The only thing that mattered right now was keeping Timmy safe and pinning Dugan for the cold-blooded killer he was.
* * *
JORDAN SPENT THE AFTERNOON working with three other boys, each with his own set of problems, but not as deeply embedded as the trauma Timmy had experienced. Still, they were here because they needed help.
Rory Morton was eight. He’d been abandoned by his mother, who’d run off to Mexico after stealing money from her boss’s company. His father had never been in the picture.
Six-year-old Wayling Gadstone had been abused by his grandfather, who’d taken him in after his parents died in a car accident. Wayling was now a ward of the state.
And ten-year-old Malcolm Thornsby had been caught shoplifting and vandalizing property with his older brother Jerome, who belonged to a gang.
She let herself in to her cabin, tossed off her jacket, needing to rest a few minutes before dinner. But as always she paused to study the picture of her brother she kept by her bed.
He was eleven in the photograph, gangly, with dirty-blond hair and freckles and a skinned knee from in-line skating in the streets of San Antonio. He had been athletic and funny with a flair for wrapping her around his little finger.
Then their mother had passed away, he’d hit puberty and it was almost as if some other kid had invaded his body. Before, he’d been a feisty, stubborn boy, but the next year he’d turned surly, become mixed up with the wrong crowd and...been murdered.
Unable to help herself, she picked up the folder that held the articles about his death and the gang who’d killed him, her heart heavy as she studied the photographs of the two boys who were responsible.
Fourteen-year-olds who had been trying to impress their leader. Just for sport, one of them had said with a laugh.
She had stared into his eyes as the judge had sentenced him and been shocked at the calculating coldness she’d seen there. At the total lack of remorse.
Rubbing her arms to ward off a shudder, she rose and went to look out the window across the BBL. If those kids, if Richie, had had this place, maybe things would have been different for all of them. Maybe those boys wouldn’t be in prison and Richie in his grave.
Wiping tears from her eyes, she forced herself to return to the table and look over the files of the teenagers at the BBL, both the counselors and campers.
Just to be on the safe side, she studied Malcolm’s file to verify that his brother Jerome wasn’t affiliated with the B-2-8s, the gang responsible for killing her brother. B for bloodthirsty, two for the number of kills it took to be initiated and eight for the eight tests it took to join.
The name of the gang Malcolm’s brother had belonged to teased at her memory, but it wasn’t the B-2-8s.
She spent the next hour combing through the other files, reading through the boys’ backgrounds, looking for signs that one of them might be dangerous.
The police had agreed that it was a good idea for her to leave San Antonio for a while. And Brody had promised to check out all the campers and staff himself.
But she still had to be always on her toes in case one of them slipped through.
* * *
“THIS IS OUR CABIN,” Miles said as he and Timmy entered the two-bedroom log house. “It’s pretty rustic but that’s ranch life.”
A leather sofa draped in an afghan sat in front of the stone fireplace. Beside it two big club chairs looked comfortable enough to sleep in. The den opened into the kitchen, very country but functional, the walls and floor made of knotty pine.
Timmy seemed to take it in with the same glazed look. “Come on, bud. Your room is in here.” He gently urged Timmy into the first bedroom with a nudge to his shoulder, then he opened the curtains. The sky had a gray cast, but a dim light spilled in. “I thought you might like this one because it faces the west and has a great view of the pastures where the horses run free.”
His own room had a window facing the rolling hills as well, but also afforded him a view of the road leading onto the ranch. He couldn’t be too careful. He had to watch for trouble.
Timmy didn’t comment, but he did move to the window and stared out at the horses galloping across the pasture.
“I’m going to unpack your bag and put your stuff in the drawers,” Miles said. “Then if you want, we’ll take a short ride before dinner.”
He busied himself removing the few jeans and shirts he’d packed from the house for his son and stored them within easy reach. Then he left Timmy still watching the horses while he unpacked his own bag.
Finally he checked the refrigerator, grateful Brody had had Ms. Ellen stock it with a few items so they didn’t have to leave for every meal. A quick glance at Timmy indicated that his son hadn’t moved, so he grabbed his leather saddlebag from his Jeep and set his laptop up on the oak desk in the corner of the living room.