Free Prolonged Exposure by Steven F. Havill Page B

said.
    “I’m not arguing,” I said. “It’s just that we don’t know everything that went on that night. For instance, if the fire had been burning for a couple of hours, the youngster might have just gotten bored and wandered off.”
    “At that time of day? Wandered into the dark? I don’t think so. He’d have just gone to sleep,” Camille said.
    “Maybe.” I turned and looked at Estelle. “What are you thinking?”
    She frowned. “The easiest thing that could have happened is that someone picked him up.”
    “How is that easy? It would be impossible not to hear another vehicle.”
    “Unless they parked down out of the trees, maybe even down by the cattle guard where Sheriff Holman was.”
    “All right, suppose they did that,” I said. “They sneak through the trees, or up the two-track, trip over the Cole youngster in the dark—he’s playing fifteen feet from his mom. He’s not going to utter a word?”
    “Sneak?” Camille said. She stood in front of us, camera in one hand, other hand on her hip. She surveyed the stunted, gnarled caricatures of trees—little trolls compared with the towering hickories, oaks, maples, fir, and spruce of Michigan. “Cloudy as it’s been, it would have been black as pitch up here at night. And the moon’s just past quarter now anyway, even if the clouds did break. How is anyone going to sneak?”
    “It’s not hard.” I looked at Estelle. Both she and I had spent more than our share of time picking our way one cautious step after another over country far rougher than this. “They could even use a light here. With the family sitting by a fire, with their backs to the camper, and the intruder’s approach behind the vehicle, they wouldn’t notice a flashlight anyway, especially if the beam was kept low.”
    “I don’t think so, Dad. Someone coming to take the child just doesn’t make sense. In the first place, there’s a larger question, even if you allow that someone wanted the child badly enough to risk kidnapping. How did they know the family was camping here?”
    I shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t know, don’t know.”
    Camille crouched down beside me, balancing herself with one hand on my shoulder. “I think it’s something simple.”
    “Like what?”
    She stood up and pointed. “I think he’s somewhere close. Where’s the edge? The mesa edge?”
    “About fifty yards straight ahead,” I said. “Or even less.”
    “I’d be willing to bet that he’s somewhere within a hundred-yard radius of this campsite.”
    I rolled to my hands and knees, then pushed myself to my feet. Francis grabbed me around my left knee and I damn near lost my balance.
    “Hijo…” his mother said, holding out a hand.
    “He’s all right,” I said, and clamped my left hand on his head, using him like a small squirming cane.
    “They’ve combed every square foot of the mesa face, Camille,” Estelle said. “Dozens of times.”
    “What was the child wearing?”
    “His mother says he was dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and a bright blue down jacket. And sneakers.”
    Camille frowned, gazing off through the trees. “I admit, it’s hard to see how they could miss a bright blue coat.”
    “Let’s walk out to the edge,” Estelle said, and I glanced down with more than a little apprehension at Francis.
    “You stay close,” I said, and he grabbed my hand.
    Matching our pace to the boy’s, we wound our way through the trees. That pace was just dandy with me. The air changed as we approached the rim, and I could hear the sweep of wind and, in the distance, the rhythmic thumping of a helicopter.
    The view was extraordinary. The overcast was ragged and multilayered, with small rainsqualls breaking loose from the higher clouds and pummeling the prairie to the south. I could see the steep saddle of the San Cristobal Mountains, and the pass where State Highway 56 snaked through the mountains and then shot down to the tiny border village of Regal.
    “Whoa,” I said, and