The Chief’s thoughts were more basic. “The media will eat this up. I expect you to manage that, Hunt. No leaks. No unnamed sources. Keep your people quiet. Keep this shit locked.”

“Leave Yoakum and two uniforms here. Put a few units on the road to discourage media or anybody else that gets curious.”

The Chief frowned and palmed sweat from his forehead. “It’ll be a circus.”

“Another reason to send everybody else out of here.”

Hunt heard footsteps approaching and turned in time to see Cross moving quickly downslope. He glanced at the sealed area, then made a line for Hunt and the Chief. His face was flushed, his collar dark with sweat. “Hunt,” he said. “Chief.” He was eager, excited.

“What are you doing here?” Hunt asked.

“Looking for you.”

“Well, you’ve found me. What is it?”

“We have a location on David Wilson’s truck,” he said.

“Where?”

“North. Dumped in a ravine.”

“Show me.”

Hunt left the Chief alone in a shaft of yellow light, head bent, fingers working the brim of his hat. Hunt looked back twice, the Chief small and unchanging until the endless ranks of trees marched between them. They climbed out of the woods and walked past the shed, the empty house. Hunt looked at neither. “How did we find it?”

“Somebody called it in.”

“Who?”

“Wouldn’t give a name. He found it early this morning, an hour before sunrise, maybe. He sounded drunk. When I asked, he admitted that he’d been out shining deer. He said the spotlight lit it up pretty good.”

“Do we have people on scene?”

“I came straight for you. I knew you’d want it.”

“Are we sure it’s his car?” Hunt asked.

“The caller had the license number. Registered to the college. Has to be it.”

“Did we get a phone number on the caller?”

“Pay phone at a convenience store.”

“That’s unfortunate. Any idea if he touched the vehicle? A drunk out shining deer at five in the morning… I doubt he’d hesitate to scrounge around.”

“Unknown. He gave the location, then pretty much hung up on me.”

They came out of the woods and into the bright, morning sun. Hunt stopped at the road’s edge. “You could have called me.”

“I was hoping you’d take me with you.”

Hunt studied the younger man. His face was intent, determined. “You’re up for promotion. Is that right?”

“A good word from you would go a long way.”

Hunt considered it. “I haven’t slept much,” he said. “You drive.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The boys moved slowly. The road was soft underfoot, the trees alive with birds and twists of shadow. Vines drooped to the ground, gray and smooth and thick as a large man’s wrist. Not far away, a woodpecker hammered for its breakfast.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Jack said.

“Just keep your eyes open.”

The forest darkened, and noise fell off with the sun.

“The screaming willies.”

“Shut up, Jack. Jeez.”

They walked for twenty minutes. None of the wheel ruts on the road looked recent, but that meant nothing. Freemantle was on foot when Johnny last saw him. Once through the trees, the road widened out, flattened, and the forest began to open up. They passed an overgrown orchard, apple trees heavy with bloom. Muscadine vines crawled over a collapsed trellis.

“We’re getting close,” Johnny said.

“To what?”

“Whatever’s out here.”

The road came to a crumbled gate, then turned right and disappeared around an elbow of brambles and heavy growth. The gun came out of the holster and Johnny tilted it awkwardly. “Does this have a safety?”

“No. I told you. Jesus, watch where you point it.”

“Sorry.” Johnny aimed the barrel at the ground. Wind lifted leaves to show their dull, silver bottoms. At the bend in the road, there were granite posts where the gate had fallen. The gate itself was on the ground, grass between the pales, its soft wood slowly rotting. White paint still showed in the grain.

Johnny edged his head past the granite, then pulled it back.

“What?” Jack asked.

“Nothing.” He stood. “Come on.”

They passed between the granite posts and the forest curved away. They saw shells of buildings, a house that had burned to the ground. There were blackened timbers, a bone of chimney. A granite step sat where the front door had been. A claw-foot tub lay on its side, spilling char and a few green shoots of some wild plant. An iron bed frame protruded from the rubble. So did other items too hard to burn: shattered crockery, a cooking pot, the steel handle of a well pump rusted solid. Johnny picked up a door hinge and saw hammer marks in the metal.

“What a mess.” Jack spoke for both of them.

The barn still stood, as did a smokehouse with an open door and steel hooks that hung on chains rusted red. Johnny saw a padlock on the door of a shed. Another building stood next to it. It had a single door, narrow windows, and two small chimneys. Like the main house, a single block of stone made a step to the door. It was worn smooth in the center. Peering through the glass, they saw a fireplace and a brick oven. A plain table and iron cookware. “This was the kitchen,” Johnny said. “They used to build them separate from the house to reduce the risk of a fire.”

“That’s ironic.”

Johnny stepped back and looked at the burned house. “No electricity out here, so it could have been a candle.”

“Or lightning.”

“Maybe.”

“Check that out.” Jack pointed.

Johnny turned. He saw a post, eight feet high, and a brass bell turned green. “That’s strange.”

“What?”

Johnny pushed through weeds as high as his waist. “It’s a slave bell. I saw one just like it in the civil rights museum in Wilmington. They rang these to call the slaves in from the fields.”

“Why would a freed slave keep a slave bell?”

Johnny peered under the bell. “I don’t know. A reminder?”

“Screaming willies, man.” It came as a whisper.

Johnny checked inside the barn. Except for the farm implements he expected to see-all of them dusty and unused-it was empty. He rattled the lock on the shed and peered through the cracks in the door. “Junk.”

“Can we go?”

Johnny surveyed the area. Everything stood out in the stark sunlight. The trees made a wall around the clearing. “Not yet.” He pointed to the far end of the clearing, where a gash split the trees. “Through there,” Johnny said.

They moved cautiously. The trees rose up, and then they were under them. A footpath ran fifty yards to another clearing. At the end of it, the sunlight lit up a waist-high stone wall and, beyond that, a hint of green grass. In the stone was another wooden gate. This one stood in fine repair. Its paint shone, white and perfect.

“I’ve never been so unhappy to see fresh paint,” Jack whispered.

They crept closer, heard a bird drop low, then veer off, felt the compression of leaves underfoot.

“What is that?”

A wet sound, a chuffing.

Johnny shook his head. “I don’t know.”

They ducked low, sprinted the last few yards, and crouched below the wall. The stone was warm, the sound close. It rose from beyond the wall. Johnny peered through the pales of the gate. He saw trimmed grass, and rows of carved stone.

Ducking back, he said, “It’s a cemetery.”

“What?”

Johnny held the gun against his chest and felt his heart thud against the steel. Breath snagged in his throat. “It’s a freaking cemetery.”

“Is he in there?”

A wide-eyed nod, the smallest of whispers. “Yes.”

Jack licked lips gone chalky white. “We have to get out of here.”

“He’s just sitting there.”

“Doing what?”

Johnny eased up the stone. The cemetery was small. Forty headstones, maybe. A tremendous oak tree stood in the center, magnolias in each of the back corners. The headstones stretched in rows, some silver gray, some black, all feathered with lichen and moss.