Part 4 (1/2)

”Who are some of Shawn's other friends at school? Maybe I could talk to them to see if they know where he is.”

”I don't know. He sometimes talks to Joey, but mainly to me. We're best friends.”

”Okay, if you think of anything that might help us find Shawn,” Blake began as he slipped his business card out of his jacket, ”just call the number on my card.”

In his vehicle as Blake wrote up his report about the visit to the Collins' house, he thought about the way Billy averted his eyes when he answered his questions. In nine out of ten times, when a suspect did this during an interview, he was lying. But Billy wasn't a suspect. He was a five-year-old. Billy could have been telling a lie, or he could have been a small boy who feared to talk to an officer.

The only thing Blake knew for certain was that when they found Shawn, he was going to need some professional help. The child had experienced emotional, psychological and physical abuse. Shawn was going to need all the support and help he could get. And if it was the last thing Blake did, he'd make sure Shawn got it. If only he could find him. The clock was ticking. Forty-eight hours had pa.s.sed. If he didn't find him soon, it was unlikely he'd find Shawn alive.

Frankie arrived early, with Hunter in the back seat, but parking s.p.a.ces were scarce. It looked like every county resident, along with friends and family, had arrived to partic.i.p.ate in the organized search for Shawn Isaac. Not that she was surprised. In one year's time, the county had lost three young women to a vicious serial killer, and now they had a missing five-year-old. Still reeling from the shock and sorrow, residents were determined to find this little boy alive.

Frankie and Hunter had retraced Shawn's steps from the courthouse the day before. But Hunter lost the little boy's scent near the shops, where an indefinite number of holiday shoppers had spent the day buying gifts.

Media trucks, along with some food trucks, lined up near the building. There were already long lines, with volunteer searchers waiting to get hot coffee to ward off the chill of the snowy, winter day. A helicopter sat on its pad, ready to take off with the sheriff and pilot. If Shawn had not been found by sunset, they'd fly over the entire area looking for him with thermal imaging equipment that detects heat radiating from humans and animals.

Frankie got out of her SUV, then pulled Hunter out of the back. The Giant Schnauzer was electrified with energy as he was every time he worked a search and rescue. Wearing a neon-yellow sweater, the dog seemed to know it was time for him to do his job. Frankie, with Hunter in tow, waded through the crowd of people until she could see Lane and Blake running the command booth. Lane stood in front, dividing up the group into four and five volunteers per team, and a.s.signing a deputy as their lead. They were focusing their search on a wooded area and neighborhood near Shawn's elementary school, as well as the forest near the farm where he grew up. Volunteers were given a photo and description of Shawn, as well as water and a detailed map of the specific area they were a.s.signed. They were instructed to stay close to their group leader, a deputy who had a walk-talkie to communicate with the command post that Blake and several deputies were manning.

Lane, Frankie and Hunter were a.s.signed to the wooded area near John Isaac's farm. Blake handed Lane the bag containing Shawn's s.h.i.+rt. The three boarded the small yellow bus donated by the school system, and headed toward the farm with the rest of their volunteer team.

Frankie watched Hunter sitting in the seat next to her, gazing out the window. She'd often told Anne Mason-Brandt that her gift of Hunter as a puppy was the best present she'd ever received. Not only was Hunter a valued member of the community for his scent-driven searching abilities, but he was also an important member of Frankie and Lane's family. The dog was devoted to their three-year-old daughter, Ashley, and slept next to her bed each night guarding her.

Frankie could never have predicted Hunter's uncanny ability to find the lost, whether it was an Alzheimer's patient who had strayed, or a child cowering under a piece of roofing after a tornado.

The bus pulled up to John Isaac's farm. Its boarded-up windows were a haunting reminder of the man's death, along with his wife's, just a day before. Moving to the edge of the wooded area to be searched, the bus stopped and the volunteers gathered outside to listen to Lane's directions about how their search would be done. Using a single-line search pattern, Lane directed each volunteer to his/her placement along the line. Each person was reminded to call out if anything were found, and flag the item.

Wearing latex gloves so he wouldn't add his scent, Lane pulled a secured bag out of his duffle bag. He handed the bag containing one of Shawn's s.h.i.+rts to Frankie, who stood next to Hunter. She'd learned long ago that humans, alive or dead, constantly emit microscopic particles bearing the human scent. Her air-scenting Giant Schnauzer was trained to locate the scent of a human in a specific search area. Not restricted to the missing person's tracks, Hunter could search long after the tracks were destroyed.

Also wearing latex gloves, Frankie opened the bag, pulled out Shawn's soiled, striped T-s.h.i.+rt, and handed it to Hunter to sniff. Fiercely wagging his tail, the dog sucked in the scent of the s.h.i.+rt, then sat in an alert position, looking up at Frankie to communicate his readiness to begin.

With Lane close behind, they began covering their area downwind, so Hunter would have the best scenting coverage. Frankie removed Hunter's leash, knowing the dog would never stray too far from her sight.

They'd walked a short distance when Frankie spotted the decomposing carca.s.s of a deer. She raced to a nearby tree and heaved what remained of her breakfast.

”Baby, are you okay?” asked Lane, who had rushed to her side.

She nodded, but her stomach was doing Cirque du Soleil-worthy acrobatics as she wiped her mouth with a tissue.

”You don't look okay. You look as green as one of the walkers in The Walking Dead.”

Frankie glared at him and said, ”Thank you, Lane. That was the exact look I was going for today.” She pushed past him as he chuckled, and ran to catch up to Hunter.

They spent the rest of the day looking for Shawn, but found nothing. It was a long shot, Frankie thought, that the little boy could have walked the five miles from town to the farm, but it had been worth a try. As they headed back to town, she prayed that the other searchers had found him a” alive.

Though exhausted from the search, Frankie made it home in time to change clothes. She then followed Arthur Holden, president of the Holden Gasket Factory, pillar of the community and suspected adulterer by his wife, as he left work. Frankie tailed him as drove directly to a CVS drugstore downtown on First Street. He was acting like a man on a mission, and being the good P.I. she was, Frankie was suspicious.

She donned a curly brown wig and a cowboy hat and ventured into the store. Frankie made her way to Aisle C, where Mr. Holden stood in front of the condom and personal lubricant product display. She pretended to be shopping for feminine products and eased down the aisle until she sneaked a look over his shoulder. He was holding up a large box of Trojan Pleasure Pack Condoms. Although in his sixties, Arthur Holden looked a lot closer to seventy than to sixty. It seemed to Frankie this particular purchase could result in a life-altering or -ending situation. Mrs. Holden was certainly correct about one thing. Her husband's mind was not on the subject of poker, or any other card game.

Frankie slipped back into her car and watched Arthur Holden through the store's plate-gla.s.s window as he paid for his items. She slunk down in her seat when he entered the parking lot. a.s.sured he had not seen her, she followed his car at a discreet distance until he reached Pine Street, where he parked his Mercedes in front of a white house with its porch light blazing. Frankie pulled in front of a neighboring home, parked, and pulled out her night-vision binoculars and a camera.

Soon a twenty-something, buxom young woman wearing a red nightie, a Santa-helper hat, and a smile opened the front door and thrust herself into Holden's arms. She squealed as he twirled her around a couple of times. This was definitely not poker night with the boys. Focusing and aiming her camera, Frankie took several candid and compromising shots of the couple before they went inside.

Frankie arched her back to stretch, then placed her hand over her mouth as she yawned. It had been a long day. Since Lane had to work tonight, too, she'd taken Ashley over to her Aunt Megan's house to make holiday cookies. That her little girl loved to visit her aunt a.s.suaged Frankie's guilt in not spending the evening with her.

She dug in her duffle bag until she found a thermos of hot Starbucks espresso, and poured some in a plastic cup. Hoping the shot of caffeine would perk up her system, she drained the cup, then filled it again. Taking a deep breath, she leaned her head against the car's headrest and watched the house. After an hour, her eyelids feeling heavy, she draped her red-plaid stadium blanket across her legs and turned up the heat. Frankie was drifting into a nap, when a loud boom a” sounding like a tree had just fallen on top of her vehicle a” startled her so much, she screamed and jumped in her seat in alarm, hitting her head on the vehicle's ceiling.

It was then that a very large man jerked open her pa.s.senger door and plopped himself down in the seat next to her.

”Lane, d.a.m.n it! You could have given me a heart attack!”

”Serves you right for sleeping on the job,” Lane returned.

”I thought you were working tonight. How did you find me, anyway?” Could the man be any more annoying? The shame of it all was that she'd known this, and married him anyway.

”Got the night off, and since when has it ever been difficult for me to find you? I'm a good a” make that excellent a” detective,” he replied with a smirk.

”So why are you here?” Frankie asked, as she folded the stadium blanket and threw it in the back seat.

Lane grew serious and whispered, ”I miss you, baby. It seems like we rarely have time together anymore.”

His eyes, filled with a curious, deep longing, swept over her. Guilt was a knife slicing deep into her heart. Lane was right. With Lane working two jobs, they didn't have much time together, and it was all her fault. The economy nose-dived and her business followed. It was all they could do to make ends meet, and she felt responsible. And now she was pregnant, adding another mouth to feed.

Frankie leaned back to look at him. ”I miss you, too.”

Lane slid his arm around her shoulders, as he threw her duffle bag in the back. ”Show me.”

”What?”

”You heard me. Get over here and show me how much you miss me.”

”Lane Hansen, I'm on surveillance. Professionals don't make out while they are on surveillance.”

”Yes, they do.” Lane did something he hadn't done in a long time. He grabbed the lever beside his seat and pushed his seat back as far as it would go. He then lifted her across the console in one smooth movement, ending with his surprised wife sitting on his lap, right where he wanted her.

He kissed Frankie hard, igniting a fire within her that heated all the way to her curled toes. Lane's mouth felt hard and hot. His hands were wandering down her back under her s.h.i.+rt, then beneath the waistband of her jeans. At that moment, the last thing on her mind was the geriatric adulterer inside the house she was supposed to be watching. Frankie moved sensuously against him until Lane groaned, and she felt the rock-hard evidence of his arousal. Lane lifted her, and before she could register what was happening, she was straddling him and he had her jeans zipper down. He planted soft kisses along Frankie's neck as he quickly helped her shed her coat and top. Now licking and kissing, his mouth moved down her neck until he pushed her bra up and cupped her breast, his lips touching her nipple with tantalizing possessiveness. Frankie struggled first with his jacket, and then his s.h.i.+rt. The desire to be against him, flesh against flesh, was overwhelming.

”You feel so good...” Frankie moaned.

The first blow to her vehicle was to the winds.h.i.+eld, loud as thunder and just as destructive as lightning. Safety gla.s.s rained in on them. They separated and Frankie, adjusting her bra, searched the back for her duffle bag to get her Glock. What the h.e.l.l was going on? Before she could find her gun, three more blows were delivered to the hood of her SUV.

Arthur Holden, holding a Louisville Slugger as if preparing for a home run, used her car as the ball. He swung the bat, this time cras.h.i.+ng on the driver-side door. By this time, Lane had gathered his wits, grabbed his service revolver, and popped out of the SUV.

Holden, getting a good look at Lane's six-foot-five, hard-muscled body, took off at a good clip, considering he was sixty going on seventy-something, with one p.i.s.sed-off law enforcement officer husband not far behind.

Frankie struggled with the driver's door until she realized it wouldn't open. She scooted across the console and flew through the open pa.s.senger-side door.