Patrick Moore-that is the boy’s name-leans against the graffiti-littered concrete support of the underpass. Ten years-and now fifty yards, no more, separate me from the missing boy.
Without conscious thought, my hands form two fists. Yet I confess that when I first see the boy-well, he is a teenager now, isn’t he?-I can feel my pulse race. These qualities, if you will, have saved me and those who matter to me time and time again. I may strike quickly and violently, but I do nothing without a certain level of deliberation and purpose. I have learned over the years to control my emotions and, more important, my reactions during stressful, volatile situations.
I have seen depravity that most would find difficult, if not downright inconceivable, to comprehend-and some would argue that I have administered the same. I have nearly been killed-and I have killed.
I am not one for hysterics or even feeling much of what might be labeled astonishment. The boy who has been missing for ten years steps into the light. ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***
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