding two snowmobiles, one a small motorboat.

The wind purred through the branches of the tall pines in the yard. A squirrel chattered a harangue from a branch directly overhead. Otherwise, all was still, quiet, undisturbed.

Gracie walked over to the shed and tugged on the padlock. Locked. She walked back to the carport, past the trailer with the snowmobiles, and clambered up onto the boat trailer. Shading the glass with her hands, she peered in through one of the side windows.

A pale face looked back at her.

6

W
ITH
a yell, Gracie sailed off the trailer, landed hard with both feet, and wrenched her still-healing ankle. “Sonofa . . .” she hissed, staggering to regain her balance. Then she stood on her good foot, hands on her hips, and glared back at the boat.

The face staring back at her through the window had been a boy's, wide-eyed, afraid. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that it was the face of one Baxter Edwards, age eleven.
Thank God he's okay after all,
she thought
. Little bugger.

In her best authoritative voice, Gracie commanded, “Sheriff's Department. Come on out of the boat.”

Silence.

“Come on out of there. We both know I saw you.”

A high, shaky voice carried out from the depths of the boat. “Don't shoot!”

Gracie almost smiled. In a milder voice, she said, “I'm not going to shoot you, Baxter. I don't even have a gun. I'm here to help you. Come on out of there.”

Sounds of bumping and shuffling from inside the boat, then a black backpack with various accoutrements, including
a metal pan, clipped to the outside, was heaved up and over the gunwale and landed with a clanking thud on the ground.

A very blond head poked into view, followed by a body, skinny to the point of scrawny.

The boy climbed out of the boat, jumped down from the trailer, and lay down, spread-eagled, in the dirt in front of Gracie.

“You can get up,” she said. “You're not under arrest.”

Baxter pushed himself to his feet and stood with his hands in the air.

The top of the boy's head barely reached Gracie's shoulder. He wore black, heavy-rimmed glasses and had white-blond hair with a giant cowlick sticking up in the back. His cheekbones and the bridge of his nose were spattered with freckles as if someone had flicked an almost-dry brush of burnt sienna paint across his face. He wore woodland camouflage pants and jacket, several sizes too big for him, and black lace-up boots.

His entire body trembled and the brown eyes that stared back at Gracie were wide with fear.

“Put your hands down,” Gracie said.

The hands dropped.

“Baxter Edwards, I presume?”

The boy nodded.

“There are a lot of people out looking for you.”

“I know,” he squeaked.

“Your grandma, especially, is really worried.”

He looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet. “I know.”

“I was really worried.”

He looked up at Gracie, as if really seeing her for the first time. “Why were you worried?” he asked, genuine curiosity pushing away the fear. “You don't even know me.”

“I don't have to know you to be concerned about you, to want you to be okay.”

He studied her uniform. “You really don't have a gun?”

Gracie held out her arms and turned in a complete circle. “I really don't have a gun. I don't even like guns. I'm Search and Rescue. We're affiliated with the Sheriff's Department, but we're not law enforcement.”

Relief flooded the boy's face, his shoulders drooped, and he blew out an exaggerated “Whew.”

“Come on, Mr. Baxter. What say we get ourselves out of these people's backyard.”

The boy turned to pick up his backpack by a strap.

“That looks pretty heavy,” Gracie said. “Let me help you with that.” She grabbed the other strap and lifted. “Wow! This must weigh what? Twenty-five . . . thirty pounds? What do you have in there? Rocks?”

“Books,” was the matter-of-fact answer.

“My name's Gracie, by the way,” she said as they walked across the yard to the gate. “Do you need a drink of water?”

“Nah. I have some. Water's the number three essential ingredient for survival.”

Gracie smiled as she pushed the gate open and held it open for the boy. “What are numbers one and two?”

He smiled back. “Air to breathe. Then shelter to stay warm and dry.”

“That's exactly right,” Gracie said, truly impressed. “You're pretty smart. Where'd you learn that?” She closed the gate.

A frown replaced the smile as quickly and completely as if window shutters had been slammed shut. He looked down at the ground and mumbled, “My grandpop. And my dad.”

Ah, the dad, Gracie remembered. Sore subject. “How did you find this padlock? I want to leave it as it was.”

“It looked like it was locked until I pulled on it.” The window shutters were still closed and firmly in place.

Gracie fake-locked the padlock and, trying not to limp too much, walked out into the front yard with Baxter beside her. “I need to radio in to the Command Post,” she said. “Let them know you've been located. You okay with that?”

Baxter shrugged a shoulder. “I guess.”

Gracie noted the address on the front of the house and pressed the button on her radio mic. “Command Post, Ground Three.”

Ralph answered immediately. “Go ahead, Ground Three.”

“MisPer has been located. 218 Piñon Avenue.”

“Repeating. The MisPer has been located.”

“Affirmative. He's in great shape. Really knows his stuff.”

When Baxter looked up at Gracie, she winked back at him and was pleased to again see sunshine peeking through a crack in the shutters in the form of a lifting of the frown.

“Copy,” Ralph said, then, “All teams, return to base. All teams return to base. Subject has been located. Repeat. Subject has been located. Call in to confirm.”

Gracie waited while the other teams called in, then keyed the microphone button and said, “Command Post, we're only two blocks from the grandmother's house. If you'd like, I can drive him there for debrief.”

“Standby one.”

“Let's sit down while we wait,” Gracie said. They set Baxter's backpack on the ground in front of them and sat down side by side on the porch steps. Gracie ripped open the Velcro of her radio pack and pulled out an almost-empty pack of grape bubble gum. “Two left. Want one?” She held a piece out to the boy, stuffing the wrapper in a side pocket.

Baxter stared at the gum intently. Then he reached out and took it, unwrapping the little purple square as if it were a bomb.

In slow motion he put it in his mouth and began chewing. Then he looked up at Gracie and smiled.

He's never had gum before
, she realized with amazement as she put her own piece into her mouth. “So what books do you have in your pack?” she asked.

“
The Sorcerer's Stone
.”

“That's a great book.”

“Yeah. I know.” The brown eyes sparkled with excitement. “I have
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
, too.”

“Wow. You must be a really good reader.”

“Gran says I'm an excellent reader. What's your name again?”

“Gracie Kinkaid.”

“Gracie Kinkaid,” he said to himself as if cementing the name to memory.

“Which one are you reading now?” she asked.

“
The Call of the Wild
. But I'm only on chapter two. I have a little dictionary, too, so I can look up the words I don't know.”

“Those are all really great books.”

“Yeah, my gran gets 'em for me from the library. I'm not supposed to be—”

“Ground Three, Command Post,” came Ralph's voice over the radio.

“Go ahead, Command Post.”

“Watch Commander wants to talk to him at the SO.”

Something close to panic flooded Baxter's face. “The SO?” he asked, voice rising even higher. “Isn't that the Sheriff's?”

“Hold on a sec,” Gracie said, edging closer to the boy on the step. “We're only two blocks from the grandmother's house,” she repeated into the radio, hoping Ralph would get the hint.

“Bring him back to the ICP. Per Watch Commander, he'll be transported from there to the SO for debrief. A deputy is already on the way to pick him up.”

“I can drive him in. That's no problem.”

“A deputy is already on his way,” Ralph said in a tone that told her the issue was settled.

Why are they treating him like a criminal? He's going to clam up like a . . . clam.
“Copy,” Gracie said into the radio.

She looked down at Baxter. Beneath the freckles, his face had gone pale, and his eyes were round.

“You heard that, right?” she asked.

He nodded.

“We're going to drive in my truck to the Search and Rescue Command Post a few blocks from here. Then a
deputy is going to give you a ride down to the Sheriff's Office. That's routine,” she lied. “They just want to ask you some questions.”

The boy's lower lip quivered.

“Would you like me to meet you there?” she asked. “Give you a ride back? Maybe to your gran's?”

“Yes!” Baxter said with such apparent relief that Gracie decided that's what she was going to do even if she had to slug it out with Sergeant Gardner to do it.

*   *   *

GRACIE AND RALPH
faced each other in the Command Post trailer, both with arms crossed, feet apart.

“I got an earful from Whitney,” Ralph said, the heavy black eyebrows merging into a single line.

“I figured.”

“She quit the team.”

“I figured.”

“Because of you.”

“I figured. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. I know we need every—”

“She said you cursed at her.”

“
What!
” Gracie spluttered. “I did not.” She picked the stale wad of gum out of her mouth and flung it into the wastebasket. “She just . . . made that up.”

“So she was lying?”

“Yes!”

Ralph studied her for a moment, his face expressionless, revealing nothing.

“As I tried to tell you earlier,” Gracie said. “She showed up here totally ill prepared. Hell's bells, she was wearing stupid wedgy-type sandals! She didn't want to hoof it door-to-door.”

“Okay. I'm going to take you at your word.”

“Well, gee. Thank you,” she said, resisting the temptation to add, “That's mighty big of you since we're supposed to be friends” or “I would think so since you've known me for
years and I've never lied to you before,” or a half-dozen smart-alecky rejoinders designed to bleed off some of the hurt and indignation.

“However . . .”

“I knew I wasn't off the hook yet.”

“You're a senior member of this team.”

“I know.”

“You know better than to go out on your own.”

“Yeah. I know. I'm duly chastised.”

“You think this is a joke?”

Gracie's face grew hot. She could feel the flush creeping up her neck. “No. I don't think this is a joke.”

“What do you think would happen if everyone went off hotdogging on their own?”

“I know, Commander Hunter.”

Ralph ignored her tone and the use of his formal title. “There are any number of reasons why it's unacceptable.”

“I
know
.”

“It breaks down chain of command. I could lose track of you in the field. Then we'd have to go searching for you instead. If you got hurt in some way, there might be no way for you to radio in.”

“All right already.”

“Do you think the rules don't apply to you?”

“Of course they do. If this really is what you're mad at me about, then I get it. I'm sorry. It was unprofessional. It won't happen again.
If
this is really what you're mad at me about. But if you're still mad at me because I hurt you, then can we please not pretend it's about stupid Whitney or the search and just talk about it?”

Ralph dropped his head so Gracie couldn't see his eyes.

“I miss you, Ralphie,” she said, her voice cracking. “We're best friends. Can we please start acting like it?”

She looked back up at Ralph, who had lifted his head again and was looking at her with something as close to extreme pain as she had ever seen in the blue-gray eyes.

Then he turned around with his back squarely to her and began rolling up the laminated map. “We're through here,” he said.

“Hey! No, we're not ‘through here.'”

“Yes, we are.” He dropped the rolled-up map into its cardboard tube and pounded the plastic end cap in place with the palm of his hand.

“What the hell? You're . . . dismissing me? Why are you treating me this way?”

“I'm not treating you any way.”

“Yes, you are. You're acting like a jerk.”

Ralph turned around to face her again, his face mottled red. “Everything, all the time, is not about you.”

“What the—”

The Command Post door was pulled open and Warren stuck his head inside. “'Bout ready to head on back to the SO, boss?”

“Thirty seconds,” Ralph said.

“Copy that,” Warren said. “Hey, Gracie. Nice find.”

“Thanks,” Gracie said, forcing a smile.

Ralph opened the long overhead door above his head, set the map tube inside the cupboard, and dropped the door closed with a bang.

Gracie stared at Ralph's back for a moment, said, “I'm outta here,” and stepped out of the open door of the trailer.

*   *   *

GRACIE FED QUARTERS
into the SO soda machine and pressed the button for Fanta Orange. She grabbed the can that plunked down, walked around the corner and down the hallway.

At the sound of Sergeant Gardner's voice inside the squad room, she stopped.

“Look up at me when I'm speaking to you, boy,” he said. “Where have you been the last thirty-two hours?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds it may incriminate me,” came Baxter's high voice.

Gracie snorted a silent laugh and leaned against the wall next to the door to listen.

“You're not under arrest,” Gardner said. “Although, you probably should be. I want to know where you were. What you were doing. If you damaged any property.”