“You didn’t come home.”

Hunt moved back onto the porch. He looked at the flat, gray sky, pictured his son’s face. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“You coming home for breakfast?”

Hunt’s guilt intensified. The kid was trying to make things right between them. “I can’t.”

Silence then. “Of course not.”

Hunt’s fingers tightened on the phone. He felt his son slipping away, but had no idea what to do about it. “Son. About last night…”

“Yeah.”

“I would not have hit you.” Hunt heard breath on the line, then the kid disconnected. Damn. Hunt pocketed the phone and put his eyes back on the idlers. They watched the van with dark fascination; all of them except one. The old man in the stained shirt stood on the tracks, one hand clutching the waist of his ragged pants. His eyes drooped enough to show red skin at the bottom lids, and his other hand shook with a palsy as he sucked on a damp cigarette. He stared at Hunt, then gestured with a curl of his fingers.

“Yoakum,” Hunt said, and Yoakum stuck his head through the door. “I’ll be back.” Hunt indicated the man on the tracks, and Yoakum studied the decrepit figure.

“You need backup?”

“Fuck off, Yoakum.”

The bank crumbled under Hunt’s feet as he climbed to the tracks. Smoke curled around the wine-dark root of the old man’s nose, and, up close, Hunt saw that the palsy infected much of his body. He stood seven inches over five feet, bent at the shoulders and tilted right, as if that leg was too short. White hair rose in the breeze. He held out a hand, and his voice made Hunt think of soda crackers. “Can I have a dollar?”

Hunt studied the hand, saw the faded tattoo on the back of it. “How about five?” The old man tracked the bill out of the wallet, took it, and slipped it into one of his pockets. He licked chalky lips and flicked his eyes down the bank on the opposite side of the tracks. Following the gaze, Hunt spotted a tattered green tarp slung in the low brush beyond the kudzu. It faded into the trees, almost invisible. He saw a pile of empty cans, a ring of blackened earth. The man was homeless.

A raw and sudden fear flared in the man’s eyes. Tension put new creases in the hollowed-out cheeks. “It’s okay,” Hunt told him. “No problems.” He took out another bill and the old man’s head bobbed as he cackled, a rasp of noise that ended in a hacking cough. Something brown hit one of the gleaming rails. Hunt had to look away, and when he did he saw the bottles scattered down the bank. Cheap wines, forty-ounce beers, a few pint bottles of inexpensive bourbon. “Did you see what happened here?” Hunt asked, pointing at the house.

The man looked vacant, then lost and afraid. He turned away and Hunt caught him by the reed of his arm. He kept his voice soft. “Sir. You motioned to me. Remember?”

The old man shifted in place, fingers curled and yellow at the tips. “Sh…? sh…? she liked to walk around naked.” He gestured to the bathroom window. “She was laughing at me.” One eye twitched. “F… fucking bitch.”

Hunt spoke with care. “Are you referring to Ronda Jeffries?”

The man’s chin made a violent twitch, but he didn’t seem to understand the question.

“Are you alright?” Hunt asked.

Both arms rose. “Ain’t I king of the world?” He made as if to walk off, and Hunt put two fingers on the hard bone of his shoulder.

“Sir, can you tell me what happened here?”

The man’s left eye closed. “I just saw the shovel,” he said, and stood on one foot to scratch his calf with the front edge of his shoe. “He got that shovel.” He pointed. “Got it right out of that shed.”

“Do you mean Levi Freemantle? Black male. Three hundred pounds.” Hunt looked at the shed. When he looked back, the man’s face had gone slack again. “Sir, you were saying?”

“What do you want?” He waved a hand as if chasing flies from his face. “I don’t know you.” He turned and shambled off down the tracks, looked back once, then swatted at more imaginary flies.

Hunt sighed. “Cross,” he called, and waved him up the slope.

“Yes, sir?” Cross appeared on the tracks.

“Go get him,” Hunt said. “He may have seen something. Maybe not. See what you can get, but go easy. When you finish, call Social Services and the veteran’s hospital. Get them out here to help this guy.”

“Veteran’s hospital?”

Hunt gestured at the back of his right hand. “He has a tattoo. USN. The guy’s a sailor. Show him some respect.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Hunt made it back to the front porch, Yoakum stuck his head out again. “I think you ought to see this,” he said.

“What?”

“You remember the empty room on the southwest corner?”

“The bedroom?” Hunt asked, picturing it in his head. It was a small bedroom, stripped bare. A yellow shade in the window. Tape marks on the wall. It was remarkable only in its emptiness. “What about it?”

Yoakum’s voice dropped. “You just need to see it.”

Hunt followed Yoakum through the house. He pushed past technicians collecting prints, a photographer in a police jacket. Two uniformed cops made room for him as he approached the room. “It’s in the closet.” Yoakum opened the closet door and flicked the switch. Light spilled out, filling the closet, making its white walls seem brighter than they were. The picture, drawn with crayons on the back wall, was seven feet tall, childish and distorted. The man was outlined in black, had red lips, wide purple pants, and tremendous, stick-finger hands. The brown eyes were perfectly round, as if traced around the bottom of a mason jar. A series of lines rippled across the right side of his face, but looked sinuous and nonthreatening. He clutched a little girl to his chest and waved one hand, as if at a friend in the distance. The girl had oval eyes and a ribbon in her hair, a speck of pink almost lost against his wide chest. She had one hand up and wore a yellow skirt. Her smile was a violent gash of red.

“What the hell?”

“Exactly,” Yoakum replied. “That is exactly what I said.”

Hunt scanned the rest of the room. “No other drawings?”

“None.”

“Somebody has to know something.”

“We’ve canvassed the neighborhood, but they won’t talk to cops. Not on this street.”

“Is there any sign that a girl was held in this house?”

“The room’s been cleaned,” Yoakum offered. “That’s odd in itself. The rest of the place is disgusting.”

Hunt played his eyes over the bare walls, noted the spots where tape had been ripped off. The marks were angled, as if to hold sheets of paper by the corners. Hunt started in one corner and moved slowly along each wall. He studied the stained Sheetrock, the floor. He found crayon marks on the walls. There was not another picture, no kind of design. He found random squiggles and short, hard lines, like someone had drawn off the paper’s edge. He looked behind the yellow shade, then stooped for something in the far corner. He picked it up by the edges, and Yoakum came over to examine it. “Is that a button?” he asked.

Hunt tilted it, squinted. “It came off a stuffed animal.”

“What?”

Hunt looked closer. “I think it’s an eye.” He held out a hand. “Give me a bag.” Yoakum passed over a plastic bag. Hunt placed the plastic eye in the bag and sealed it. “I want this room dusted.” Hunt stood.

“Where are you going?” Yoakum asked.

“I’m tired of this shit.”

Hunt stormed out of the house and onto the porch. People still stood in tight knots, captivated by the sight of cops who presented no actual threat. Looking at them, at their complacence and their disregard, Hunt felt his anger boil into rage. Pitching his voice to carry, Hunt said, “I want to talk to someone who knows what has been going on in this house.” People froze. Blankness dropped into every single face. He’d seen it a million times. “People are dead. A girl is missing. Can anyone tell me what has been going on in this house?”