It was dark by the time the van pulled away with the two boys in it. When it passed through the intersection at Walcott Avenue, Denton started his engine and followed, giving them a three block lead.

About forty-five minutes earlier, the old Chevy lurched to a halt in the driveway. A boy, roughly the same age as Agatha Radcliff's son, got out and went into the house. Through the reflection in the rear-view mirror, all Denton could make out was that he wore a gray winter jacket and that his hair was light brown or possibly even blond.

As soon as the road ahead of him was clear, Denton spun the steering wheel sharply and made a hasty U-turn. He parked the Mercedes in front of a house a few doors down and waited.

A light went on in one of the downstairs rooms, almost certainly the living room, where Edward had been playing videogames. That's all they're doing, Denton thought. They're sitting in there killing zombies, while I sit out here like an idiot. But every fiber of his being was screaming that this was the van that had abducted Maggie Biscamp. A small chrome insignia on the driver's door identified it as a Chevrolet Savana. It was at least twenty years old and looked like a precursor to a modern minivan. Where it wasn't rusted, it was a dark midnight blue. In poor light, it would easily look black. Perhaps that

was why the police had been unable to identify it.

Denton took out his cell phone and snapped a picture of it, before the rapidly fading light was gone. He zoomed in and took another of the license plate. His finger hovered over the email app, while he considered sending the photos to Bill, but he decided to wait and see what happened. It would be better to have something suspicious to report than to have Bill thinking he was now just sending him photos of random vehicles.

But so far they had done nothing that he could consider suspicious. The driver didn't keep exactly to the speed limit, and the van slid through a couple of stop signs, but there was nothing out of the ordinary with that.

He did not have an easy time staying with it, as it wound its way out of the neighborhood. Red lights and other cars blocked him, and his target slipped away more than once. If its roof hadn't been visible above the rest of the traffic, he would have lost them.

When they started heading out of town, he had the opposite problem to deal with. On the deserted back roads, Denton was certain they'd spot him. He dropped back, giving them more room, until the van was swallowed by the darkness. Only the glow of the taillights gave any indication it was still in front of him.

Out past the Bloodgood Berry Farm, the Savana climbed a hill and passed over it, disappearing from sight. He accelerated to keep his speed constant on the incline but had to will his foot not to press down too hard on the gas, in response to his anxiousness. He was impatient to get those taillights back into view. Each second of empty road filled his mind with the image of the van turning off and disappearing into the night. Logically, he knew there were no other roads for miles. They would be there, waiting for him, when he reached the top of the hill.

Except, they weren't. The road was empty. They had gotten away.

They must have spotted his car and used the brief interval to speed up and lose him.

A cold, sour knot twisted in Denton's gut, and there was a tender, strained sensation in the center of his chest. He hit the accelerator and felt the engine rev. Perhaps he could still catch up to them. The speedometer was just reaching seventy, when he spotted the van parked in front of an old ranch house, off on the right-hand side of the road. He lifted his foot off of the gas and was about to slam on the brakes, but he managed to stop himself. Squealing to a halt would draw too much attention. Instead, he left both pedals alone and let the car slow down gently.

At the speed he was going, he was past the house in seconds. All he could see was the van's passenger door opening and a figure standing under the porch light. Denton drove another mile before he found a driveway where he could turn around.

The plowed strip of gravel led off to nowhere. If there was a house somewhere in the fields, it was hidden from sight. Tires crunched over the frozen ground until they slowed to a stop. Then, there was nothing but a deep silence. Even the grumble of the car's engine seemed to vanish in the remote stillness. He put the car into reverse and was about to get back onto the road, when his phone rang. The first few notes of a Norah Jones song played: it was Linda.

"Where are you?" she said.

Denton struggled to come up with an answer. He wasn't about to tell her he was playing cop and following people around town, but he should have been home an hour ago.

"I had to go to the Home Shop in Westfield, they were all out at Jim's."

"They were out of windshield wiper fluid at Jim's Hardware?"

Denton couldn't blame her for sounding skeptical. It was about as lame an excuse as he could possibly have come up with.

"Sorry, I got carried away looking around the tool department. I'm on my way back now. I should be there by six." More like ten after, he thought gauging the distance.

"Okay." She still didn't sound convinced. "Just get back here soon. I'd like to eat sometime tonight."

"I'm on my way," he repeated.

Denton looked out of the windscreen at the snow covered field in front of him. Stars were beginning to show in the winter sky. The lonely vista chilled him in spite of the heat blowing through the car's vents. What was he doing out there? What was wrong with him? He should be home with Linda cooking up the pork chops he'd defrosted earlier. Instead, he was out there indulging in his own paranoid delusions.

Denton mentally slapped himself; it was time to snap out of it and re-join reality. He pulled onto the road and headed back to town. As he approached the ranch house, he tried to keep his eyes away from it. He tried not to look at it and see what those boys were up to. But he wasn't strong enough for that.

There were three of them standing out by the van. Both of its rear doors were wide open.

He had been doing a steady fifty miles per hour when he passed, but later, when he remembered that moment, it was as though he had crawled past them. Every detail was etched in his mind.

Even in the dim light, he could see the Radcliff kid standing there. He was talking. The cold made his words rise into the air as vapor. He was wearing a green parka and a black wool hat. Strangely, he was resting his weight against a cane.

The driver was leaning against the side of the van. He looked as if he were trying to act cool, shoulders slouched and hands in the pockets of his blue jeans.

Another boy, one Denton hadn't seen before, stepped from around the side and put a red plastic gas can into the back of the van. He was tall and bulky. At first, it looked as if he had a heavy winter coat on, but when he came out into the open, it was clear that despite the cold, he was only wearing a thick, plaid shirt. Denton guessed he was the person who had been on the porch earlier.

At the sight of the gas can, Denton's pulse rose, and he could feel the blood beating in his hands where they clenched the steering wheel.

There were possibly hundreds of explanations for why they would have a gas can. But only one came to mind.

He hit the hands-free button, and said, "Call Bill Stahl, cell."

It answered on the fourth ring. "Dent, what's up? We're just sitting down to dinner."

"Look, it's probably nothing but..." But what? he thought. He's going to think I'm insane.

He felt a second of dead air tick by, while he tried to come up with something to say. Finally, he swallowed his pride, and vowed not to let anyone else get killed because of a hesitation.

"I saw something suspicious: a van out on Federal Road. I'm emailing you the license plate number." He pulled out his phone and started sending the photo, while trying to keep one eye on the road. The Mercedes veered into the oncoming lane, and he had to yank the wheel to bring it back under control. The car began its winding path back down the hill and he glanced back at the screen to locate the send button.

"You saw a van?" Bill's voice expressed thinly veiled irritation. "It was at 21 Federal. Agatha Radcliff's son was there with two other boys, and they were loading gasoline into the back. It's probably nothing, but perhaps you could check it out."

"Shit, how do you know about Radcliff?"

"Long story. I just don't want anyone else getting hurt. They probably don't have anything to do with it. But if they do..."

"Alright, alright."

Denton couldn't figure out if Bill sounded exhausted or fed up. "I'll call dispatch and have them send a car. Dent, just go home now. I mean it. Stay out of it until I talk to you, okay?"

"That's where I'm heading now." Denton thanked him and hung up.

For the rest of the ride home, he saw that scene in front of the ranch house again and again, as if in slow motion. It was all murky monochrome: the black sky, the gray shadows, and the white snow. All except for the three flashes of color: the green jacket, the blue jeans, and the red gas can.

Green, blue, red, why was that familiar? The colors on a TV. Three colors of light that can create any other color.

Running his hand through his hair, he pushed the thought out of his head. He was merely latching on to meaningless details and trying to impose order on them. It was a rudimentary mistake. He constantly warned his students about doing it. He was supposed to know better.

He tried recalling more insightful details from the images, but there was nothing new. Perhaps if he had been able to read lips, he might have caught what Radcliff was saying. And why did he have a cane anyway?

The boy had been walking fine earlier.

Denton had his house in sight and could almost feel the warmth inside when the memory surfaced. The sudden glint near the boy's feet. The headlights had reflected off of something metallic.

It hadn't been a cane. It had been an axe.