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He could assume nothing, trust nobody.
    He had never met another person like himself, but he had studied their failures in newspapers and magazines. He'd even done volunteer work for Missing America, a large support  group for parents of missing children. He needed to get inside the mind of the parent and the police detective as well as the child.
    He knew the law. He knew exactly what would trigger FBI involvement. He also knew police, and what telltale signs would make them suspect a runaway. If they thought a boy had left home on his own they would quietly downgrade the case.
    Abduction by strangers was rare. In most places it was a sensational crime, not forgotten for years and years by the community. Etan Patz, abducted from SoHo in New York in 1976, was still being hunted.
    Because Jack was listed as a runaway everybody had forgotten about him. But Timmy was on those damnable posters all over the country.
    Barton had mixed reactions to that. The prospect of being investigated made him wake up sweating in the night—and yet the idea also caused a deep, illicit tingling.
    Most guys like him took their kids right off the street. Barton had done that in the past, but his new method was far more subtle and extraordinary than simply luring a kid into the back of a van.
    He drove slowly past the target house. Suddenly he became aware that his pants were soiled. There was a stain on his thigh. How long had he been wearing these pants? He couldn't remember. It could have been since last week, since Timmy. Revolted, Barton tried to pull the cloth away from his skin. He inadvertently turned the wheel. The van swerved badly.
    There—another moment of inattention. Somebody might have noticed the white van that swerved the day before Johnny So-and-So disappeared. And under hypnosis the witness might remember the license number of that van.
    It was so easy to fail.
    He headed back out to the interstate, driving quietly for a time, to calm himself. He would have to live with the stain. It was probably just grease anyway.
    He took an exit ramp about ten miles from Stevensville and drove down under a bridge where he had already scouted a good place to park the van.
    He thought over what he had seen. The family lived in a  lovely old neighborhood, but their house was visibly shabby. In addition both of the kids' bikes were old, and the station wagon in the garage had seen better days. These were good signs. A poor child was easier to dazzle.
    So he was part of a family of four or more. Unless the target had a brother whose bike Barton hadn't seen, it was likely that he would have a bedroom of his own in that big old Victorian house.
    Barton looked at his watch. One-forty. He would not return to Oak Street until after dark, sometime between eight and eight-thirty. It would be his first chance to check out the house on foot. If they had their name on the mailbox, that would be when he would learn it.
    Since it was likely that he could act tonight, he would have to check out of his motel now. Following his plan, he would start driving west immediately after making the hit. He'd sleep in Colorado and Utah, living in the van until he reached L.A., which would be on the fourth day.
    It was a hard drive but he'd done it before in that time, without ever once exceeding the speed limit. The idea of getting stopped for speeding with a kid in the van was too horrible to contemplate. 
    Maybe he was pushing too hard.
    He probably should have taken the week on Maui before coming out here. As it was, he was going to have a hard time convincing Gina that his extended absence was in any way legitimate, let alone forgivable. She had to give in, though. It would be suicide to fire such a popular employee. In his own very small way, he was a star.
    He needed another boy, and it couldn't wait even one fucking minute.

 
     

    4.
     
     
    A hand dropped down on Billy's shoulder.
    "Dad!"
    "Would you believe it's eleven o'clock?"
    "No. I thought Jerry was