Standing stock-still…waiting it out. Sweat poured off his forehead and down his face. Without being conscious of the act, he had released his gun from his holster and had turned off his flashlight. The seconds passed. Turning his head slowly, his eyes scanned the shadowed area. Finally, he spotted it, a pair of fire-yellow orbs that were sizing him up. They looked to be bigger than those of an alley cat. Decker pegged the animal to be a large opossum or maybe a small coyote. The eyes retreated and disappeared.

He counted to sixty, stowed his gun back in its harness, turned on the flashlight, then resumed walking. The ground began to slope upward and, walking off-balance, he wished he had worn better shoes. Although they were rubber-soled, the upper portions were leather, not nearly as flexible as his New Balance high-tops. The search team’s flashlights had receded to pinpoints of illumination as small as the stars above.

Although tense, he wasn’t as nervous as he should have been, considering that he was basically lost. He had a compass. He had a radio. He could find his way back. But he had no desire to return to the fray, because the walk was restorative, helping him sort out his thoughts. He was careful where he trod, not because of land mines but because each step gave away his position. The abrupt sound had put him in attack mode. He had to be the hunter, Holt the prey. Any slipup could turn it the other way around. He waved his flashlight, the beam cutting a wide swath over the ground. He searched for recent footprints, a pile of leaves or clumps of dirt that might have been depressed or disturbed…a clue as to where Holt might be.

A good idea, but it was leading nowhere.

He continued hiking up the mountain.

His mind leaped back to Holt’s childhood, how truly frightening it must have been for Darrell to lose his baby brother, the preschooler discarded like old clothes. If Philip Holt had been of stronger mettle, he could have adopted the infant as his own. Decker had raised Rina’s sons as diligently as he had raised—or was still raising—his own daughters. Of course, her boys weren’t products from an adulterous union, a living, breathing reminder that your wife had fucked another man. After Decker had found out about Jan, they had spoken briefly about reconciliation. Dead conversation—both saying things that neither believed. The bitterness that had followed surprised him. They had talked a good case about being adult, when in reality they had acted like children for many years. Even now, he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her.