Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

going over the border to—”
    “I know,” he said, seriously now. “We won’t go across unless we think the trip is worth making—unless we’re sure we can find the boy. Tell Sheila that.” He slipped an arm around me, then bent and kissed me, lingering for a moment.
    I pulled away, frowning. “If you cross, and if you find him, how are you going to bring him back?”
    “We won’t,” he said. He took out the burrito and wrapped it in a paper towel. “Bring him back, that is. We’ll find out where he is, get photos, dig up as much information as we can about the situation, and report to the father.”
    I was relieved. I didn’t like the idea that McQuaid and Blackie might be arrested by the
Federales
and tossed into a Mexican hoosegow, with a kidnapping charge hanging over them like a Mexican machete.
    “After that,” he went on, “it’s up to the father and his lawyer. Theseinternational cases are always difficult. They take longer than you’d think.” He glanced up at the clock. “Hell’s bells. Look at the time! I’m outta here, China. I’ll call you before we go across.”
    He kissed me good-bye swiftly and was gone. I went to the window and watched him as he went out to the car, overnight bag on his shoulder, mug in one hand, burrito in the other. He was already absent from me, already focused on what he had to do over the next couple of days. As I turned away from the window, I was swept by a keen apprehension, sharper than any I had felt before when I had seen him off on an investigation. I was grateful for Brian’s clunky footfalls on the stairs, his almost-man’s voice: “Hey, Mom, do I have any clean gym shorts?” and Caitie’s higher-pitched, “Mom, I need some lunch money—and I can’t find my red shoe!” Their urgent needs (gym shorts, lunch money, two red shoes, burritos, orange juice, and milk) pulled me back into an ordinary morning, in our ordinary family.
    The bus arrives at seven twenty, give or take five minutes, and when the weather’s clear, the kids walk out to the bus stop on Limekiln Road. When the weather is rainy or very cold, I take them to the stop in the car. This morning, the clouds were beginning to thin, the sun was peeking through, and the day promised to warm up nicely. But since all three of us were ready to go and it was just damp and chilly enough outdoors to be uncomfortable, I gave Brian and Caitie a lift.
    We waited in the car until the bus came, listening to the local country and western station and joining Gary P. Nunn in a rowdy chorus of “London Homesick Blues.” When I said good-bye to the kids and watched them climb on the bus, I thought that if there was a better way to start the day, I didn’t know what it was. A kiss from my husband, hugs from two of the greatest kids in the world, and toe-tapping Texas music on the radio.
    On a normal day, I would have driven on to the shop, arrived a little early, and used the time to catch up on chores I hadn’t finished the day before. But this morning, after the kids climbed aboard the bus, I hesitated for a moment, thinking of what McQuaid had said the night before about Timms’ property. Instead of going straight into town, maybe I should make a quick run out to Timms’ place. I flipped open my phone with the idea of calling Sheila to let her know what I was going to do, but decided against it and closed the phone again. She’d either tell me not to go or want to send one of her officers with me. But I was close, just fifteen minutes away, and besides, I didn’t think it was dangerous—or maybe I just didn’t think.
    I put the Toyota in gear, turned left, and drove in the other direction, west, heading away from town on Limekiln Road, across Big Hackberry Creek. This part of the Hill Country is in the Guadalupe watershed. The landscape is cut by streams flowing south and east, carving out deep, wooded canyons. The Guadalupe River rises near Hunt, in the highlands west of Kerrville, and flows all the way to the town of Victoria and then into the Gulf of Mexico. To my mind, mile for mile, it’s the prettiest river in Texas. But dangerous. If a storm dumps a lot of water upstream, downstream people can be in danger and not even know it. People are more savvy about flash floods these days, but every year, at least one Pecan Springs driver ignores the Turn Around, Don’t Drown signs, and… well, drowns.
    A couple of miles farther west, on the other side of the bridge over a creek, I