You saw nobody. Heard nothing. You keep your damn mouth shut.

Katherine stared in dread at the box. She knelt and peeled back the line of bright tape. It came off with a tearing sound. Inside was a cat. Alive.

Its back was broken.

Katherine fell backward into the house, frozen, and one thought filled her head.

Johnny.

She punched in the number for Steve’s apartment but misdialed. She tried again, fingers clumsy. “Please, God,” she said.

The phone rang six times, ten; but no one answered. In mortal fear, she hung up the phone. Then she called Hunt again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Johnny opened the garage door and started the truck. It ran rough and spilled blue smoke, but it was drivable. He stuck to side streets until he hit the four-lane, then he stepped on the gas and the truck jolted beneath him. He slowed as he approached Main Street, then cut right down a one-way to avoid traffic.

He drove slowly. Neighborhoods decayed the closer he got to the tracks. Johnny heard music and raised voices, the crump of a misaligned door slamming shut. He found Huron Street and turned left. Parked cars cluttered the narrow street and glass winked in the gutter. Weeds grew tall from cracks in the curb and a dog exploded at him from the darkness. It was a patch of brown on black, a jagged outline that jerked to a halt at the end of its chain. Johnny drove on, but there were other dogs in other yards. He imagined fingers on thin curtains, people stained television blue as they bent to peer through filthy windows. And it was not just imagination. To the left, a man stepped through his front door and onto the porch. He had pale feet, wore jeans with no shirt, and sucked on the cigarette that hung between his lips. Johnny ignored him and drove on.

Freemantle’s house solidified ahead and to the right. It was a lightless hulk pinned on a dark lot. Behind it, pale gravel spilled down the bank that led to the tracks. Johnny smelled creosote, rock dust, and oil. He pulled to the curb and killed the engine. Behind him, in a house the color of mustard, a baby cried.

Johnny stepped onto the street and the baby fell quiet. The dogs settled down. Stepping into Freemantle’s yard, Johnny saw yellow tape strung between the posts that held up the porch roof. Ducking beneath the tape, he cupped his hands around his face and tried to see inside. Nothing. More dark. Johnny pulled down more yellow tape. The door swung open at his touch. Johnny stepped inside, but there was no one. The house was empty. He flipped on lights and saw blood on the wall.

That scared him.

That was real.

The blood was streaked and black. Gray powder stained light switches and doorknobs. In the back room, the blood was worse. So was the smell. Oily and thick, it stuck in his throat. Dried blood was a desert on the floor. Tape marked where the bodies had fallen.

Two bodies.

A desert of blood.

Johnny turned and ran for the front door. The hall constricted and his shadow twisted as he ran. The door stood open, a hard, black empty with yellow tape that slapped at his arms. He leapt off the porch, landed badly, and tore skin from his palms. He stumbled once more, then cranked up the truck and got the hell out. The dogs rose to send him on his way.

Hunt bulled his way through town. He crested the last hill doing eighty and felt the car rise on its shocks; then he was in the trough, foot pressing down as the needle swung to ninety. He braked hard at Katherine’s drive, hung a right, and slid to a halt.

Lights burned in the house. Darkness gathered in the trees.

No squad car.

Hunt spilled out, lights thumping blue behind the grille of his car. He scanned the tree line and the yard, one hand on his holstered weapon. It was quiet and still; the porch felt hollow beneath his feet. He hammered on the door, sensed movement inside and stepped back, checking the yard behind him once again. The lock disengaged and the door opened a crack, then swung wide. Katherine Merrimon stood in the light, tear-stained and small, an eight-inch butcher’s knife gripped between fingers squeezed to bone.

“Katherine-”

“Any word on Johnny?”

Hunt stepped through the door. “I’ve already sent a car to Steve’s apartment. It’s probably there already.” Hunt held out a hand. “May I have the knife?”

“Sorry.” She handed it over and Hunt placed it on the counter.

“You’re okay,” he said. “I’m sure that Johnny is, too.”

“He’s not okay.”

“We don’t know anything yet.”

“I want to go to Steve’s.”

“And we will. I promise. Just sit down for a minute.” He got her onto the sofa and then straightened. The box was on the table. “Is that it?” Hunt asked.

She nodded. “I think it’s dead, now.”

Hunt approached the box, saw the silver tape, torn free, and beside the box an envelope and a sheet of paper. “I couldn’t leave it outside,” Katherine said. Hunt used a pen to lift the flaps. A film glazed the cat’s eyes. Its tongue protruded.

“It’s dead.” Hunt closed the flaps, then read the note: You saw nobody. Heard nothing. You keep your damn mouth shut.

Katherine crossed the room and stood beside him, looking down. She was shaking. “Do you think Ken did it? It came ten minutes after he left.”

“I doubt it.”

“You sound certain.”

“I’m not, but it feels wrong. Why drive off and come back? Why announce himself like that? And why do it in the first place?”

“What does it mean?” Katherine asked.

Hunt read the lines again. “I think it has to do with Burton Jarvis.”

“What?”

“The news coverage has been extensive.” He held her eyes. “You saw Johnny’s notes?”

“Of course.”

“He was there, Katherine, at Jarvis’s house. No matter what he wants me to believe, Johnny was there a lot.”

“Somebody thinks that Johnny saw him?”

“Johnny identified five of the six men who visited on a regular basis. Just five.”

“And number six?”

“Number six was careful. He changed license plates three times that we know of. He’s worried that Johnny can identify him.”

“Are you talking about the cop?”

“We don’t know that it was a cop.”

“Johnny thinks it was.”

“He’s wrong. He has to be.”

“But what if he’s not?”

Hunt lacked an answer. In its place, he offered a hand. “Let’s go find your son.”

It was late when Johnny turned into Steve’s development. He weaved between the buildings, made the final left, and stopped a hundred yards short. Steve’s van was back. Cops cars were parked in the street in front of his apartment. Hunt’s car was there, too. That meant Social Services.

Johnny cursed himself. He should have come back more quickly. He should not have gone at all. They’d take him away for good, now. Sure as apple pie. Sure as anything.

He killed the engine and opened the door. A stand of pines rose to the right of the road, halfway to the building. Johnny kept his shoulder on warm metal, maneuvered between parked cars until the trees were close, then he sprinted for cover. He dove into a bed of needles, pulled himself up, and scrambled for the darkest pocket he could find.

Jack was already there.

“Damn it, Johnny! You scared me.”

Johnny smelled the bourbon on his friend, saw the bottle clutched to his chest. “What are you doing here, Jack?”

Jack shifted, sat up against the trunk of a pine tree. “Where else would I be?”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

Jack pointed at the police cars. “When I got here, that’s what I found.”

“How’d you get here?”

“I walked.”

“It’s four miles.”

Jack shrugged.

“Are you drunk?” Johnny asked.

“Are you preaching?”

“No.”

“You sound a little preachy.”