Baseball cap and sunglasses went on, then she filled her pockets with a few items: one of the walkie-talkies that all the Finders carried, a whistle, a bottle of water, a roll of gauze, and a pack of chewing gum. The whistle was to alert anyone nearby in case the radio failed, and the other items were for the little boy. He might not be hurt when they found him—she never let herself think that he might not be found in time—but he would definitely need water, and would probably like some chewing gum.
Her group had spotted her SUV and were coming toward her. Brian was in the lead, and even though he was wearing sunglasses, too, Milla could tell his attention was riveted on Diaz.
She climbed out of the backseat and locked the doors, slipping her keys into her front pocket. “This is James,” she said by way of introduction, before Brian could ask any questions. “He’s going to help us. Who’s in charge?”
“Baxter,” said Brian.
“Good.” Lieutenant Phillip Baxter was a veteran of these searches, a steady, commonsensical man who could be counted on to be thorough.
“What’s the little boy’s name?” She could hear people calling what sounded like “Mac” or “Mike,” and she wanted to be certain.
“Max. He’s in general good health, but wasn’t in day care today because he has an ear infection and was feverish. His mother thought he was taking a nap while she did laundry, but when she went to check on him, he wasn’t in his bed.”
Children did that, wandered outside to play without telling anyone. Milla had once searched for an enterprising toddler who had watched his parents latch the door, then had waited for his moment, pushed a chair over to the door and climbed up on it, and used his toy truck to help him reach the last few inches he needed to push up the latch. They knew all that only because after he was found, he proceeded to make another bid for freedom and demonstrated his tactic. Children were horribly inventive, and oblivious of danger.
It was worrisome that little Max was ill; a fever would make him even more susceptible to the heat. They needed to find him really fast. She had been out in the heat only a few minutes, and she was already dripping with sweat.
They all went to the front yard and reported in to Baxter, who held a clipboard and was coordinating the effort so that no area would be left unsearched while others were searched over and over again by different groups. His men, steady professionals, were in charge of each sector.
Baxter gave her a nod as her group approached. “Milla,” he said by way of greeting. “Glad your group could make it. They waited such a long time before calling 911 that the kid’s had time to put some distance between home and wherever he is now. He wanted to go to his grandmother’s earlier, but because he was sick his mom said no, and he was mad.”
“Where does his grandmother live?”
“A couple of miles from here. His mother says he does know the way to Granny’s house, so we’re concentrating most of our efforts between the two points.”
Diaz, lurking behind her but always near, asked, “What door did he use?”
She was surprised that he’d brought attention to himself, but evidently he wasn’t worried about the El Paso cops seeing him. That was somewhat reassuring; the odds were he wasn’t wanted on this side of the border.
Baxter gave him a sharp look, then indicated the direction with his hand. “The back door. Come see.”
Milla was sure Baxter had already inspected the backyard, but if he was willing to take them back there, she wanted to see things for herself, too, so they went around the side of the house to the back.
The backyard was neat and enclosed with chain-link fencing. There was a swing set and slide, several toy dump trucks where the little boy had evidently spent a lot of time moving dirt from one place to another, and a plastic tricycle against the fence.
“I figure he climbed on the tricycle, got a handhold, then made it the rest of the way over the fence,” Baxter said. “It’s the only way out that I can see.”
Diaz gave an absent nod, his cold gaze inspecting the surrounding area for anything that would attract a little boy’s attention. “A dog, maybe,” he said almost to himself. “A puppy, a kitten. Hope it wasn’t a coyote.”
Milla’s throat tightened. She hoped it wasn’t any kind of predator, animal or human, that had lured the little boy from the safety of his backyard.
“You don’t think he was going to Granny’s house?” Baxter asked.
“Probably. But if a little dog or cat wandered by, he could have taken off after it. You know how kids are.”
“Afraid so.” Baxter sighed, his eyes worried.
Diaz went to the point of the fence where Max had climbed over, and squatted down as he surveyed the ground, then lifted his head and slowly surveyed the surroundings. It was something the Finders often did, got down on the missing child’s level, to see things as he saw them. Adults, looking down, would sometimes miss a hidey-hole or the interesting shape of a rock.
“A lot of people have trampled the ground here,” Diaz said, meaning they had obliterated any tiny sign he might have seen. “You have a dog on the way?”
“He’ll be here in about an hour.” To Baxter’s credit, he wasn’t getting sideways with Diaz’s questions. But then Baxter didn’t feel he had anything to prove; his goal was to find the missing child, nothing else. If Diaz could help, that was fine with him.
Diaz grunted. The little boy had already been missing for over two hours. Another hour to get the dog here, get him oriented, give him the scent—they could be looking at four hours for the little boy to be out in this heat, sick, no water.