Against the Edge (The Raines of Wind Can - By Kat Martin Page 0,69

if the police stop us?”

“These weapons are all legal, all registered. All unloaded—except for my .45.” He pointed to another bag. “Ammo’s in there.”

Claire swallowed. “I’m afraid to ask what’s in the box.”

“My dive gear. I leave it in the car most of the time. I’m a frogman, remember? Oh, and a tactical vest. You never know when it might come in handy.” Ben slammed the lid on the Denali. They climbed inside and buckled up. Firing up the engine, he backed out of the garage.

Following Route 59, then heading east on 190, they pulled into Jasper a little over two hours later. A town of only eighty-five hundred, or so Claire’s iPad said, its only distinctive feature was the courthouse—a big old-fashioned brick building with a watchtower that dated way back to the 1850s.

The county sheriff’s office was on Birch Street, a ways out of town, a beige, flat-roofed structure with white sheriff’s department vehicles parked in the lot out front. She spotted a battered white Chevy pickup in a fenced-in area off to one side, and Ben parked the Denali near the entrance to the lot.

“That Bridger’s truck?” he asked.

Just seeing it made her stomach knot. “That’s it. I remember the dent in the front fender.”

But where was Bridger now? Where was Sam? Claire ignored the heaviness in her heart as she climbed out of the pickup and let Ben guide her toward the front of the building.

* * *

Ben felt the same sense of dread he saw in Claire’s face. Where was Sam? Had Bridger decided the boy was too much trouble and dumped him somewhere? Was he hurt or injured? Maybe even dead?

Ben worked a muscle in his jaw. As far as he was concerned, his son was in trouble and he was going to find him and bring him home. No other outcome was acceptable.

As he walked next to Claire across the parking lot, a silver-haired man, tall, broad-shouldered and imposing, approached from the opposite direction.

“Hello, there. I’m Deputy Carson. What can I do for you?”

Ben pulled out his badge and flipped it open. “Ben Slocum. I’m a P.I. from Houston. This is Claire Chastain. She’s a social worker from L.A. I gather that’s the pickup found outside town early this morning?”

“That’s right. What’s your interest?”

“I’m the father of the missing boy you’ve been looking for.”

“There’s a BOLO out on Troy Bridger, Dennis ‘Duke’ Hutchins and the boy. We’ve been keeping an eye out.”

“I’m working the case. I’d like to see what you found in the truck.”

Carson nodded. Family was important in Texas. “I think I can help with that.” The deputy led them into the sheriff’s office, down a hall to an interview room. He left them seated at a table, returned a few minutes later with a large paper evidence bag.

“Wasn’t much in the truck. No registration, no insurance info. Plate was still on so we knew it was Bridger’s. Mostly just trash inside. Our guys have already gone over it.”

He dumped the bag on the table. A beer bottle rolled a couple of inches. Ben caught it and set it upright.

“What about DNA? Bridger isn’t in the system, but if someone else was in the truck besides my son, it might give us a place to look.”

“We’re a small department, Mr. Slocum. DNA takes time and money. We can send this stuff to Houston, have the boys down there take a look. I can tell you there was no blood in the vehicle, nothing that looked suspicious.”

Relief filtered through him. “I’d still like them to make a run at it.”

“All right.”

But they didn’t have a sample of Bridger’s DNA, and Sam’s would just confirm what they already knew. Then again, maybe something would turn up that would give them a lead if the trail went cold in Converse.

Ben’s instincts said Bridger still had the boy with him. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to get Sam out of L.A. But now Hutchins was in the mix. If the three of them were together, Hutchins was a wild card that could change Bridger’s game plan.

The deputy handed him a pair of latex gloves. “I’ll give you a few minutes to take a look, but like I said, it’s mostly just trash.”

“Thanks.” Ben looked down at the pile that included torn Wrigley’s Spearmint gum wrappers, dirty blue paper windshield washing towels, an empty Pepsi can, two Lone Star beer bottles and a coffee-stained paper cup. Taking a pen out of his pocket, he