Faint Trace Read Online Free PDF Page B

of his projects on his computer screen—­an elaborate comic book character that Ernie swore was original.
    The sky had begun to dim in the early evening light, pink and gold streaking across the sky. The street was quiet, but suddenly Taylor was there, gliding down the driveway into the street on his skateboard, pushing off again to keep the momentum going.
    â€œAre you kidding me?” Ernie said. “The kid doesn’t so much as leave the house in a month, and tonight he decides to go out on the town?”
    We radioed in the information looking for backup but there was none to be had: The Saigon Death Squad had allowed the truck carrying the counterfeit goods to leave the docks, but were trailing close behind. We could anticipate where it was going—­the lavender house under the highway—­and our agents had started to box the gang members in as their cars got close, cutting off streets and making escape impossible. No one from our team could be spared.
    â€œCan the social worker back you up?” Stanzler asked, and I heard several radios go mute. They were laughing at us.
    â€œCar or walk?” I asked Ernie, and we took off on foot. In the distance I watched Taylor slow, joining a crowd of students and parents who were flooding the school. As we got closer I saw why: A big sign announced that it was class and club night. I wondered what Taylor’s talent might be.
    As we entered the lobby we were greeted by dozens of hellos in twenty different languages, the foreign language and culture club offering greetings and maps of the school, which Ernie and I studied closely. The classrooms surrounded a courtyard in a big loop, and different group activities were marked along the way.
    â€œDo you want to go left and look for him among the yearbook, school band, and drama clubs, or go right and check out the school newspaper, fine art display, and speech and debate team?” Ernie asked.
    â€œShouldn’t we stick together?” I asked.
    â€œHe’s not armed and dangerous, Lyons,” he said. “We miss him here, we can catch him when he’s eating his milk and cookies before bed.”
    I WEN T RIGHT , passing through hallways lined with posters illustrating the Industrial Revolution and mitosis. During my classroom searches I heard snatches of conversation, parents using the opportunity to corner teachers about what their children needed in order to do better or the speech and debate club presenting a motion in favor of banning offshore fracking in California. As I made my way around the loop, the music got louder. The school band was doing a mash-­up of Franz Ferdinand’s “Take Me Out” and Kool & the Gang’s “Celebration” that wasn’t half bad.
    I listened to the radio hidden in my ear, following the updates from operation downtown even as I scanned the room for Taylor. I rounded a corner and ended up in an atrium, rows and rows of artwork lining pin boards propped in the hall. I walked slowly through the artwork, penciled studies of ferns and psychedelic self-­portraits in pastels hung with the student’s name and grade labeled underneath. Most kids had one picture on display but Taylor had three. With blue ribbons taped to the corner of two pictures, I’d bet that Taylor in was the area—­his talent was art.
    Taylor’s first picture looked like an architect’s draft, the precise renderings of a house drawn in pencil. Next to that was one of his comic book characters, done in Photoshop, all bright colors and metallic shading. The third was a drawing of a tree with ragged roots and a tilting trunk, oranges hanging from the branches. I stepped closer, studying it, and realized that the tree stood in Taylor’s backyard.
    â€œExcuse me.”
    A woman approached, her cheeks flushed with the heat. She looked more like a student than a teacher, despite what her name tag said. “Are you Taylor’s