Page 147 of Cold, Cold Bones
Simultaneously, the front doors of the visible cruisers opened. The four uniforms got out and stood behind them.
All was still. No chirping birds, yapping dogs, crackling radio, whining generator.
“Police!” Slidell called out.
Silence.
“Bobby Karl Kramden. This is the CMPD. We have a warrant to search these premises.”
More silence.
Slidell circled a finger in the air, pointed at the nearest cruiser, then toward the stairs. The two uniforms donned protective gear, drew their weapons, and crept forward, an advance team to check for trip wires, flash bombs, or any sort of booby trap. For a bad guy with an AK.
I heard no yelling. No gunshots.
Hinges rasped. Metal slammed metal.
Minutes later, a lot of minutes, one of the team signaled all clear. Slidell and Ryan hurried down the stairs.
Seconds crept by with glacial slowness. Minutes.
Realizing I was going at the thumb cuticle again, I slipped my hands into my pockets and watched, willing someone to emerge. Slidell leading a handcuffed Kramden. Ryan carrying a child, her tiny arms clinging to his neck. No one appeared.
When I thought I could take it no longer, Ryan’s head came bobbing up the steps. His hand rose to wave me forward. I bolted.
Descending the narrow treads, I passed one of the advance team heading topside.
“Any sign of the Lakin kid?” I asked.
He shook his head glumly.
“Kramden?”
“Negative.”
“Nothing?”
“Oh, there’s something.”
We hurried in opposite directions.
Slidell was in the first bus speaking by radio with the Sharon Hills unit. His flushed face and animated tone told me the search of that property had also yielded nothing.
Ryan was in the second bus, examining two papers lying on the makeshift desk. I joined him.
“The cop said you found something?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
I glanced down. The papers were actually maps, the kind passengers used to study while offering suggestions to frustrated drivers. Usually with both parties lost and irritated.
The smaller scale map showed both Carolinas. The edges were perforated, so I guessed it was torn from a spiral bound atlas.
The larger scale map was of Charlotte and the surrounding area. On it were features such as streets, parks, schools, and waterways, each category highlighted in a different pastel.
Slidell joined us, bringing with him the smell of sweat and outrage. “The other place is clean. No vehicle, no Kramden, no sign of the kid.”
“You’ll get him,” Ryan said.
