Holt ran his hand over his stubbled chin and wished fervently to be back in his warm bed. Instead, rain spat on him and sand worked its way into his boots.
He couldn’t believe he was standing in front of a second wrecked plane, as big an eyesore as a beached whale. And again, no sign of Robert Jackson Kelley. He got away—alive—again.
The Sheriff’s Department was a small one: the deputy, four detectives, and the sheriff himself. Dispatch, which also directed calls from across the bridge in North, Doby, and Womset counties, employed at least double. Without the summer’s influx of tourists, Holt doubted his position would exist at all. But Holt’s entire outfit had been called out to the beach, and they were combing over the wreckage, wearing gloves. He’d sent two guys into the woods. Holt stood in the middle, watching, his stomach roiling. He wished he had Tums.
“There’s blood in the sand over here.” Holt pointed with his toe. “You guys getting this? Don’t let the rain wash it away.”
“We’re taking samples, Sheriff.”
Holt knew he’d have to spend the next several hours on the horn, playing up a terrorist threat he didn’t believe existed, in order to rush these specks of Robert Jackson Kelley’s blood through one of Seattle’s crime labs. If these two crashes were chalked up to just a local punk, the samples would languish in the state’s backlog of nonviolent investigations. He’d have to make the case for an island-based sleeper cell, a delicate dance of convincing the lab and not making himself look like too much of a fool when he arrested a local punk after all.
Deputy Hauser stuck his head through the plane’s bent window frame, like an annoying sitcom neighbor popping his head over the fence. “Check this out, Sheriff.”
There were his men, stumbling out of the trees, one with his arm slung around the other’s shoulders, leg awkwardly bent. Sweat stains bloomed under their arms. Did they have pine needles in their hair? “We thought we heard him, went tearing through the trees. McMullen blew his knee out.”
McMullen shook his head, panted. “And it wasn’t even him. Damn raccoon.”
Just what Holt needed. Down a man, looking out of shape, bumbling, small-time. What if a lack of manpower forced him to deputize citizens?
If Robert Jackson Kelley tried this stunt one more time, the results would be disastrous for both the kid and the sheriff. How many times could an untrained pilot cheat death?
Holt hadn’t found a body since Rob Kelley Senior had left one in the middle of the road.
He had no choice now but to release Robert’s name and photo to the public. Someone, somewhere on this island, knew where the kid was. Someone was feeding him. He wished he had a photo other than Robert’s mug shot, snapped by Holt himself, grinning for the cameras, full-out cheesing, wide and proud. But the mother had lied to him already; he knew Robert had never been anywhere near the ferry. Holt doubted she’d offer up a snapshot.