She surveyed the place carefully. Here, at the crime scene, a steep hill, strewn with trash, led from the shoulder of Route 112 down to the muddy riverbank. Where the ground leveled off, there were willows and cypress and clusters of tall grass. An old, rotting pier extended about thirty feet into the river then dipped below the surface of the water.

There were no homes in this immediate area though Sachs had noticed a number of large, new colonials not far from the river. The houses were obviously expensive but Sachs noticed that even this residential portion of Blackwater Landing, like the county seat itself, seemed ghostly and forlorn. It took her a moment to realize why—there were no children playing in the yards even though it was summer vacation. No inflatable pools, no bikes, no strollers. This reminded her of the funeral they’d passed a few hours ago—and the child’s casket—and she forced her thoughts away from that sad memory and back to her task.

Examining the scene. Yellow tape encircled two areas. The one nearest the water included a willow in front of which were several bouquets of flowers—where Garrett had kidnapped Lydia. The other was a dusty clearing surrounded by a grove of trees where, yesterday, the boy had killed Billy Stail and taken Mary Beth. In the middle of this scene were a number of shallow holes in the ground where she’d been digging for arrowheads and relics. Twenty feet from the center of the scene was the spray-painted outline representing where Billy’s body had lain.

Spray paint? she thought, chagrined. These deputies obviously weren’t used to homicide investigations.

A Sheriff’s Department car pulled onto the shoulder and Lucy Kerr climbed out. Just what I need—more cooks. The deputy nodded coolly to Sachs. “Find anything helpful at the house?”

“A few things.” Sachs didn’t explain further and nodded at the hillside.

In her headset she heard Rhyme’s voice. “Is the scene trampled as bad as in the photos?”

“Like a herd of cattle walked through it. Must be two dozen footprints.”

“Shit,” the criminalist muttered.

Lucy had heard Sachs’s comment but said nothing, just kept looking out over the dark junction where the canal met the river.

Sachs asked, “That’s the boat he got away in?” Looking toward a skiff beached on the muddy riverbank.

“Over there, yeah,” Jesse Corn said. “It’s not his. He stole it from some folks up the river. You want to search it?”

“Later. Now, which way wouldn’t he have come to get here? Yesterday, I mean. When he killed Billy.”

“Wouldn’t?” Jesse pointed to the east. “There’s nothing that way. Swamp and reeds. Can’t even land a boat. So either he came along Route 112 and down the embankment here. Or, ’cause of the boat, I guess he might’ve rowed over.”