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his daughter back.   His mother had faded slowly during his childhood, eaten away by the stomach cancer that had taken her when he was eleven, and his father had died shortly after that last fateful Halloween.   His baby, his Charity, was all he had left.
    Amber had been resourceful, though, and would not be found.   Not until she was dead and couldn’t run anymore.   She had changed her name to Sandra Monroe and moved from city to city, state to state, taking part-time jobs to preserve her pilfered nest egg.
    His private investigator had found her in Chicago, and by the time Gordon arrived she was already in the morgue.
    Charity was gone.
    Amber’s had been the last in a series of murders in the Chicago area.   The victims were always the parents, or a single parent, of one or more children, and always found brutally slain.   The killer never left a clue, a print, clothing fiber, a drop of his or her own blood, nothing.   The children were never found.
    The killer had moved on.   When a similar killing spree started up in Texas, Gordon went south.
    He followed the bloody trail for three years; through Texas, Arizona, Maine, New York, and Oregon.   Now Washington State.   He was early this time.   There were only two murders and three missing children so far.   There would be more, many more, and when the killer struck again he would be near.   Though he knew his chances of finding Charity were slim, he had to be there.   He had to try.
    If he didn’t find her, maybe he would find the killer.   At this point he would take whatever he could get, reunion or revenge.
    Gordon entered Riverside, the site of the latest murder, but continued east through the south side’s industrial area, passing Feral Park on his way out of town.   His first stop was Normal Hills, the site of Washington’s first murder.
    There was someone in Normal Hills he needed to see.
    He reached down for the cell phone clipped to his belt, thinking to give that someone a call, then changed his mind.   There was no need to bother him just yet; they would meet soon enough.
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    T he morning was bright and hot, too hot for June.   The Snake River flowed past Main Street and Maney Park like a slow liquid sapphire.   It was just past ten; by noon the air would be shimmering with heat.   The ground was still moist with the morning dew but would be parched again by noon.    Dust would rise with the temperature, riding the warm breeze through town like a plague.
    The mill on the north side of the river was a blur of activity, the log yard crawling with trucks and loaders, a constant source of white noise.   The shore was a wall of stone and thistles, embraced by a bed of driftwood and flotsam.
    The south shore was clean, picturesque, a mostly untouched natural shoreline fortified with hanging willows and brush.   On the west end of town Maney Park faced the river, providing several small barbecue pits, a gazebo, a restroom, and a concrete footpath that stretched to the east end of town, a median between the tall wind teased Willows and Main Street.
    Gordon drove another block to Little’s Café on the corner of Fourth Street and pulled to the curb, killing the engine.   His supply of Twinkies and convenience store burritos was gone, but he was still hungry.   Time for something with a little more substance.
    Gordon’s supply of ready cash was nearly gone as well, and most places   this far west wouldn’t accept a New Hampshire check unless it was at gunpoint.   He had to be careful with what cash he had left until he could find an ATM , and he was sure there wouldn’t be one in this little town.
    The inside of Little’s Café was as he had envisioned it: dim, rustic, faded and worn around the edges.   There was a half-circle counter lined with red upholstered stools.   The dark wood surface of the bar was a display of hometown pride,