"He bit me."

"Bit?" her husband said.

"I'm telling you. I couldn't keep away from him."

"Where is he?" Slaughter asked.

"The window. He was crawling like an animal."

Slaughter hurried toward the house. It was a single-story with a porch along the front and down the left side. He guessed that Warren was the boy he'd heard about when Marge had called, and he was thinking that he'd better look in through the windows rather than go into the house and risk the chance of something coming at him. He passed the aspen in the front yard and charged up the stairs. The porch rumbled under him as he looked first in at the living room and, seeing nothing, rushed along the side. Another window toward the living room, but he didn't look through it. He stopped, frowning at a broken screen that hung out from another window. Then he drew his gun-a gun against a little boy?-and swallowed, looking in at what had been a bedroom. But the place was wrecked in there, and he could see the blood, both on the floor inside and on the porch out here, turning toward where it was on the railing just above the broken bushes at the side. He stared off toward the gravel lane back there and sprinted toward the front again.

The woman had continued sobbing as her husband held her. People stood back from them, watching, murmuring to each other.

"Did he break out through the bedroom window?" Slaughter asked.

She nodded, gasping for more breath.

"He ran down toward that lane in back?"

"I didn't see. I only heard the noise, and when I looked in, he was gone. What in God's name made him do it?"

"I don't know yet. But believe me, I'll do everything I can to find out."

"I don't understand why he would bite me." She sobbed uncontrollably as Slaughter ran toward the cruiser, picking up the microphone.

"Marge, we've got a situation here. That young boy had some kind of breakdown. He attacked his mother. Now he's running loose. I want everybody looking for him. Have you got that?"

"Affirmative."

"The same address you gave me. And one thing more. I want the medical examiner."

"Somebody's dead?" Marge asked in alarm.

"Just get him. There's no time to talk about it. I'll call back in fifteen minutes."

Slaughter hung up the microphone. He hadn't thought to ask the mother, but he knew the answer even so, although he had to check for certain, and he slipped out from the cruiser, staring at Dunlap who was near him, and then running toward the woman yet again.

She continued to cling to her husband.

"Mrs. Standish." He had seen the name on the mailbox. "Mrs. Standish, look, I know that this is hard for you, but please, I need to ask some questions."

She slowly turned to him.

This would bring the trouble into the open, Slaughter knew, but he had to ask the question. He glanced at the people near him, turning so his back was to them.

"Did your son complain about an animal that maybe got too rough with him? A dog that bit him, or a cat? Anything like that?"

They stared at him.

"But I don't understand," the woman said.

"No bites at all," the husband said. "We told him not to play with animals he didn't know."

"He cut himself," the woman said, and Slaughter looked at her.

"What is it?" she was asking.

"I don't know. Just tell me how he cut himself."

"Some broken glass," her husband said. "A barrel in the lane back there."

Slaughter felt puzzled. He'd been certain that the boy was bitten. "Several weeks ago. Think back. Did anything seem strange to you?"

"This morning."

"What?"

"He cut himself this morning. Why a dog bite? Why is that important?"

Slaughter couldn't bring himself to say it. "We've had trouble with those wild dogs in the hills. It's nothing. Look, I need a picture of your son. To help my men identify him."

He hoped that he'd changed the subject, and they looked at him and slowly nodded, walking toward the house, Slaughter just behind them. He really didn't understand now. If the boy had not been bitten, why had he behaved the way he did? Maybe what he'd said to Marge was true. The boy just had a breakdown. Maybe they mistreated him. Maybe he fought back and ran from home. The only way to know was to find the boy, and as the couple went inside the house, Slaughter turned to frown toward the sun. It was almost below the western mountains. Dusk would be here soon, then night, and how on earth they'd find the boy when it was dark, he didn't know.

He peered in at the living room. The place was absolutely clean and ordered. Surely anyone who kept a home so well was not the type to beat a child. But he'd been fooled that way back in Detroit, and he was wishing that his men were here so they could set out, looking for the boy.

The husband came back with a picture. Blond and bright-faced, blue eyes, in his Sunday suit. The boy was much like Slaughter's son had been at this age, and he had some trouble looking at the picture. God, the boy must be in terror out there. Slaughter couldn't show his feelings, though. He simply told the father, "Thank you. I'll return it."

"Listen, my wife's too upset to come back out and talk about this. Find him, will you?"

Slaughter heard the sirens, pivoting as two cruisers pulled up in the street. "We'll have him back. I promise." Then he paused. "I think your wife should see a doctor."

"She'll be all right once she rests a little."

"No, I mean her leg. A human bite. It's probably infected."

"I'll take care to clean it."

"Take her to a doctor," Slaughter told him. "I'll check back to see about it. Look, I have to go."

He stepped from the porch, the photograph in his hand, the policemen coming toward him.

"This is who we're looking for," he said. "Warren is his name, and he's no doubt scared. But stay away from him. He's just a kid, but he attacked his mother, and I don't want any of you hurt."

They waited, looking at the picture.

"You two check the streets down this way. You two check the other way. I'll take the lane in back. Remember. Don't get careless just because he's little. I don't know what's happened here, but something isn't right."

Abruptly Slaughter faced the people on the lawn. "Everything's okay now. We'll take care of things. I want you all to go back to your homes."

But they just stood and looked at him.

"Come on. Let's move it."

Slaughter approached them, gesturing for them to leave, and slowly they dispersed.

"You'll know soon enough how this turns out. Just go back to your homes."

He turned toward his men. They were getting in their cars, and he was all alone, except for Dunlap.

"There's no chance to take you to your room," Slaughter said.

"I was hoping there wasn't."

"Hey, I know you need a story, but if word of this gets out, I told you there'll be a panic."

"I'll be careful."

"I assume I have your promise on that."

Dunlap nodded, looking puzzled. "But if the boy wasn't bitten."

"Yes, I know. It doesn't make much sense." They got in the car.

At the corner, Slaughter steered right, then right again, slowing as he started up the lane. He'd had to make a choice: here or where the lane continued to the left. But this direction took them toward the house the boy had fled from, and he figured that would be the place to start his search, so he was staring up the lane, then at the backyards and the houses on each side.

"I can't watch for everything. You check the yards on your side. I'll check over here."

"Hell, a kid, he could be anywhere."

"Just think of how the yards would look to someone small. A crawl space underneath a shed. A low spot in some bushes. Places an adult would never figure."

"Or he's maybe half a mile from here."

"Don't even think that," Slaughter told him. He was driving past the backyard of the house now, slowing even more, then stopping.