The Handkerchief on the Bus

Dax was there, pacing, and a hired man loitered near the back — but the chair I had dreaded seeing, the chair from the message, was empty.

Cody was not there.

Dax had never had him in this room; his man had been meant to bring the boy, and his man was, at that moment, in the back of a patrol car on the coast road.

“Where’s my son?” I said, because I had to play it, and my fear needed no acting.

“Close,” Dax said, not looking at me.

“You brought the drive.” I held up the decoy.