Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

especially when I’m outnumbered twenty to one. Keeping my hand on the girl’s shoulder, I straighten and make eye contact with a few of them. “You have thirty seconds to clear out, or I’m going to start arresting people and calling parents.”
    When they begin to disburse, I glance at the girl. She’s eyeballing her friends, gesturing, sending them nonverbal messages teenager-style, and I realize she’s enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame.
    “What’s your name?” I ask.
    She gives me an “Eat shit” look. But she’s smart enough to know this is one standoff she’s not going to win. “Angi McClanahan.”
    “You got ID on you?”
    “No.”
    I extend my hand to help her up, but she ignores it and jumps to her feet with the grace of a fallen figure skater going for the gold. She’s a pretty girl of about sixteen, with blond hair and blue eyes, freckles sprinkled over a turned-up nose. Her build is substantial, but she carries it well, the way young women do. The sleeve of her T-shirt hangs off her shoulder. I see scratch marks on her throat, another on the inside of her elbow. There’s blood on her jeans, but I don’t know where it came from.
    “Are you injured?” I ask. “Do you need an ambulance?”
    She gives me a withering look. “I’m fine.”
    “What happened?”
    She jabs a finger in the direction of the other girl and her lips peel back. “I was out here hangin’ and that fuckin’ ho jumped me.”
    The words dishearten me, but it’s the hatred behind them that chafes my sensibilities. I don’t know when kids started talking this way, but I detest it. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not naïve. I’ve heard worse words in the course of my law-enforcement career, many of which I’ve been the target of. But hearing that kind of rhetoric from such a pretty young woman somehow shocks me.
    I reach for the cuffs tucked into a compartment on my belt, yank them out. “Turn around.”
    “ Dude. ” Her gaze slides down to the cuffs and she raises her hands. “I didn’t do anything!”
    “Put your hands behind your back.” Grasping her bicep, I spin her around, snap one end of the cuffs onto her right wrist, and draw it behind her. “Give me your other hand. Now.”
    “Please don’t . . .” She’s upset now. On the verge of tears. Starting to shake.
    I don’t feel much in the way of compassion. Grabbing her free wrist, I snap the cuff into place and crank it down. The too-sweet scent of drugstore perfume mingles with the stink of cigarettes and comes off her in waves. Grasping the chain link between the cuffs, I guide her to the window. There, I turn her around, lean her against it, and put my finger in her face. “Do not move from this place,” I tell her. “Do not speak to anyone. Do you understand?”
    Mouth tight, she refuses to answer and looks away.
    When I turn my back, she mutters, “ Bitch. ” I let it go and start toward the crowd. Most of the teens have disbanded, but there are several stragglers, their eyes bouncing from me to Angi, hoping for more fireworks.
    The crunch of tires on gravel draws my attention and I see the Painters Mill PD cruiser pull up behind my Explorer. Relief flits through me when Officer Rupert “Glock” Maddox emerges. A former marine with two tours in Afghanistan under his belt, Glock is my best officer, and I’m invariably glad to see him, especially when I’m outnumbered, whether by teenagers or cows.
    The remaining teens give him a wide berth as he walks onto the bridge. He has that effect on people, though he doesn’t seem to notice. “Whatcha got, Chief?”
    “A couple of Einsteins thought it might be fun to roll around on the ground and beat the shit out of each other.”
    He glances past me at the handcuffed girl. “Females?”
    “It’s the new thing, I guess.”
    “Damn. That’s just wrong.” Shaking his head, he slants a doleful look my way. “Girls didn’t fight when I was a kid.”
    “Evidently, stupidity is an equal-opportunity condition.” I motion toward Angi McClanahan and lower my voice. “See what her story is. If she gives you any shit, arrest her.”
    He pats the Glock at his hip. “Hey, I’m an equal-opportunity kind of guy.”
    I withhold a smile. “I’m going to talk to Muhammad Ali over there.”
    I find the second fighter on the opposite side of the bridge, standing next to the girl with the pierced eyebrow. Both girls are facing away from me, staring out the window, elbows on the sill, smoking