Milk and Honey. Faye Kellerman

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      He circled the block, then reluctantly pulled over to the curb and killed the engine. He sat for a moment, smoothing his mustache, then slapped the steering wheel and opened the car door.

      What the hell, the walk would do him good. Stretch out his legs. No one was awaiting his arrival at the ranch, anyway. The home fires had been put out a long time ago. Decker thought of his phone conversation with Rina earlier in the evening. She’d sounded really lonely, hinted about coming back to Los Angeles for a visit—just her and not the boys. Man, had he sounded eager—overeager. He’d been so damned excited, she’d probably seen his horns over the telephone wires. Decker wondered if he’d scared her off, and made a mental note to call her in the morning.

      He hooked his hand-radio onto his belt, locked the car, and opened the trunk. The trunk light was busted, but he could see enough to rummage through the items—first-aid kit, packet of surgical gloves, evidence bags, rope, blanket, fire extinguisher—where had he put the flashlight? He picked up the blanket. Success! And miracle of miracles, the batteries still had juice in them.

      A quick search on foot.

      The early morning air felt good on his face. He heard his own footsteps reverberating in the quiet of the night and felt as if he were violating someone’s privacy. Something darted in front of his feet. A small animal—a rat or a lizard. Scores of them roamed the developments, all of the suckers pissed off at being displaced by building foundation. But that wasn’t what he’d seen before. That had been bigger, at least the size of a dog or cat. Yet its gate had been odd—staggering, as if drunk.

      He walked a half-block to the north, shining his beam between the nearly identical houses. Not much space to illuminate; the homes almost abutted one another, separated only by a hedge of Eugenia saplings. The houses were cheaply built, the stucco barely dry but already beginning to crack. The front lawns were patches of green sod, and many of them held swing sets and aluminum lawn furniture. Some of the driveways were repositories for toys, bicycles, baby walkers, bats and balls. The uncluttered driveways housed vans and station wagons, and small motorboats as well. Lake Castaic was fifteen minutes away. The developers had advertised that, and had succeeded in their goal of attracting young families. Ten percent down and low-cost financing hadn’t hurt, either.

      He strolled to the end of the street—this one was called Pine Road—then crossed over and started back to the unmarked. Then he heard it—a faint whistling in the background. A familiar sound, one that he’d heard many times in the past but couldn’t place at the moment.

      He jogged in its direction. The sound grew a little louder, then stopped. He waited a minute.

      Nothing.

      Frustrated, he decided to head home, then heard the whistling again, farther in the distance. Whatever was making the noise was on the move, and it was a quick little bugger.

      He sprinted two blocks down Pine Road and turned onto Ohio Avenue. Loads of imagination the developers had when naming the streets. The north-south roads were trees, east-west were states.

      The noise became louder, one that Decker recognized immediately. His heart raced against his chest. The adrenaline surge. The sound was now clear—a high-pitched wail. Goddam wonder it didn’t wake up the entire neighborhood.

      He ran in the direction of the shriek, pulling out his radio and calling for backup—screaming heard on Ohio and Sycamore. He pulled out his gun.

      “Police!” he shouted. “Freeze!”

      His voice echoed in the darkness. The crying continued, softer than before.

      “Police!” Decker yelled again.

      A door opened.

      “What’s going on out there?” asked a deep male voice, heavy with sleep.

      “Police,” Decker answered. “Stay inside your house, sir.”

      The door slammed shut.

      Across the street, a light brightened an upstairs window. A face peeked out between the curtains.

      Again, the crying faded to nothing. Silence, then a chorus of crickets singing backup for a mockingbird.

      The noise returned again, this time short sobs and gasps for air. Obviously a female, possibly a rape victim.

      He would have received the call anyway.

      “Police,” Decker shouted in the direction of the crying. “Stay where you are, ma’am. I’m here to help you.”

      The sobbing stopped, but he could hear footsteps trudging through the Eugenias, followed by the creak of unoiled metal. Decker felt his fingers grip the butt of his Beretta. The sky held oyster-colored clouds, the smiling face of the man in the moon. Enough illumination to see pretty well even without the flashlight.

      Then Decker saw it—the glint of metal!

      He jumped out from the Eugenias and yelled, “Freeze!”

      The reaction he received was a high-pitched tinkle of startled laughter.

      The kid had to be under two, still retaining the chubby cheeks of a baby. It was impossible to tell whether it was a boy or girl, but whatever it was had a head full of ringlets and saucer-shaped eyes. It was swinging on the seesaw on somebody’s front lawn, fragile little hands gripping the handlebars, eyes staring up in wonderment. Decker became aware of the gun in his hand, his finger wrapped around the trigger. Shakily, he returned the automatic to his shoulder harness and called off the backups on his wireless.

      “Off,” ordered a tiny voice.

      “For heaven’s sakes!” Decker stopped the seesaw. The toddler climbed off.

      “Up,” it said, raising its hands in the air.

      Decker picked the child up. The toddler lay its head against Decker’s chest. He stroked its silken curls.

      “I’m calling the police out there,” yelled a frightened voice from inside the house.

      “I am the police,” Decker answered. He walked up to the front door and displayed his badge to a peephole. The door opened a crack, the chain still fastened. Decker could make out unshaven skin, a dark, wary pupil.

      Decker said, “I found this child on your front lawn.”

      “My God!” said a muffled female voice.

      “Do you know who this child belongs to?” Decker asked.

      “Know the kid, Jen?” the man asked gruffly.

      The door opened all the way.

      “You found him outside my house?” Jen said. She looked to be in her early thirties, her hair dark brown, pulled back into a knot. “Why he’s just a baby!”

      “Yes, ma’am,” said Decker. “I found him or her on your swing set.”

      “I’ve never seen the kid before in my life,” Jen answered.

      “The neighborhood’s crawling with rug rats,” the unshaven man СКАЧАТЬ