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“That’s our theory,” Gervase told him. “If the people of this town have a choice, they’re going to opt for the Madigan kid running away over another monster.”
“It’s too early to determine what we’re dealing with,” Kennedy said. “That girl running away from home is not among the possibilities.”
“I’m not arguing with you,” Gervase said. “We’ll do what we can with the resources we’ve got.” He absently accepted a thermos cup of coffee from a young female officer. “McEnroe passed his lie-detector test. Not that it means much. We’re still going to hold him on the firearms charges, assaulting a federal agent…we’ve got plenty on him.”
“He’s fine where he is,” Kennedy said indifferently. Clearly McEnroe’s fate was not a matter of interest or importance to him. He was studying the incident briefing map.
New Geographic Information Software had replaced outdated hardcopy quadrangle maps, transparent Mylars, and erasable markers, once standard tools in any search. In the final analysis, it all came down to boots on the ground. Humans searching for humans.
Today Jason and Kennedy were joining those boots on the ground, though that was as much to gain insight into the other players as to help locate Rebecca. According to Kennedy, there was every chance whoever had taken the girl—and he did not entertain any other scenario—would be among those looking for her now.
It was another beautiful hot summer day, and while the general mood of the searchers could not be called optimistic, the morning had brought a renewed sense of determination to find Rebecca.
News vans were parked along the perimeter, a reminder the outside world was watching.
Mid-morning Chief Gervase gave a couple of interviews, and Jason was designated—by Kennedy—to stand in the background and look suitably grave.
“That’s what you’re here for, West. Just looking at you will instill confidence in the at-home viewers.”
“The hell—”
Kennedy had already gone back to his maps and charts, and Jason gritted his teeth and followed the chief to where the cameras waited.
Around lunchtime word spread that the Madigans were holding their own press conference, and the news vans departed. Rebecca’s parents were offering a two-hundred–thousand-dollar reward for Rebecca’s safe return—and unwittingly creating huge problems for themselves, as they would no doubt discover once the crank calls started flooding in.
Around two o’clock Gervase called his “focus team” together for a quick meeting.
“It’s a long shot, but I think we should try Rexford.”
“Rexford?” Boxner was frowning. “Why?”
“What’s Rexford?” Kennedy asked.
Jason was wondering the same thing. The name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“Rexford is a ghost town,” Gervase told them. “It was one of the smaller villages that got flooded when they created the Quabbin Reservoir back in the ’30s. Some of the houses were moved or razed, but the cellar holes remain. Some of the buildings were just abandoned as was. The majority of the land is still above water. You can’t get to it by car. You have to walk in. You’ve been there, Boyd. Hell, every kid in this county has explored Rexford at some time or another.”
“Not me,” Boxner said.
“Me neither,” Jason said.
Gervase didn’t quite roll his eyes, but the effect was the same. “Don’t worry, boys, I’m not planning to arrest you for trespassing.”
“I’ve never been inside there,” Boxner repeated. “Not ever.”
“What’s the plan?” Kennedy said.
“A small team. Strictly LEOs,” Gervase replied. “There are too many potential risks to even consider bringing civilians into the area. Some of those buildings are half underwater. All of them are falling down. We’ve got everything from poison ivy to black-widow spiders.”
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Jason said.
“It doesn’t seem realistic to me Rebecca would be there,” Boxner said. “For sure not of her own free will. And why would anyone take her there?”
“You just answered your own question,” Gervase said. “Because it’s guaranteed no one would look for her in Rexford.”
Boxner continued to frown.
Kennedy said briskly, “All right. Let’s do it.”
