LISA AUGUSTIN LAY on the cold cement floor of the barn doubled over in pain. Her lower jaw felt like it was dislocated, and at least one of her upper molars was loose. She rolled over onto her side and spat out blood. Then she looked around the barn and spotted Finn Weinrich.
He was squatting a few feet away from her with his hands to his cheeks, skinny and scared. He was rocking oddly back and forth as he stared at her.
Augustin reached her hand up to her shoulder holster, but before she got there she spotted her gun. It was lying on the floor in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” Finn Weinrich chanted and then hit himself in the face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Augustin heard car tires crunch in the gravel out in the courtyard and doors slamming. She grabbed her gun and aimed it at the man.
“Lie down on your stomach,” she ordered. “Hands up over your head.”
“Behind the house,” Finn Weinrich mumbled. “I dug a hole. Dug it. I’m sorry. I didn’t want …”
“Lie down on your stomach, I said. Flat on your belly. Now!”
Three officers appeared behind the pickup. “Augustin?” one of them called out.
“I’m in here,” she said.
One of the police officers, a boulder of a man, walked right over and grabbed hold of Finn Weinrich. He carefully folded him over, as if it were origami, and dragged him out of the barn. One of the other officers squatted down next to Augustin and put a cautious hand over her service weapon.
“It’s okay,” he said and lowered her gun. “He’s gone now.”
Augustin nodded. “I think he buried the boy. He said there was something back behind the house somewhere.”
She got to her feet unsteadily. Blood poured out of her mouth onto the light gray cement floor.
“We just need to call for an ambulance for you first,” the officer said, reaching out to keep her from moving.
Augustin pushed his hand away and walked out into the courtyard, swaying. She looked over at one of the police cars where Finn Weinrich was standing, his torso on the hood, and his hands cuffed behind him.
She walked over there and snapped at the officer to get him to stand Weinrich up.
“Where’s Lukas?” she asked. “Where did you bury him?”
The man shook his head, disoriented. Then he spotted something over Augustin’s shoulder that made him break out into a frightened, whining wail.
She turned and saw a rusty red Citroën BX coughing its way down the unpaved road. The car stopped when it reached the courtyard in front of the farmhouse, and a large woman stepped out of it.
“What in the world is going on here?” she asked angrily.
“Kirstine Weinrich?” Augustin asked.
“What do you want?” she thundered. She looked at Finn and shook her head. “What have you done now, you little nitwit?”
“Police,” Augustin said and started to approach her. “Stay where you are.”
The woman ignored the request and sped up. Her eyes darted over to Finn.
“What did you do, Finn? Did you steal something?”
“Freeze,” Augustin repeated.
The woman continued toward her son.
Augustin grabbed the woman’s right arm and she immediately swung at her with her left arm.
Augustin ducked and kicked the woman’s feet out from under her, so she hit the ground with a shriek of dismay.
“Mick,” Augustin said to one of the other officers. “Get her under control while I talk to the suspect.”
Her colleague took over. Augustin went back over to Finn and nodded to him.
“Come on,” she said. “You’re going to show me what you buried out back.”
Finn Weinrich led Augustin and one of the other officers among the trees behind the main house and pointed to a small pile of dirt that he had tried to conceal with a few dead branches.
“It’s down there,” he said and pointed.
“It?” Augustin asked.
He nodded.
Augustin exchanged a quick glance with her colleague, who stood behind Finn.
“What did you bury here, Finn?”
“The backpack,” he said. His nose was running in the biting winter cold. “The boy’s backpack.”
“And where is the boy buried?”
Finn Weinrich stared at her in confusion and slowly shook his head. “I don’t know … I don’t know …”
Augustin cautiously struck the top of the pile with her foot and an orange shoulder strap came into view. She put on a latex glove and pulled the whole backpack out of the dirt with a firm tug.
She held it up and looked at it. It was the orange Ninjago backpack they had been looking for. The dirty stormtrooper reflector dangled from the zipper pull.
She turned to Finn. He looked confused, scared.
“Finn, where did you get this backpack?”
“I found it.”
“You found it?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it.”
“Where did you find it?”
“At the Citadel.”
“You found this backpack at the Citadel,” Augustin repeated. “Were you the one who threw the schoolbooks into the bushes there?”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Finn. Did you find the backpack and empty the stuff out of it?”
He nodded.
“Why did you take it with you?”
“Because it … it was just lying there, and …”
“And you thought it was … what, nice?”
“It is nice.” He nodded again. “Can I keep it?”
Augustin shook her head. “No, unfortunately you can’t. We need to take it with us. It belongs to a little boy named Lukas. Do you know him?”
“I’ve seen him in the store. And in the newspaper.”
“You’ve seen Lukas Bjerre at Føtex Food?”
“He likes red apples the best.” Finn smiled. “There aren’t many people who do.”
Augustin exhaled heavily and looked around. She touched her cheekbone, which ached. Then she turned to her colleague and said, “We need to seal up this bag and get it over to NKC. We also need to get a team out here and search this whole place just to be sure.” She turned to Finn. “Do you and your mom live out here alone?”
The look in his eyes stiffened. Then he nodded.
Augustin spoke to her colleague again. “Okay, bring them in to the police station so we can question them formally, but take them in in two separate vehicles. I don’t want that woman near her son.”
Augustin made eye contact with Finn.
He gave her a grateful smile.