“Don’t albinos have pink eyes?”
“Not all of them,” I said.
He flipped through the rest of the wallet. Apart from the credit cards that Lewis had provided, there was nothing else. No mementos. No photographs of any kind, saving up memories for empty days.
I wished I had taken some now, not so much to placate the policeman, but to keep Manny’s smile vivid in my mind.
He handed everything back. “Kind of a light wallet.”
“I’m neat.”
“That’s not neat, that’s OCD,” he said. “Okay, I’ll buy you guys might be legitimate; we already looked you up on the computer in the car. Manny and Angela Rocha, shot dead in their front yard, just like you said. Isabel Rocha, abducted. Got a nice mug shot of you, sir, from bad old days.”
Luis shrugged. “Reformed,” he said.
“Used to be in the Norteños, right? I didn’t know that was an option, getting reformed.”
“I got a good job.”
“Yeah? Doing what?”
“How is this helping to find your son?” I cut in. “Or Isabel?”
Officer Styles took in a breath, held it, and let it out. “It isn’t, I guess,” he said. “You tell me what you know about this.”
It was my turn to exchange a look with my partner. Luis, correctly guessing that I did not have enough experience in half-truths to be credible, took the lead. “We got a lead,” he said. “Isabel was spotted along this road, heading from New Mexico into Colorado. We were getting close when you stopped us. Look, if you want to come with us . . .”
“Who gave you the lead?”
Luis shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. But I promise you, if you let us follow it, we’ll do everything we can to get your son back while we look for Ibby.”
He meant it, and I knew that Officer Styles sensed it, too. He was on the verge of saying something when his phone rang. He checked the number on the display and said, “My wife.” Tension ran dark through his voice. He turned away to speak in low tones, and I did not try to hear what was said. The pain and fear coming from him was palpable, like a sickening fog.
Children, I thought. What can our enemies want with children?
So many terrible things.
Randy closed the phone and took a moment staring toward the horizon. When he came back to us, his manner and expression were composed, but that didn’t matter. He was far from calm. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Randy,” his partner said. “Everything okay with Leona?”
“She’s just anxious. I don’t want to tell her—” He shook his head. “I don’t want her to know this was a bad lead. She needs a little hope.”
It was astonishing, how little it took to change him from a man I needed to battle to a man I wanted to help. Djinn rarely changed their minds, but then, they had scopes of knowledge that humans did not. Human perception, I realized now, was like a prism, reflecting first one facet of a new thing and then another.
It made the matter of trusting someone even more risky. I wondered how they had ever learned to do it at all.
“Can you take us back to the motorcycle?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Because I like my motorcycle.”
That seemed to amuse him, but he nodded. “Sure. Why not?”
Back on the Victory, we raced down the road with the patrol car drafting behind us. Luis’s hand clasped the bare skin around my middle, sealing the connection between us and allowing me to concentrate on piloting the bike in Oversight as well as reality.
The red, faint trail of Isabel’s passage on this land was fading but still present. We were on the track, and we were very, very close. Over the next fold of the road rose the growing shadows of mountains. Desert was rapidly giving way to different landscapes and plants, although the toughest, thorniest bushes continued to make their presence felt.
The air changed gradually, too. We were traveling into different climate bands.
As the sharp mountains began to cut the sky in hard, black edges, the trace came blindingly clear, in a flare of hot red.
Luis saw it, too. His hand tightened on my waist. I increased speed, flying toward the site. If they intended to fight us, I was ready. Eager for it.
You will not take this from me. Not this.
Over the next ridge, the road fell into a gentle downward slope. There were no roads leading into the underbrush, no obvious settlements or buildings. No sign at all of human civilization here, except for this road built in a clean, straight line through nature.
I slowed, anxiety building inside me. I had expected to see something—a car, perhaps, or a building.
There was nothing.
And yet the trail ended here.
I slowed the motorcycle again, this time to a coast, with the engine humming and the tires hissing along the gravel at the side of the road.
I stopped.
“Oh, God,” Luis said, and every sound seemed to hang sharp on the clear air. “Where is she?” He sounded as confused and afraid as I felt, and he let go of me and swung his leg over the bike to stride away. He paced like an angry lion, hair blown in a black flag by the whipping winds. Grass bent and whispered its secrets. This flat, open area concealed nothing, but a child might be small enough to be hidden in the grass—
—if the child could not move.
I slowly dismounted the bike and approached Luis, who was stalking the edge of the road, frantically sending out waves of power like radar signals, hoping to get a response.
He did. I heard the sharp intake of his breath, and then he plunged forward, off the road and into the knee-high pale stalks of grass. Insects rose up in confused clouds, disturbed by his passage. I followed him. Behind me, the police car’s doors opened and closed, and I knew the men would be right on my heels.
Luis and I leapfrogged each other, racing through the grasses, both heading for the same point of pulsing red on the aetheric.
When we reached it, there was no sign of a child. No body. No presence at all.
Luis sank down on his haunches near a bare spot in the grasses and held out his hand, palm down, over it. I put my hand on his shoulder, and it popped up in Oversight in hot red.
The soil was darker here.
“What?” Officer Styles barked, as he and his partner stumbled to a halt next to us, looking at—apparently—nothing.
Luis touched his fingers to the soil, and raised them into the light.
Blood, smeared red on his skin.
He rubbed it slowly between his fingers, expression distant and closed even to me.
“It’s hers,” he said softly. “It’s Isabel’s.”
I knew, with a sinking sensation, that he wasn’t wrong.
Something failed inside of him, something that had been tenaciously holding together. His hope was dying here, the precious light of it guttering out like a candle starved of oxygen.
I was on the verge of feeling the same when I became aware of a strange flutter at the edges of my awareness, a kind of red echo.
I let go of Luis’s shoulder and stepped away into the grass, hunting for the source of the dissonance.
I found it. It was a plastic bag, the kind used to store blood for reuse in hospitals. It still contained a red film within it. I crouched next to it, studying it carefully.
Isabel’s blood was inside of it.
“Over here,” I said. Officer Styles was the first to my side.
“Don’t touch it,” he warned. I nodded. I had no need of touching it, in any case. The presence of the bag itself told me all I needed to know.
They had laid a false trail for us to follow. This was Isabel’s blood, taken from her small body, probably while she was unconscious. The bag had held less than a pint. They had sprinkled it along the road, and left a clear trail here, to the spot where they had dumped the rest to draw us in.