After one long scream, the man died.

 

And still the screams continued.

 

For a moment Rogers couldn’t fathom how the dead man could still be making

noise, until he looked past the body and saw a small boy leaning out of the

truck’s driver’s side, a Happy Meal in his hands, a smudge of ketchup riding on

the outside edge of his mouth.

 

The boy must have been sleeping in the front seat when Rogers had been checking

out the truck and trailer.

 

The boy was looking right at him. But it was dark. He couldn’t possibly—

Rogers’s brain jolted and jerked and misfired under his skull. He had

contemplated every possibility except this one.

 

He had no choice.

 

He lunged, grabbed the boy’s arm, and pulled him out of the truck.

 

The boy dropped the Happy Meal and was still screaming until Rogers placed a

hand over his face. He squirmed and struggled, but as his lungs and brain were

deprived of oxygen, his thrashing slowed.

 

Rogers counted in his head, his gaze not on the boy but on the dead Donohue,