“Get out.”

“Truth.”

“And you want to go out into the swamp, to find this guy’s great-grandson or whatever, a killer, so you can ask him about Alyssa?” Johnny nodded in absolute certainty, and Jack shook his head. “You think he owes you?”

“I don’t think he knows who I am.”

“You’re an idiot. I mean, you are off the fucking reservation.”

“Off the reservation.” Johnny’s voice was bitter. “That’s funny.”

“It’s not a joke. This is stupid, Johnny. It’s mental.”

“No take-backs. That’s what you said.”

Jack scrambled to his feet and sparks popped in the fire. “Jesus, Johnny. This guy just killed two people. He’ll kill us, too. Sure as shit.”

Johnny rose as well. “That’s why I took this.” He pulled Steve’s gun from the holster, and fire devils danced in the metal.

“You’re insane.”

“And you’re coming with me.”

Jack looked around, as if for help; but there was nothing there. Light pushed dark and the sky pressed down. Jack opened his hands and begged with his eyes. “It’s been a year, Johnny.”

“Don’t you say it!”

Jack swallowed, took a desperate look at the scrub beyond the fire; then he said it. “She’s fucking dead, man.”

Johnny swung with all he had. The blow struck the side of Jack’s face and he went down in the dirt. Johnny stood over him, his breath like glass in his throat, the gun a dead weight in his hand. For that instant, his oldest friend was not his friend, but his enemy; Johnny wondered why he’d ever thought that Jack could be more than that. Then he recognized the terror in his friend’s face.

The heat drained out of Johnny, and he became aware of the sky, suddenly dark and huge. He saw himself through Jack’s eyes, and knew, freaking knew, that he was the crazy one. But that changed nothing.

“I have to go.”

Johnny’s fist fell open. Jack pushed back in the dirt.

“Please, don’t make me go alone.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Hunt drove Katherine Merrimon back to the small house at the edge of town. He tried once to make conversation, but she was unresponsive. Stopping in the drive, he peered through the glass and frowned. “When you saw the strange car on the street the other night, where was it parked?”

Katherine pointed and Hunt looked up the street, past the distant light. “It was just sitting there. Its engine was running. I’d never seen it before.”

“What kind of car?”

“I thought it was a police car.”

“Why a police car? What makes you say that?”

“It had that look. A big sedan. The shape of it. It looked like a cop car.”

“Lights on the roof?”

“No. Just the shape of it.” She gestured at the car in which they sat. “Like this.”

“A Crown Victoria?”

“It just looked like this. American. Big. I don’t know. It was dark. I don’t care about cars. I don’t know about them.”

“And it took off when?”

“When I started walking toward it.”

“Which direction did it go?”

She pointed, and Hunt frowned again. “I don’t think you should stay here, not with all that’s happened.”

“Where else would I stay?” She waited for an answer. “Your place?”

“I’m not like that, Katherine.”

“All men are like that.” She could not hide the bitterness.

She held his gaze and Hunt was struck by the intensity of it. So jaded, so weary. Damn Ken Holloway, Hunt thought. Damn him for making her like that.

“I was thinking of a hotel. Something anonymous.”

She must have heard the hurt in his voice. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was unfair. You’ve been nothing but aboveboard.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“Johnny might come home. I need to be here for that.”

“Katherine-”

“No.”

“Then I want a squad car on the street.”

“No to that, too.”

“It’s not safe here,” Hunt said. “Things are happening that we don’t understand.”

“A police car would scare Johnny. If he did run away, I want him to know that he can come home. How will he know that if the cops are parked in front of the house?” Katherine opened her door. “Thank you for the ride, Detective. I’ll be fine from here.”

Hunt stepped out of the car and put his hands on the roof. “I’d like to check the house.”

“I need to be alone.”

Hunt studied the street because her pain was killing him. He’d seen her courage before, and he’d seen that courage fail. It had been like watching a redwood fall or a river die. He looked at the dark house, then at her. “Please,” he said.

“If you insist.”

Hunt found the broken window three seconds later. “Back in the car,” he said, and drew his service weapon. “Get in the car and lock the doors.”

She bolted for the door.

“Katherine!”

“I changed the locks. Don’t you see? It’s Johnny.”

Hunt caught her on the steps and pulled her back. “Wait,” he said. “Just wait.” Then he called out. “Johnny.” He tried the door. It opened easily. “Johnny. It’s Detective Hunt and your mother.” Nothing. Hunt held up a hand. “Stay here.”

Inside, Hunt flicked on the lights. Glass shards glittered on the carpet. He checked the back rooms, turned on every light. When he came down the hall, he found Katherine in the living room. He holstered his weapon. “Nobody. It’s empty.”

She sat on the sofa and held herself still.

“Is anything missing?” She said nothing, and Hunt stepped closer. “Has anything been stolen?”

She looked up, eyes wet and vacant.

“I’m going to check the yard,” Hunt said. “I need you to look around and tell me what you see.”

“It won’t do any good. I haven’t seen anything for most of a year. I wouldn’t know if something was missing.”

Hunt understood the comment, but let it go. “Check Johnny’s room. Start there.”

“Alright.”

She moved to the hallway. Johnny’s light burned. She heard Hunt leave the house, then she stood in the entrance to Johnny’s room. She realized, looking in, that it was unfamiliar to her. How many times had she been in this room, she wondered. Three times? Five? And how many times sober? None, she thought. The year behind her was a blur of days. She ate. She slept. Ken Holloway came and went.

Her son’s room was strange to her.

Her son, she realized, was strange to her.

She checked the closet, but did not know what should be there. Same thing with the drawers and the shelves. There was no recollection of buying clothes, or of washing them. Johnny had been doing that, she realized. He cooked. He cleaned. She covered her mouth, overwhelmed.

Where was her son?

She found the suitcase under the bed. It was old and battered, vaguely familiar. She dragged it out and heaved it up onto the bed. She opened it and froze.

Alyssa’s face.

Johnny’s and her husband’s.

Photos covered the inside of the lid. It was a collage of sunshine and her children; life, like a promise. Her eyes burned, her throat closed, and she touched one of the photographs.

Alyssa.

She had one arm around her brother’s neck. They were grinning like imps.

Johnny.

In the suitcase, she found an eight-by-ten photograph of her husband. He wore a blue T-shirt and a belt of tools. He stood sideways to the camera, an angular, strong man with a wide smile and hair so black it gleamed. Dark glasses hid his eyes, but she knew what they would look like, blue and sharp and unflinching. For a moment, she was overwhelmed with regret for the blame she’d dumped on him, for the horrible thing she’d said. Then the anger spiked: It was his fault! She should never have been walking home alone.

But the anger was wasted. “Where are you, Spencer?”

There was no answer to that. He was gone.

Her fingers touched the other items in the suitcase, Alyssa’s things. Her stuffed animals, her diary.

How?