Free The Abduction by Mark Gimenez Page A

her eyes were sizing him up.
    “And what are your qualifications, Agent Devereaux, to find my daughter?”
    Bluntness did not offend Eugene Devereaux.
    “Well, ma’am, this ain’t my first rodeo.” He was met with a blank expression. “One hundred twenty-seven abductions, Mrs. Brice. Those are my qualifications.”
    Her face deflated as she absorbed his words; her eyes fell.
    “One hundred twenty-seven,” she whispered. “My God.” She lifted her eyes. “Children?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “How many were ransom?”
    He hesitated. “None.”
    “Ben, what if this isn’t about money?” Kate asked.
    She had taken Ben out to the pool house. She thought it would be better that way, Ben staying out here alone. Just in case he drank. And the nightmares returned. And he screamed, that tortured cry that had punctured her sleep so many nights.
    “Take me to the park.”
    Kate shook her head. “It’s a crime scene. No one can go out there until they search it.”
    Bobby Joe Fannin spat a stream of brown tobacco juice.
    “Settle down, boys.”
    The dogs were straining at their leashes, ready to get it on, the girl’s scent fresh in their nostrils. Bobby Joe headed up the county’s canine search unit, a team of six bloodhounds he had raised from pups. Good job, good benefits, outside most of the time. Not as good as farming this land thirty years ago when his granddaddy still owned this land, but not bad. Except for finding dead people. Bobby Joe never liked that part of the job. Why did killers from the city always dump the bodies in the country?
    On the radio: “Bobby Joe, come in.”
    Bobby Joe pulled the radio off his belt and pushed the transmit button. “Yeah, Chief?”
    He could barely make out Police Chief Ryan at the other end of the park; the search party was stretched out single file across the playing fields. Bobby Joe worked alone, just him and the dogs, which was another thing he liked about the job, not having to work with other people much. In his line of work, other people around just messed things up: the dogs could detect human scent, but they couldn’t distinguish between humans. Another human being around would throw them off the girl’s scent.
    “Bobby Joe, we’re fixin’ to get going down here , ”the chief said. “Go ahead and start your dogs. You find something, you call me. Don’t touch nothing, you hear me?”
    To his radio: “I done this before, Paulie.”
    Bobby Joe had grown up with Paul Ryan. They had hunted this land together as boys—deer, wild hogs, quail—and these very woods for rabbit, back when these woods covered five hundred acres. His granddaddy said this was one of the last native post oak forests left on the high plains of Texas. But that was then and this was now and only a hundred acres were left. And Bobby Joe was hunting these woods for a little girl.
    He spat again.
    “Let’s go, boys,” he said, giving the dogs a little whistle. They set off into the woods, the dogs’ leashes in Bobby Joe’s right hand and the girl’s red-and-blue plaid school uniform in his left.
    “Get off the goddamn grass!”
    The chief said to make the mother happy, so Police Officer Eddie Yates was chasing the crowd of reporters and cameramen off the Brice’s landscaped front lawn. They took one look at him—the angular twenty-three-year-old face, the sharp flattop, the dark sunglasses, the bulging biceps that had the sleeves of his uniform ready to bust at the seams—and moved to the sidewalk, bitching as they did.
    One riot, one Ranger.
    Except Eddie wasn’t a Texas Ranger. He was a patrol cop in a small suburban police department that didn’t even have a SWAT team—not that it needed one, seeing as how the biggest crime the Town of Post Oak had to offer was kids passing around a beer under the bleachers at the little league field on Saturday nights. Eddie usually spent his shift working the town’s speed trap out on the freeway, nabbing speeders while dreaming of being