Dreaming of the Bones

strident tones came more clearly. Potts came back on the line. ”Eugenia had a twenty-pound note in her purse yesterday, and now it’s missing,” he said, his voice rising in competition with his wife’s.
    ”How could he?” Kincaid heard Eugenia wail. ”After all we’ve done. We’ve suffered enough as it is—”
    ”I think it’s Kit who’s suffered quite enough,” Kincaid snapped. ”You should be glad he took the money. It makes it less likely he meant to harm himself.”
    ”Eugenia, for God’s sake, be quiet!” shouted Potts. Into the stunned silence that followed, he said, hesitantly, ”You don’t think ..
    Regretting his outburst, Kincaid said, ”I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m sure he’s all right. But he’s shocked and grieving, and we have to consider that his behavior may not be predictable just now.”
    ”What should we do?” asked Potts, making an obvious effort at control.
    Kincaid thought. The local force were not going to show much enthusiasm in looking for a boy missing only two hours, but he’d give them a ring and ask them to at least check hospital admissions. In the meantime, he’d better think of something useful for Bob Potts to do—anything at all being better than waiting. ”Do you have a recent photograph of Kit?” he asked.
    ”He gave us a framed copy of his school photo for Christmas,” said Potts, sounding puzzled. ”But what—”
    ”Take it to the bus and train stations. Kit had enough money for a fare. Ask the ticket vendors and anyone else who looks like they’ve been hanging about for a bit. A boy with a dog should be easy to remember. I’ll give the local police a ring and ask them to keep an eye out, but at this stage we’re better off looking ourselves.”
    ”You mean, you’ll help?” Potts sounded surprised and grateful, making Kincaid wonder what he’d expected.
    ”Of course I’ll help.” And God forgive him if he failed Kit the same way he’d failed Vic. He should have seen this coming.

    Under a flat gray sky the road to Cambridge stretched in a now-familiar ribbon across the plains. Kincaid stayed in the fast lane, and the speedometer needle quivered as he pushed the Midget to its limit.
    As he drove, he tried to ignore the images that flashed unbidden into his mind—Kit injured, Kit as tattered and lost as the homeless runaways he saw begging outside the Hampstead tube station. He wondered if the gut-wrenching panic he fought was part of what it meant to be a parent, and with that thought he realized he’d come to accept the idea that Kit was his son.
    But beyond that realization he could not go—not yet, not until Kit was safely found. Now he needed to concentrate on the present, making sure he’d covered every contingency. He’d left Bob Potts sounding a bit stronger, then he’d gulped a cup of tea while pulling on jeans and sweatshirt and making phone calls.
    The Reading police responded as expected, but agreed to make a few inquiries. Laura Miller said she’d not heard from Kit, but would ring round and let him know immediately if Kit had contacted any other friends, and Gemma promised to wait at the flat until he called.
    Rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin as he neared the Grantchester junction, he thought out his options. He knew from experience that the first few hours in the search for a missing child were critical. If his instincts proved him wrong, he’d have to call out the big guns and order a full-scale search, working outwards from the Pottses’ Reading neighborhood.
    Kincaid left the motorway and soon reached the outskirts of Grantchester. The streets seemed eerily empty, with only the curls of smoke rising from the occasional chimney giving evidence that the village hadn’t succumbed to some Brigadoon-like enchantment. He slowed almost to a crawl as doubt assailed him. Why had he wasted precious time on such a half-baked idea? Kit couldn’t have made it here, had probably never intended to come here. He was probably in London by now, being approached by one of the pimps always on the lookout for runaways to recruit as rent boys.
    But even so, he stopped the Midget in the street, not on the gravel drive where the noise would warn anyone inside. Climbing out of the car, he closed the door softly and stood surveying the house. It seemed to him that it had already acquired a deserted look, although it had been empty only a few days, and the pink stucco looked garish against the dull sky.
    He