“Let’s take another look,” Frank said.
“Hold Bool,” Ben said. “I’m in jeans, you’re in a suit. Let me crawl.”
“There’s no one under there,” the officer said again.
Frank said, “Maybe you should be the one to crawl.”
“I’ll go,” Ben said again, to the officer’s relief. “I took up anthropology knowing I’d get to play in the dirt.” He took a flashlight from his pack and got down on his stomach.
When the leg of his jeans pulled up enough to reveal his Flex Foot prosthesis, he heard the cop say, “Oh, Jesus, fella, here-let me do it. I didn’t know you were a cripple.”
Ben looked up at Frank with a look of mock horror. “I’m a cripple? When did that happen?”
Ignoring the officer’s flustered attempts to explain himself, Ben put his head through the opening, which looked just wide enough for his shoulders. Bool whimpered, wanting to follow.
Ben didn’t immediately go further. He could see that someone else had already crawled there.
“He might not be in here now,” Ben called to Frank, “but he’s been here. The dirt’s soft under here, and I can see hand and footprints. Not big enough to be a man’s.”
They seemed small even for an eight-year-old, he thought. He tried to avoid the boy’s path. The prints seemed to be both coming and going, but he wasn’t sure. There were also stains in the dirt that might be blood. Brushing aside thick cobwebs that hung from the joists, he made slow but steady progress. Finally, beneath the front of the house, the trail came to a halt. There was a hollowed out place, a small burrow roughly a yard long and eighteen inches deep. He pointed the flashlight into it and drew in a breath.
“Frank,” he said, using the radio. “He’s not here now, but I think he has been. And I’ve found his toys. Come around to the foundation vent at the front of the house. You can see it through there.”
Frank brought Bool back to his crate before heading to the side of the house. He then crouched down looked into the vent, which was missing its cover-assuming that one might have once been on it. Ben’s flashlight illuminated the hollowed out space in the dirt. In addition to a red lunch pail and Thermos, he saw a neatly arranged collection of toys and other playthings-miniature cars, a bag of plastic toy soldiers, a flashlight, a grass-stained baseball, a toy periscope, a mirror, a magnifying glass, and two model airplanes that had seen better days.
Frank looked into Ben’s face and saw the question that was on his own mind reflected there: what kind of life had this child lived here, if he hid with his toys beneath the house?
“A periscope, flashlight, mirror, and this-” Ben said. He held up an index card that someone had laminated in plastic. A handwritten cheat sheet for Morse code. “Everything a secret agent-or a kid hiding from his dad-needs.”
Frank looked at the houses across the street. Several could be seen from the crawl space vent, including the Kendalls’.
His cell phone rang. He saw his partner’s number on the display. “Pete? What’s up?”
“Anonymous call just came in saying the kid is alive and well in the woods near Lake Arrowhead. Location was fairly specific, but I thought you might want to know. San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department is already on the way up there.”
“A call.” Frank rubbed his hand over his forehead, thinking about what Pete had just said. “This hasn’t been out on any media yet, right?”
“Right. No public information release yet.”
“Any trace on the call?”
“Payphone near a convenience market. We’ve got someone on the way there now, but I’m sure she’s long gone.”
“She?”
“Caller was female, sounded young.”
“The aunt?”
“Not unless she can be two places at once. I was talking to her again when the call came in.”
“But it was local? Not from Arrowhead?”
“No, from here in Las Piernas. Makes me worry about the kid, though. It gets damn cold up there at night. Maybe Ben could go up there with the dogs. What do you think?”
He looked back at the Kendall house, thought of Ralph Kendall saying that Jordy had been “out all night.”
“Frank?” Pete asked.
“I’ll talk to Ben. Meantime, do me a favor and try to find out if Jordy Kendall has a girlfriend.”
When Frank, Ben, and the dogs arrived at the search area in the mountains, the Sheriff’s Department already had a command post set up, and searchers out, but without any luck. Ben had worked on searches in the area before, and introduced Frank to Greg Fischer, the deputy in charge.
“Ben,” Fischer said, looking at his filthy jeans and shirt, “you fall down or something?”
“No, but I take my weekly bath on Sunday, so this only has to last another day.”
Frank asked, “Any property near here owned by a family named Kendall?”
“I’ll check,” Fischer said. Ten minutes later, he told them, “Down the road, about half a mile.” He gave Frank the address. “You want to tell me why you want to know?”
“Just a hunch. Connection with the boy’s family. Come along if you like.”
“I need to coordinate from here, but give me a call if you think you’re on to anything. Think we might need a warrant?”
“I don’t know. We’ll call you if it looks that way.”
At the Kendall property, Ben harnessed Bool again. Before long, the dog had picked up a trail. It seemed to lead from the house to the driveway, and down the road a short distance, but the dog lost it after that.
Ben praised him and brought him back to the truck. “Might have been in a vehicle. Bool can sometimes track a scent of someone traveling in a vehicle, but conditions don’t seem to be the best for him here.”
“He’s given us a good start,” Frank said. “I called Fischer, and he said to keep him posted. He might pull some of his guys over this way to help out.”
“Let’s give Bingle a try.”
Half a mile in the opposite direction from the Sheriff’s search area, Bingle, who worked off lead, began barking, and rushed back to Ben.
“He’s found him!” Ben said, and praised Bingle in Spanish, the language he used to give the dog commands, then encouraged him to “refind.” The dog bounded ahead a little, looked back at Ben and barked.
“He’s alive, right?” Frank said, knowing that Bingle was trained to howl when he found a dead body, to bark for a live find.
“Yes, but who knows what kind of shape he’s in,” Ben said, hurrying after the dog, who was impatiently barking again. He continued in this way for several yards.
When Ben first saw Lex Toller, the boy was holding tightly to Bingle’s neck. Once again, Ben thought there must have been some mistake. Bingle was a big dog, and weighed more than many children of that age, but this child was too small for eight, surely.
Lex was bundled up in a down jacket and a knit cap-both looked new. Beneath the jacket Ben could see a light sweater. He had a pair of soft long pants on-the type made for hiking in cold weather. The socks and shoes he wore looked new as well. There was a sleeping bag at his feet, and a supply of energy bars and water-and a teddy bear. There was a gauze bandage on his chin, a smaller bandage on his hand. There was a bruise on his forehead. He looked at Ben with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
“¡Muy bien, Bingle! ¡Qué inteligente eres!” Ben said.
Bingle showed his pleasure at the praise, but stayed with the boy, and seemed willing to let the boy hug him as long as he liked. Not something most dogs enjoyed, but no one would ever convince Ben that Bingle and Bool were like most dogs. Bingle was nuzzling the boy now, then lifted his ears and wagged his tail.
A moment later Ben heard what Bingle had heard first-Frank coming up behind him. He heard Frank stop a few feet away.