The officers and detectives quickly left the briefing room to begin their assigned searches.
Captain Renard gathered his files and prepared to join the operation, but Nick and Hank remained near the doorway, waiting until everyone else was gone.
Renard noticed them blocking his path and frowned.
“What is it?” “The college student from our homicide case was wearing a red jacket when she was attacked,” Nick said quietly.
It was not the sort of theory they could announce to the entire task force.
Red was a common color, and the connection might be nothing more than a coincidence.
Publicly linking Robin Howell’s disappearance to a brutal murder without evidence would only create panic.
Renard clearly remembered the earlier case.
His expression hardened as he glanced at the photograph in his hand.
“The young woman who was torn apart in Forest Park?” Hank nodded.
“Sylvie Oster.” Renard looked down at Robin’s smiling face.
The child’s cheerful expression now seemed painfully out of place.
“Let’s hope we aren’t dealing with the same offender.” Twenty minutes later, Hank’s unmarked Mercury stopped near the southern entrance of Berkeley Park.
Nick unfolded a map and compared it with the notes Drew Wu had forwarded from Robin’s family.
“Her mother said Robin was supposed to cross Hunter Lane after school, follow the route around the park, and continue to her grandfather’s house.” Hank stood near the entrance and studied the surrounding streets.
“His house is directly north of the park, isn’t it?” “4753 Hildabrand Road.
It’s almost straight across from the other side.” Nick turned to the next page of the interview notes.
“Robin’s mother repeatedly warned her not to enter the wooded paths.” Hank smiled without humor and started toward the trees.
“Children always follow their mothers’ instructions.
I know I certainly did.” Berkeley Park was much smaller than Forest Park, but its interior still felt separated from the surrounding neighborhood.
Residential streets and detached houses enclosed the wooded area, yet thick vegetation concealed most signs of the city once the detectives passed beneath the trees.
Unlike the towering Douglas firs along Balch Creek, the neighborhood park contained shorter firs, cedars, and scattered spruce trees.
Their branches did not completely block the sunlight, allowing vines, ferns, and dense shrubs to spread across the ground.
After only thirty or forty steps, the shade removed most of the late-summer heat.
The trail soon divided, with one path curving around the park and another disappearing deeper into the vegetation.
“Check beneath the bushes,” Nick told Hank.
“A child’s backpack or clothing could easily be hidden under there.” Hank followed the wider path while Nick entered the narrower trail.
The soil smelled of moisture, fallen leaves, and decaying wood.
The scent was not pleasant, but the cool air beneath the canopy offered relief from the dry heat beyond the trees.
The surroundings stirred memories from Nick’s previous life.
During an overseas U.S.
Army deployment, his unit had spent more than two weeks concealed inside a similar forest near the border of an allied country.
A civil conflict had broken out across the frontier, and a large armed group attempted to cross into nearby communities to raid homes and attack civilians.
The terrain prevented the Army from using its heavier vehicles and equipment.
Support personnel were reassigned to reinforce the defensive positions, placing Nick’s field-kitchen squad alongside infantry soldiers and reconnaissance teams.
They waited beneath rain-soaked trees until the militants crossed into the ambush zone.
The engagement had been brief and overwhelmingly one-sided.
By the time it ended, none of the attackers remained capable of threatening the nearby settlements.
Nick later overheard the battalion commander discussing the soldiers’ mental condition with a chaplain and behavioral-health officer.
The commander worried that troops who had never experienced combat might develop severe trauma after an engagement that had resembled target practice more than a balanced fight.
The chaplain had answered calmly.
“They know why they were there.
They defended civilians and stopped armed men from crossing that border.
They weren’t invading someone else’s home.” His confidence proved mostly correct.
A few soldiers struggled during the first weeks afterward, but counseling and support helped them recover.
Nick had carried the memories with him without allowing them to control his life.
The operation remained classified long after he left the Army.
Public reports mentioned only regional fighting and several incidents near the allied border.
The memory disappeared as quickly as it surfaced.
“Nick!” Hank shouted from somewhere to his right.
“I found something!” Nick’s chest tightened.
He abandoned the trail and pushed directly through the shrubs.
Branches scraped across his jacket as he bent forward and forced his way toward Hank’s voice.
He emerged beneath a spruce tree with leaves and pieces of dead vegetation caught in his hair.
Hank was crouching beside a small pink-and-purple backpack partially concealed beneath a tangle of vines.
Two letters had been written across the fabric in a child’s uneven handwriting.
R.H.
“Robin Howell,” Hank said grimly.
Nick crouched beside him but did not touch the bag.
“She was taken here.” He studied the disturbed plants and exposed soil surrounding the backpack.
Several broken stems suggested that someone had moved quickly through the area, but the ground near the trail contained too many overlapping marks to reveal a clear direction.
“I’m calling it in,” Hank said.
He took out his phone and contacted the command post.
“We found a crime scene inside Berkeley Park, near the Hildabrand Road side.
The missing child’s backpack is here.” While Hank reported their position, Nick expanded his search beyond the immediate area.
A patch of dark soil beneath a cluster of ferns caught his attention.
A boot print had sunk deeply into the ground.
Nick knelt without stepping closer.
The tread pattern matched the photograph from the Sylvie Oster investigation.
It came from the same style of eight-eyelet work boot found near her scattered remains in Forest Park.
Moisture still glistened inside the impression.
The print was fresh.
“Hank!” Nick called.
“We have matching boot tracks!” His partner was still speaking on the phone, but Nick could not wait.
The prints formed a broken line through the undergrowth, leading away from the backpack.
He followed them at once.
Most trails in Berkeley Park were paved with gravel or compacted dirt.
The abductor had avoided those open routes, probably to prevent hikers from seeing him with the child.
Moving through wild vegetation provided concealment, but the softer ground preserved his footprints.
Nick tracked the impressions with growing fear.
Sylvie Oster’s remains remained vivid in his memory.
Robin was only six years old, and the thought of finding the child in the same condition filled him with dread.
The protective instinct was not connected to his badge or detective assignment.
Any decent person would feel the same fury while pursuing someone who preyed on children.
Nick increased his pace.
He feared that the tracks would lead him to torn red clothing, blood-soaked leaves, and another body scattered beneath the trees.
Fortunately, the abductor had not attacked Robin where he found her.
The boot prints continued west through the park.
They curved around several trees, crossed a patch of loose soil, and finally disappeared behind a low embankment.
Nick climbed the slope in several quick strides.
The trees abruptly ended, revealing a quiet residential road.
Berkeley Park had no surrounding fence.
Its wooded boundary opened directly onto the street, with a row of detached houses facing the park from the opposite side.
Nick stopped at the top of the embankment and scanned the area.
There was no abandoned vehicle, blood, dropped clothing, or visible sign of Robin.
The paved road had erased the trail, making it impossible to determine whether the abductor continued on foot or entered a car.
He looked along the nearby utility poles and intersections but saw no public surveillance cameras.
For several seconds, frustration left him uncertain which direction to take.
Nick then focused on the houses across the street.
Residential security systems were less common in 2008, and modern video doorbells had not yet become widespread.
Still, a homeowner might have installed an exterior camera to watch the driveway, garage, or front entrance.
Even without a recording, someone could have been looking through a window when the abductor emerged from the park.
Nick descended the slope and crossed the road.
He would start knocking on doors and trust that one of the neighbors had seen something.