Baxter consulted his clipboard. “Okay, Milla, let’s get your people organized.” Joann gave him a list of their names and he added it to his sheaf of information, then began calling off names two by two, and ticking them off the list as he gave them their instructions. He pointed to Diaz and Milla. “I want you two to head straight for the mountain.” He eyed Diaz. “You strike me as a tracker, and Milla has a sixth sense where lost kids are concerned. Maybe he did follow a dog, or something.”
He gave everyone Max’s general description—black hair, brown eyes, wearing a white Blues Clues T-shirt, denim shorts, and sandals—then sent them on their way.
She and Diaz fell into step as they threaded their way through mostly grassless lawns and alleys, often getting down on their hands and knees and crawling as they peered under cars, bushes, structures, anything that a small boy could squeeze under. Every few feet Milla would call Max’s name, then stop and listen. A sharp rock dug into her knee; a piece of glass cut her hand. She ignored all those physical discomforts, ignored the heat, concentrated on looking, calling, and listening. She had done this more times than she could remember, and yet every time her sense of urgency was just as great.
They were half a mile from the house when Diaz found a child’s footprint in the dust. They had no way of knowing if it was Max’s, but it was something. Milla crouched beside him and examined the print. It looked small enough to belong to a four-year-old, and the print was made by a shoe with smooth soles, rather than a sneaker.
“You’re bleeding,” he said abruptly.
Milla glanced at her hand. “It’s just a shallow cut. I’ll take care of it when we get back.”
“Wrap it now. Don’t contaminate the trail with your blood scent.”
She hadn’t thought of that. She stopped, drew the roll of gauze out of one of her cargo pockets, and began wrapping her hand. She could wrap it efficiently enough, but with just one hand she couldn’t tie off the bandage. Diaz pulled a wicked knife from his boot and cut the gauze, then sliced the end into two long strips that he then wrapped around her hand and tied in a firm knot.
“Thanks,” Milla said. She looked around. “Have you seen any coyote prints?”
“No.”
That was good. Small animals were a coyote’s food, anything from a rat to a pet to a child.
They went back down on their hands and knees, thoroughly searching everything. “Max!” Milla called. “Max!” She listened. No answer.
She was so hot she was getting a little sick to her stomach, so she took a drink of water and handed the bottle to Diaz, who also drank. If she felt like this after half an hour, how did Max feel, after almost three hours? If he was anywhere near, he should have heard them calling.
An idea struck her, and she fished out her walkie-talkie, keyed it. “This is Milla. What’s Max’s full name?”
A few minutes later the answer crackled over the radio: “Max Rodriguez Galarza.” She slipped the radio back into her pocket, put her hands on her hips, took a deep breath, and channeled her own mother. “Max Rodriguez Galarza, you come here right now,” she called in the sternest voice she could muster.
Diaz flashed her a surprised glance, and a tiny hint of amusement kicked up one corner of his mouth.
“M-mommy? Mommy!”
The little voice was faint, but understandable. Shock jolted through her that the tactic had actually worked; then the sweet flash of success made her turn a huge grin on Diaz. “Got him!” she crowed. She raised her voice again. “Max! Where are you, young man?”
“Here,” said the little voice.
That was helpful, she thought. But Diaz suddenly cut across a backyard to the right of them, so maybe it was helpful.
“Come here this minute!” she called, so he would say something else. He seemed to respond to the voice of authority.
“I can’t! I’m stuck.”
A pickup truck was parked in the backyard two houses over, and Diaz went down on his knees beside it, peering under it. “Here he is,” he said. “The back of his shorts is snagged.”
Milla grabbed her radio and broadcast the good news, while Diaz went down on his belly and snaked under the truck. She got down on her knees, removed her sunglasses, and watched as he used his knife to cut the belt loop on the little denim shorts that held Max to the undercarriage of the truck. She thought of what would have happened if anyone had got into the truck and driven it away, and shuddered. Max would have been dragged to death, and if the truck’s radio was on very loud, the driver wouldn’t even have heard him scream.
“Gotcha,” Diaz said, taking a firm hold on the little boy with one hand while he slipped his knife back into his boot; then he slithered out from under the truck with Max in tow.
Max was soaking with sweat, his little face was pale, and dark circles lay under his eyes, but he stared up at them and announced, “I can’t talk to you. You’re strangers.”
“That’s exactly right,” Milla said, going down on one knee beside him and taking the bottle of water out of her pocket. “Are you thirsty? You don’t have to say a thing, just nod your head if you are.”
He nodded, his dark eyes round with apprehension as he stared at her. She twisted the cap off the bottle and handed it to him. “Here you go.”
He grabbed the bottle in both hands, which still bore some of the dimples of babyhood but were showing signs of becoming big-boy hands. He gulped the water, tilting the bottle so high that some of it spilled down the front of his shirt. When he’d emptied half the bottle, Diaz reached out and stopped him. “Slowly, chiquis. You’ll be sick if you drink too fast or too much.”