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He’s wearing a green T-shirt—on backward—jeans, and sneakers. His pants are the right way around but the button’s open. Also, the boy’s sneaker laces aren’t tied. A faint rubbing alcohol smell clings to him, like he’s just gotten a vaccine shot or some such thing. I’m as baffled as I am suddenly furious. This kid looks like someone else dressed him, someone who either didn’t really understand how clothing worked or was in an extreme hurry. I don’t like the implications of another person having to dress him. But… if a creep got their hands on the boy and drugged him, I don’t think they’d use an alcohol wipe to sanitize the injection site.
Maybe my thoughts have gone down such a dark road regarding Carson being a serial killer I’m assuming the worst possible explanation for everything. The boy doesn’t look distressed or upset—merely disoriented.
I also notice it’s going to be dark outside fairly soon. Ack. Guess I threw more time at ineffective psychometry than I realized. But… more immediate issues now. Gemma is most likely already dead. She can wait a few minutes. This kid is out here all by himself. He needs help right now.
“Hi there,” I say.
The boy scrunches his nose and tries to wipe his face, but ends up biffing himself in the forehead like he can’t fully control his arm.
I hurry over and take a knee by his side. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“Uhh…” He tries again, slower, and successfully rubs his eyes. “I’m dizzy.”
“Do you know why you’re dizzy?”
He stares at me. His gaze is unfocused, pupils dilated. Yeah, this kid has been drugged. On exactly what, I have no idea. But he’s definitely groggy via unnatural means. It sounds weird, but I sniff at his shoulder. The scent on him is mostly clinical, like a hospital, with an underlying sort of basalt aroma I don’t recognize. Has he been in the boiler room of a hospital? Talk about not making any sense.
“Umm. I slept too much I think. I don’t remember.” He starts to wobble to one side.
I catch him before he collapses, carry him over to the sofa, and set him down. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
He sits there tolerating me checking his forehead temperature, pulse, and breathing rate. I do have fairly advanced first aid training thanks to the feds. My guess is the kid basically got roofied. Someone gave him something that made him sleep. Question is—and the reason I’m freaking out and pissed off—is why. There aren’t many good reasons a person would knock a little kid out. Could Carson be way sicker than I thought? Yeah, it’s kind of a stretch to assume he abducted and drugged this kid, but… we are out in the middle of nowhere. Did he have this boy locked up in a storage box somewhere nearby? Ugh. I’ve been watching too many dark detective dramas. Could be this boy is entirely unrelated to my investigation and just happened to be wandering by this cabin.
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just got lost in the woods.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Just you. Where’s my dad?”
Great. Now I imagine some random family stumbling across Carson trying to dispose of Gemma’s body… and becoming his next victims. “I’m not sure. Haven’t seen anyone else around here. What’s your name?”
“Shane.” He yawns.
“What’s your father’s name?” I ask.
“Carson.”
Cue the sound of screeching tires and shattering glass. Say what? Carson—the serial killer I’m chasing—has a kid? I stare at the boy. Oh, holy shit. Yeah, I can see it in his eyes. He looks just like his mother, Erica. Hmm. Did Carson drug his son to knock him out so he could kill Gemma without the boy having to watch? Suppose it’s possible, but so is my rodeo clown theory. I doubt they abandoned the boy here and raced off to Texas. If Carson gave the kid something to knock him out, why are his clothes messed up?
“Shane?” I ask.
“Yeah?” He peers up at me.
“Do you know why your shirt’s on backward and your shoes are untied?”
He peers down at himself. “Whoa. Weird.” Shane lifts his head to look at me again, then shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Where have you been?” I sit next to him.
Shane watches me for a moment. He’s clearly worried. Maybe he’s trying to decide if I’m the sort of stranger he can talk to. After a little more silence, he grabs my hand. “I’m scared.”
“I know.” I offer my most reassuring smile. “Please, tell me what happened. I want to help.”
“Umm.” He looks down. “I dunno. I ’member pausing the game”—he gestures at the TV—“but I don’t remember why.”
I glance at the screen. “That’s your game?”
