CHAPTER 41 Cross
Cross
Crunching sounds and mumbling rise from the underbrush near the trailhead.
Alex and Bree watch as the search teams emerge from the woods, moving like a defeated army. Their clothes are soaked with sweat, and their faces are drawn and grimy. Most of the searchers are scratched up and probably dotted with bug bites.
Nia comes out limping, grimacing from pain, helped along by a sturdy police cadet. Bree grabs a first aid kit from her go bag. “Over here, Nia. Sit down.”
“Twisted ankle,” says the cadet. “Nothing broken.” He eases Nia down onto the lip of the Camry’s open trunk.
Bree shakes an instant ice pack. She applies the plastic bag gently as tears run down Nia’s cheeks.
“I wanted to find Damon. I didn’t want to give up. I know he wouldn’t quit. Not ever.”
Other searchers move past Alex, overheated and exhausted. A few of them reach for fresh bottles of water and pour them directly over their heads. The water spills onto the dirt in small dark puddles.
Melissa is in the last team to emerge. She walks up to Alex, her hair matted across her forehead, and collapses against him, sobbing. “Dr. Cross, I’m so sorry. We didn’t find him. We didn’t find a damn thing!”
Alex hugs her. “Don’t get discouraged, Melissa, you did your best. You came through with a solid bunch of volunteers. That’s a big deal. We’ve only just started.”
As he comforts Melissa, Alex realizes that he’s giving himself the same pep talk. It’s not the first time he’s supervised a field search. Nor is it the first time he’s had to search for members of his own family. It’s too soon to admit defeat.
Alex turns around as Gail Bailey’s black Ford Interceptor powers up the dirt road and stops in front of the bus from the academy.
Two of the police cadets walk over when Bailey steps out.
She stands straight, hands on her hips, as she listens to their report.
Then she walks over to Alex, glancing around at the exhausted searchers. “Sorry it didn’t pan out,” she says.
Bree grimaces. “Yeah. So are we.”
“We’ll search again,” says Alex. “And we’ll come up with something else.”
Bailey nods. “I put a rush on Damon’s bike. We had his fingerprints on file.”
“From where?” asks Bree.
“YMCA,” says Bailey. “They do a background check on volunteers who work with minors.”
Bree takes a deep breath. “And?”
“Damon’s prints are all over the bike,” says Bailey. “But nobody else’s.”