Stiles shook his head with wonder. Not that he was against someone getting his pipes cleaned now and then, but while on duty? Well, at least it worked to the soldier’s advantage. “Take your time, punk,” he muttered as he wheeled back onto the road and headed for Sykes and the Tunnel.

It took him longer to find the yellow T-Bird than he’d expected. While not exactly hidden, it was parked at the far end, just around the edge of the tree line where a passing glance would miss it. It was only when backtracking that Stiles noticed it at all. He left the van running as he checked it out. Empty, and strewn with beer cans and burger wrappers. The registration sheet from above the sun visor read Lawrence Whitten, Seymour, Indiana. It didn’t match the three first names Bart and Del had given him, but the city was right.

There was no doubt in his mind where the boys had gone. He looked up the road. The Danner land started not much further along.

He drove down the road a short distance, till the van was out of sight of the Tunnel, and then he parked on the weed-covered shoulder and continued on foot. He moved in earnest, crouched, close to the ground like a bloodhound, searching for marks or prints, any sign at all that the three boys were there. It didn’t take him long to locate the cleared section of the boundary wall, where creepers and tanglevine had been slashed aside. Thorns near the top still clung to ravels of colored cloth. He swallowed hard. They definitely went over. But when? This morning? Last night?

He instinctively reached for a pistol before remembering them to be back in the van. You won’t need them, he assured himself as he climbed the wall. But once atop it, upon looking into the perpetual gloom of the other side, his hand strayed to his belt and drew the bali-song from its nylon cocoon. A flick of the wrist opened the nine-inch butterfly knife. He reversed the grip, holding the blade back, flush with his forearm, then jumped down into the forest and began his search.

He careened through the woods urgently, much faster than before but missing very little. His eyes scoured the ground like mine sweepers, picking through the weeds and leaves, searching out the smallest details. Trampled grass. Footprints. Obscure impressions in the dirt. The greenish-yellow smear of fluorescent paint on the roots of a tree . . .

His toe struck something in the weeds.

He thrust a hand into the underbrush and brought out a dense clod of dirt. With vigorous brushing it became a revolver, a Harrington & Richardson .32, to be precise. He dropped the cylinder and poured the empty casings into his hand. Every shot fired.

Oh shit.