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Oaks . . . Dance pictured one of the improvised roadside crosses. Pictured the one in her backyard too.
Should she call in and order a search? Not just yet. Keep looking.
She wished she had the anonymous caller here. Even the most reluctant witness could be the source of all the information she needed; look at Tammy Foster, whose lack of cooperation hadn't slowed down the investigation at all.
Tammy's computer. It's got the answer. Well, maybe not the answer. But an answer. . . .
But she didn't have the caller; she had her flashlight and a spooky, deserted construction site.
Looking for "something."
Dance now slipped through one of the several gates in the chain link, the metal bent by years of trespassers, and eased through the grounds, moving slowly. The main building had collapsed completely under the flames. And the others--service sheds, garages and complexes of hotel rooms--were boarded up. There were a half dozen open foundation pits. They were marked with orange warning signs, but the fog was thick and reflected back much light into Dance's eyes; she moved carefully for fear of tumbling down into one.
Easing through the compound, one step at a time, pausing, looking for footprints.
What the hell had the caller seen?
Then, Dance heard a noise in the distance, but not that distant. A loud snap. Another.
She froze.
Deer, she guessed. They were plentiful in the area. But other animals lived here too. Last year a mountain lion had killed a tourist jogging not far from here. The animal had sliced the poor woman apart then vanished. Dance unbuttoned her jacket and tapped the butt of her Glock for reassurance.
Another snap then a creak.
Like a hinge of an old door opening.
Dance shivered in fear, reflecting that just because the Roadside Cross Killer was no longer a threat, that didn't mean meth cookers or gangbangers weren't hanging around here.
But heading back never entered her mind. Travis could be here. Keep going.
Another forty feet or so into the compound, Dance was looking for the structures that might house a kidnap victim, looking for buildings with padlocks, looking for footprints.
She thought she heard another sound--almost a moan. Dance came close to calling out the boy's name. But instinct told her not to.
And then she stopped fast.
A human figure was silhouetted in the fog no more than ten yards away. Crouching, she thought.
She gasped, clicked the light out and drew her gun.
Another look. Whoever--whatever--it might have been was gone.
But the image wasn't imagination. She was certain she'd seen somebody, male, she believed from the kinesics.
Now, footsteps were sounding clearly. Branches snapping, leaves rustling. He was flanking her, to her right. Moving, then pausing.
Dance fondled the cell phone in her pocket. But if she made a call, her voice would give away her position. And she had to assume that whoever was here in the dark on a damp, foggy night wasn't present for innocent purposes.
Retrace your steps, she told herself. Back to the car. Now. Thinking of the shotgun in her trunk, a weapon she'd fired once. In training.
Dance turned around and moved quickly, every step making a loud crinkle through the leaves. Every step shouting, Here I am, here I am.
She stopped. The intruder didn't. His steps telegraphed his transit over the leaves and underbrush as he
continued on, somewhere in the dark fog to her right.
Then they stopped.
