Free Prolonged Exposure by Steven F. Havill

area where their truck had been parked was included within the boundaries. If the auxiliary officer Holman had mentioned was on duty, he was invisible.
    Estelle stopped the Blazer on the two-track road and leaned forward on the steering wheel, hands clasped together, frowning out through the windshield. If we didn’t turn and look out the rear window, where we could catch glimpses of half an acre of parked vehicles two hundred yards down the road, we could have imagined that we were alone on the mesa.
    “What are you thinking?”
    She grimaced. “Beautiful spot, isn’t it?”
    “No,” I said. The ground was strewn with trash, from yellow plastic oil jugs to the ubiquitous beer cans to part of an old sofa that was nestled between two piñons. Several scrap pieces of lumber had been nailed between two other trees close by, forming a crude shelf. I could picture myself trying to shave while standing in front of that shelf on an icy morning, dipping my frosted razor into a blue enamel pan water was beginning to sport a frozen skim on the soapy surface. “I haven’t seen too many hunting camps that were things of beauty.”
    Estelle climbed out and walked around to my side to unleash the kid from the backseat. I grunted my way out and leaned against the Blazer.
    “Smells good, though,” I said. And it did. The juniper was rich, especially where the truck had brushed against the limbs. Through the trees, I could hear dogs and voices where the searchers combed the Pipes just to the north. Farther away, a dull thudding marked where one of the Huey helicopters worked the edge of the mesa.
    “Do you need your jacket, Dad?” Camille asked.
    I don’t know why that irritated me, but it did. She sounded like she was taking care of some old man who was convalescing and fragile, sure to come down with a fatal something if an errant breeze tickled him the wrong way. That was unfair, of course, since she’d been pretty good so far—a quiet traveling companion and not too pushy about my habits.
    She held out the jacket, and I shook my head.
    “This is where they were camped,” Estelle said. She had unbuckled the kid, and they stood hand in hand, Francis looking tiny and helpless framed by those ancient gnarled trees. Estelle walked forward a few steps and knelt by the ring of campfire stones. “Just far enough in from the rim that they had some protection from the wind.”
    I walked up and stood beside Francis. He was exactly the right height for me to rest my hand on the top of his head without bending down. When I did that, he shifted his weight so that he leaned against my leg, and I grinned.
    Francis was as brave a three-year-old as I’d ever known, including four of my own at various times in the distant past. And his first reaction to this spot was to snuggle close. Whether or not Estelle had other reasons for bringing the youngster along, his behavior was certainly enough to feed her intuitions.
    I took a deep breath and went down on one knee, the kid between me and Estelle. I heard a small click behind me and turned my head, to see Camille winding her camera.
    “Oh, that’s nice,” I said, and she made a face.
    “Tiffany Cole said that this is just about where they were sitting,” Estelle said. She stretched out an arm. “The truck was over on that side, between the fire and the two-track. That means that little Cody was playing over by those trees.” She stood up, keeping Francis’s hand in hers. “The truck tracks are clearly visible.” She walked slowly away from the fire circle, her son in tow.
    After ten yards, she stopped and looked back at me. “This is a nice soft spot, under this grove of junipers,” she said.
    “You said that the youngster was digging? Digging with a stick was how you put it.”
    “Right. That’s what his mother said. Just on the other side of the truck. And there are plenty of marks around here, even after all the adult feet stamped things flat.” She swiveled at the waist,