“I don’t know.”

“I promise, Katherine. I swear.”

She nodded, shoulders turned in, hands still folded into a small, perfect package. “Do you think somebody took him?”

Hunt could barely hear her. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

“Maybe somebody decided that a threat wasn’t good enough.”

Hunt turned on the sofa. “There was no forced entry, no sign of a struggle. Steve’s truck was taken. Johnny knows how to drive. He had access to the key.”

“I need him back. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I need my son home.”

Hunt watched her stare through the glass. Yoakum appeared in the kitchen door. “Clyde,” he said, and motioned with a finger.

Hunt walked to the kitchen. “What is it?”

Yoakum led Hunt into the kitchen and stopped at the small table. “You see anything here that bothers you?” Hunt looked at the table. It was mostly bare. There were a few magazines, some mail, yesterday’s newspaper and an open phone book. He was about to shake his head when Yoakum said: “Phone book.”

It took a second, then Hunt saw it. Levi Freemantle, 713 Huron Street.

“Oh, shit.”

“Why would he care about Levi Freemantle?”

“He thinks Freemantle knows where Alyssa is.”

“Why would he think that?”

“He thinks that David Wilson might have told him before he died.” Hunt closed the book. “This is my fault.”

“No one could have guessed he’d do something like this.”

“I could have.” Hunt scrubbed his hands over his face. “The kid’s capable of just about anything. It was stupid of me to think he’d just let this go.”

“I can be there in eight minutes.”

“No. The kid trusts me, more or less. Better if I go.”

“Well, you’d better hump it.”

They went back into the living room, but Steve burst in before they made it across the rug. He pointed a finger at Katherine, then closed his hand into a fist. His lips were drawn, his face red. He pumped his hand, as if trying to control his temper.

“What is it?” Hunt asked.

Steve cut his eyes to Hunt. His words were clipped, and he stabbed a finger toward the street. “That little shit stole my gun, too.”

Ten minutes later, Hunt had been through every room in Freemantle’s house. He called Yoakum from the living room. “I missed him.”

“Any sign he was there?”

Hunt stepped onto Freemantle’s porch and fingered the torn, yellow tape. Up the street, dogs howled. “Tape’s down. Door’s open.”

“Should we put an all-points on the truck?”

Hunt considered. “What if Johnny was right? What if the sixth man was a cop?”

“I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“But what if? What if we put out an all-points and the wrong cop finds him?”

“You think we should keep this quiet?”

“I don’t know. Thinking this way feels twenty kinds of wrong.”

“I’m with you. Hang on a sec. What?” The phone was muffled. Hunt heard muted voices, then Yoakum was back. “Aw, shit.”

“What?”

“Cross says he already called it in.”

“Nobody authorized that.”

“He says a runaway kid in a stolen truck carrying a stolen gun is a no-brainer. Frankly, I can’t disagree with him, especially since…”

Yoakum paused and Hunt imagined him stepping away from Katherine. “Since what?”

A door closed. Yoakum spoke in a whisper. “Since he’s out looking for a stone-cold killer.”

Johnny had to go two roads over to find the entrance to the abandoned tobacco farm. The gate was unlocked, the track overgrown with weeds and low brambles. Jack closed the gate behind them. He’d never been to the old barn. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Headlights cut into the darkness. Feathers of pine reached in and turned from black to green. Sap glistened on knotted trunks, then winked out as they passed.

They bounced through ruts and deep gouges made by spring rains. When they came out of the woods and into the abandoned fields, the sky opened above them: high, lonely stars and a trace of moon behind tissue clouds. “This was a plantation once,” Johnny said. “Then just a bunch of farms.” The track cut right, straightened, then split. Johnny went left. “You can still see where the big house burned.” He jerked his head. “Over there. Chimney stones in a pile. The old well shaft.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s overgrown now. I found it six months ago.”

The barn loomed ahead, a wall of grayed-out logs on a foundation of chiseled granite. Milkweed rose, pink and green, and fingers of ivy clawed up the length of the back corner. Black showed where chinking had crumbled to dust. Johnny pulled around to the other side and stopped. The doorway gaped. Charred wood and ash marked the fire pit. Johnny put the truck in park. “Give me the pack.” Jack shrugged it off. “Don’t turn off the engine until I say.” Johnny dropped the pack on the ground and pulled out the flashlight. He disappeared inside the barn, found the moldy blue backpack and three stubs of candle. “Alright,” he said.

Jack switched off the engine and the headlights winked out. The night collapsed to a twitching beam of light that flashed on white skin, wide eyes, and filthy clothes. “Ken’s house is that way.” Johnny pointed with the flashlight. “Through the trees. Not far.”

“How’d you find all this?”

Johnny squatted and dug the matches out of the pack. “Getting out of the house when things got bad. Looking for snakes.”

“About the snakes-”

“Hold this.” Johnny handed the light to Jack, then put the candles on a slab of granite and lit them. Jack watched and said nothing, but Johnny felt him there. “I’ve slept out here more than a few times. It’s not bad. Inside is full of spiders. Mosquitoes are worse out here.”

“I’ll take the mosquitoes.”

“Me, too.”

Jack put the light on the blue pack. “What’s that?”

“Let’s make a fire.” Johnny stood and began foraging for wood. Eventually, Jack helped him. They gathered twigs and fallen branches. The fire was still small when Jack found the scrap of Bible. It was pebbled leather, black; part of the spine, two inches long and charred. Some of the gold letters could still be seen. Jack held it for a long minute, and Johnny could tell that he knew what it was. He watched Jack’s tiny fingers trace the letters, then he stood, took it from him and threw it on the fire. Rocking back on his heels, Johnny watched his friend. Jack was not what most would call a good boy, but Johnny knew for a fact that he believed in the devil.

“I’m not going to burn in hell, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Jack’s small arm moved. He pointed at the fire. “What are you doing, Johnny?” His head shifted and red light filled up his eyes. “I’ve been good and I’ve been quiet. About all of this.” He moved his fingers over his face again. “What they said in the paper. The things you’ve been keeping secret from me. Snakes and charms and voodoo shit.” He shook his head. “But this ain’t right. Whatever this is, you can’t go burning Bibles. Even I know that.”

“It’s just a book.”

“You take that back.”

Johnny raised his voice. “It’s just a book and it doesn’t work. It doesn’t make a difference.” Jack’s mouth opened, but Johnny rode his words down. “The preacher said it would, but he was full of shit, too.”

“I think I might be sick.”

“Well, go over there if you’re going to do it.” Johnny stabbed a finger at the darkness. “I’m going to eat some dinner and I don’t need to be smelling your puke.”

Jack closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he looked better, less green. When he spoke, Johnny knew that he’d decided to let it go. “What’s that?” Jack asked, pointing at the pack.

An eddy of smoke wafted against Johnny’s face and he narrowed his eyes. “You really want to know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

Johnny unhooked the straps and dumped the contents of the bag on the ground. He separated the bundles of vegetation. There were four of them, each tied with string. He put them in a row, caught Jack’s eye and touched each in turn. “Cedar,” he said. “Pine. Spruce. Laurel.”