The sooner they got the park searched, the sooner they could determine the boy wasn’t there, and the sooner Archie would be able to sleep. “Take the south side,” Archie said. “And stick together.” He looked at Anne. “You’re with me,” he said.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Anne said. “You’re ill.”

“I just have to make sure he isn’t here.”

“Patrick?” Archie called.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Anne said.

Archie called Patrick’s name again. “It’s Detective Sheridan,” he called.

“There,” Anne said.

“What?”

“I saw something move,” Anne said, pointing.

“What?” Archie asked.

“A shadow,” Anne said.

“Was it him?”

“I don’t know,” Anne said. “It was something.”

“Patrick?” Archie called again.

He saw something then, too. A flash of movement. Someone disappearing through a door into one of the rides.

Archie jogged through the water toward the ride, calling the boy’s name.

He stopped at the door.

It wasn’t really a ride. It was some sort of building. Something you walked through. A haunted house.

A shadowy figure lurked just inside the door.

“It’s safe,” Archie said. “You can come out.”

The boy stepped into the light. He was wet and dirty, his face scratched.

“Jesus Christ,” Anne said.

Patrick took a tentative step toward them and then flung himself into Archie’s arms, all cold, wet elbows and knees.

Archie glanced up at the side of the attraction the boy had emerged from. The door was a mouth. Framed by a pair of huge red open lips.

Garishly painted letters spelled out BEAUTY KILLER HOUSE OF HORRORS.

Archie held Patrick Lifton very tightly for a very long time before he pulled out his phone and called the chief. “It’s Archie,” he said. “Call the Liftons. I’ve got him. I’ve got him.”

*   *   *

Archie was sitting with Patrick in the back of an open ambulance. EMTs had checked the boy’s vitals and put Band-Aids on his scratches. He would still need to go to the hospital, but the EMTs had agreed to wait. Archie saw the patrol car cruise in, lights flashing, going too fast, its tires throwing up water on the pavement. It came to a stop alongside another patrol unit, about five yards from the ambulance. The back door flew open and Diana Lifton exploded from the car. She was wearing pajamas and sneakers and a coat, her hair knotted in a quick ponytail. Daniel Lifton slid out behind her from the same door, dressed in sweat shorts, a worn T-shirt, and slip-on velour slippers worn over white tube socks. They held each other as they approached the ambulance. The rain had slowed to a spit. Lights from the surrounding emergency vehicles split the darkness with flashes of red and blue.