“You were right, looks like,” Jesse Corn said. “I didn’t believe it at first but you hit this one on the head.”

It had been Ed’s theory that the boy would come back here. Not because of the cliché—about returning to the scene of the crime—but because Blackwater Landing had always been his stalking ground and whatever kind of trouble he’d gotten himself into over the years he always came back here.

Ed looked around, fear now replacing exhaustion and discomfort as he gazed at the infinite tangle of leaves and branches surrounding him. Jesus, the deputy thought, the boy’s here someplace. He said into his radio, “The tracks look to be moving toward you but I can’t tell for sure. He was walking mostly on leaves. You keep an eye out. I’m going to see where he was coming from.”

Knees creaking, Ed rose to his feet and, as quietly as a big man could, followed the boy’s footsteps back in the direction they’d come—farther into the woods, away from the river.

He followed the boy’s trail about a hundred feet and saw it led to an old hunting blind—a gray shack big enough for three or four hunters. The gun slots were dark and the place seemed to be deserted. Okay, he thought. Okay…. He’s probably not in there. But still…

Breathing hard, Ed Schaeffer did something he hadn’t done in nearly a year and a half: unholstered his weapon. He gripped the revolver in a sweaty hand and started forward, eyes flipping back and forth dizzily between the blind and the ground, deciding where best to step to keep his approach silent.

Did the boy have a gun? he wondered, realizing that he was as exposed as a soldier landing on a bald beachhead. He imagined a rifle barrel appearing fast in one of the slots, aiming down on him. Ed felt an ill flush of panic and he sprinted, in a crouch, the last ten feet to the side of the shack. He pressed against the weathered wood as he caught his breath and listened carefully. He heard nothing inside but the faint buzzing of insects.

Okay, he told himself. Take a look. Fast.

Before his courage broke, Ed rose and looked through a gun slot.

No one.

Then he squinted at the floor. His face broke into a smile at what he saw. “Jesse,” he called into his radio excitedly.

“Go ahead.”

“I’m at a blind maybe a quarter mile north of the river. I think the kid spent the night here. There’s some empty food wrappers and water bottles. A roll of duct tape too. And guess what? I see a map.”

“A map?”

“Yeah. Looks to be of the area. Might show us where he’s got Mary Beth. What do you think about that?”